Tumbleweed

"Where are you from?"

In the endless line of insightful replies, quick-witted retorts and ingenious comebacks, this is the one question I never knew how to answer. And yet its usually the second question anyone ever asks me. Of course, I respond. A few mumbled words, usually selected to either allay any further questions on the subject, or to form as much rapport as possible with my interrogator. Chennai, Kerala, Trivandrum, Saudi Arabia and, on occasion, Scotland.

I'm proud of the places I've lived during my inconsequential existence, but it invariably brings up questions of my identity. Being able to associate yourself with a place is in no way necessary to lead a fulfilling life, but its like having a favorite stuffed toy. You dont need one, but if someone asks, or in those moments of nostalgia, its always nice to have an answer or image in your head. It is one of those primordial psychological anchors you can always return to when life hands you a turd sandwich.

In order to explain why, exactly, I feel the way I do, we need to dissect the question at the start of this post. What do you mean, or want to find out when you ask someone where they're from. A question I have asked many times with either unsatisfactory responses, or answers with insufficient correlation to a non-existent mean.

• "The place where you were born": This is by far my favorite response. I was born in Aberdeen, Scotland. And yet, if I went around telling everyone that I'm a highlander, I probably would have ended up with more bruises than Nicole Kidman after a night of rumpy-pumpy in the sack with yours-truly. In fact, I actually had a couple of people walk away from me when I tried my luck with it. Probably because they thought I was ashamed of my Indian blood and wanted to disassociate myself from the idea of being one. But other people's reactions apart, I honestly can't lay claim to a kilt and an indecipherable accent because I was only there for a year. And all things considered, it probably is the least important year as far as forming a locale-related identity is concerned.
• "The place where you grew up": Abha, Saudi Arabia. Apart from the possibility of afore-mentioned violent response, there is the recently developed chance of screams of "terrorist" from the more bigoted bunch. As far as genetic blueprints are concerned, I definitely have a better chance of passing off as a misogynistic oil tycoon than a blue-faced , sword-wielding, cheek-flashing, super-patriot. Hell, I may even look more Arabian than Indian. Bushy eyebrows, hooked noses and evergreen facial hair aside, I couldn't be less associated with the kingdom. I was either surrounded by the stereotypical Indian-in-the-Middle-East families or my American teachers and classmates. My claim to Saudi culture goes as far as being able to differentiate Saudi and Afghani pita bread and to count to six in Arabic along side the obligatory swear word.
  
• "The place you lived the longest": This is definitely the least watertight argument. Until a few years ago, that remained the dusty dunes. And then one morning, I wake up to be a curd-rice popping 'Madrasi' (courtesy NP). Where 'periya veeda' (veedu, veeta? Don't get me started on spelling, as if anyone really gave a squat) doesn't mean a supersized joint, (whowuddathunk!?) and if you offer a girl to come over for a 'pool' party, you'll probably end up with David, Karapakkam Don, on your doorstep in the middle of the night, telling you to say vanakkam to his little friend.
• "You're from Kerala, moné", "Umm, why?", "Because your grandparents are from there", * sigh * "What's for dinner?": So my grandparents are from two different places in Kerala, so following your infallible logic, which one is it? Neither, you're from Trivandrum...and before you ask why, it's because thats where they live. Great, at least now I got my roots down to a street name and a house number. An icon to my entire existence, boils down to a place I've hardly been more than 6 months, cumulatively, in my life. Bravo, mother.
• "Shut up and sit down, you're from India you ungrateful fart": The less said, the better.

To belong.

Ode à Garbäzh

Instead of endless rants about our current state of decadence and offenses against taste and decency emanating from a lack of theology and geometry, I have decided to repent, ephemerally of course, and take action against the very plague that...well...plagues us. However, due to a grad student's nutritional requirements and the resulting American national fiscal deficit, my plans for world domination by disguising my Noodle-Noggin Doll as Janet Jackson's right nipple have been somewhat quashed. My impenetrable sense of responsibility and moral conviction, however, do not provide me the luxury of backing down. What little I can do lies in the power of verse.

Humanity has many unsung heroes. Drones who create the colony and yet are sacrificed without question when the situation whispers for it. As their phantoms rise from the grave, all they hear is the thankless silence of the civilization they built, grinding on. Banal romanticists may worship the unnamed soldier, the engraving on the wall. I'm sure it's tough; virtually limitless job security, benefits which extend to the entire family, bedding women at every port while knowing that if you make it home, you'll be someone's hero. Cursed...really.

No, I speak of societiy's true unsung hero : the garbage man.

Work-in-progress.

"Gimli is not a dwarf, he's a little person."

In a surgically sterile world of euphemisms and political correctness, the people have grown content in their barcaloungers, seated on denial of the substandard. Unpleasantness has no place in a room filled with politician-smiles and corset-clad women.

Work-in-progress.