sometimes you don't have to read past headlines

"Revenge of the Nerdette" - Newsweek
"China Scolds Western Media" - Businessweek
"Syrian Anthem Played for Lebanese" - BBC
"Hen living at McDonald's finally captured" - CNN

epiphany

I realized this weekend that I come to conclusions too often…and have a habit of voicing them.

One of those flings

It was raining leaves, and they probably didn't even realize it. But from where I stood, the amphitheater seemed to be showering its petals down on the graduating class. I hadn't ever noticed it before, probably because when I was sitting in their place, I was also just focused on the speaker, waiting intently for the ceremony to be over. But sitting at a distance was wonderful - I finally got to enjoy Swarthmore for its beauty, without the stress of work, or the emotional burden of graduation.

Swat is insanely beautiful - one of the most beautiful places I've seen in all its simplicity. There is nothing grand or overbearing about it. A couple of friends and I spent some time under the shade of a massive tree, and I remembered reading the Masnawi with my class under a literal curtain of cherry blossoms. Discussing poetry under a tree seems so annoyingly collegiate in retrospect but at the moment you couldn't help but think, "wow, this is why I love this place." We walked through the rose garden (if only I could take everyone through that rose garden), and a group of parents walked by, all talking about how beautiful the garden was. I heard one of the men say "I'd like one of those !" and I couldn't help but smile and think that it was mine, and that I had owned a part of it. That reminded me of how a friend of mine had compared Swarthmore to a romance in his senior speech. I'm not sure what he thinks of the comparison now, but I still find it appropriate. It was irrational and frustrating, short and sometimes too long, but at the end of it, you come out a better person.


The entry is somewhat corny, but it made me happy to go back to Swat. I ignored the changes of course, like the new New Dorm, and I had hoped I'd be able to walk through the crum one last time (I didn't really do that senior year and somewhat regret it). But what was also incredible was sitting with friends and talking about all the ways we had changed, and not being phased by it. Transformation just seemed to be expected and natural. As one of my friends put it, we all seemed to be having the same experience but in different places.

Graduation was nothing less than chaotic, but memorable in all its craziness. It's somewhat funny to hear some of the graduating seniors talk about how sad they are and what a wonderful time they had, and how they are never going to get it again. And I want to be able to tell them that it gets better after, but they won't believe me until they actually live it. Thank god college isnt the best four years of your life, but it definitely is four years worth going through. But really, I can only say this now.

different place, same fun

I got to go back in time for a few days while staying with Mamta in her apartment in Baltimore. Not only did we attempt to cook things we had never cooked before (again), but we somehow succeeded in making something edible!

Like our first attempt at veggie chili, which turned out better than we expected. It had a hint of Indian spiciness to it, and I can expect nothing less from us. But as always, we're more excited about the colors than anything else. It looks like a real fiesta in the pan! We even ventured so far as to create an entire chipotle meal with tortillas, rice and the works. This time we managed to have a successful meal without burning anything...




We had a bit of trouble with the rice though...something we have yet to master. It seems that both of us individually can cook fantastic meals, but bring us together and disaster strikes!












But at least there will always be pie. Pumpkin pie! Which, of course, did not go without a reference to falling pumpkins.




It's nice knowing nothing much has changed. Cooking can be as eventful as it always was, dinner as satisfying as you would expect, and the clean-up (as usual) filled with uncontrollable laughter after reminiscing about our falls...literally.

I didn't think I would ever give television journalism another chance after my disappointing internship at CNN, but the past week has been quite exciting. Granted, a 40 second clip requires an hour of set-up and interview, and a daily 22-minute show is only possible with hours of shooting, editing, and the works. But the 5,4,3,2,1! and the subsequent 22 minutes are quite exhilarating. The hilarity is seeing the backstage action - the producers cursing into their headsets, or the editing and sound persons talking over each other. EVERYONE is talking backstage and yet things get done! Somehow, the host knows exactly what to say, the crew knows exactly what to put on when, the scroller knows exactly when to cue the script. I've never experienced a more productive scenario where people talked over each other so much. Although that (over) communication seems to be successful only in those 22 minutes. The rest of the day revolves around quite a bit of miscommunication and frustration. But despite that, this could be the beginning of a new endeavor...

Exile

"In October 2000 the world was tuned in to the Sydney Olympics. In the hostel, on D-day we were all glued to the TV set eager for the opening ceremony to begin. Halfway into the event I realized that I couldn't see clearly anymore and my face felt wet. I was crying. No, it wasn't the fact that I clearly wished I was in Sydney or the splendour of the atmosphere or the spirit of the games, I tried hard to explain to those around me. Bu they couldn't understand, couldn't even begin to understand....how could they? They belong to a nation. They have never had to conceive of its loss, they have never had to cry for their country. They belonged and had a space of their own not only on the world map but also in the Olympic Games. Their countrymen could march proudly, confident of their nationality, in their national dress and with their national flag flying high. I was so happy for them."

-- Tenzin Tsundue

It's 3AM

I hear there are no more tangas left in Lahore. This places me in a predicament: you see, I have very clear memories of riding tangas in Pakistan, invariably with the smell of shit coming from the horse in front of us. In particular, I clearly recall eating a huge paan quite happily while squished between two women (perhaps one was my mother who surprisingly did not scold me for finishing the entire paan off at the age of four; I mark that as the beginning of my degeneration). So where is this predicament? Well, without any tangas, I have no sense of what Pakistan is. What will happen when I go back? I will be utterly lost. Tangas were almost as indispensible to my memory of P. as dancing women with colorful dupattas are for any Yash Raj film trying desperately to evoke nostalgia for the homeland. Horse shit, where else can I get that smell? I came close driving through the cow lands of coalinga, ca - but there was no horse and no tanga, and usually a struggle to keep the windows up while my brother tried to put them down shouting "but this is our pind!" Let me tell you, freedom does not smell like that. Nineteen years of memory and I won't be able to appreciate it when I go back; now I have to recall something that is hopefully not untrue - like kite-flying, although it's banned in Lahore (I believe), and I only did it in Karachi...

Hm, perhaps this can be resolved. I just remembered - I never lived in Lahore, only Multan. There is still hope...maybe not so much for my memory. And I think one of my friends would argue not for my facial recognition abilities either. Unfortunately, the slow waves caused a little bit of trouble earlier when I couldn't recognize a friend's friend in time and failed to respond with a nod and wave in the elevator; he came to the conclusion that my friend was ignoring him and that she had told me to do the same. I would suggest no one really read into my facial expressions - they say more of what I don't intend than the other way around. A similar thing happened today, though I in fact did not know the person, and hopefully no drama will result from the interaction; point is, elevators are dangerous for social interaction.

For those of you who are probably wondering why this post even exists, I think you should appreciate that it's a clear improvement from my 3am posts in my previous blog.