Muse. I need my muuuse.
I sounds like I'm making excuses not to write, and that could probably be it, but I realized I write with greater passion when I have a muse to work with. Neede a muse.
The Gharelu type keti
Call her a gharelu type keti and she will beat all those momos out of you. She's that ungharelu. k.
I don't even know her. I became aware of her existence 15 minutes ago-- and it's somewhat likely she may be aware of my existence after this-- but I think she's cool already (be very jealous, ZoZo).
So this is mostly fiction, but the totally-not-gharelu keti's real and she seems cool.
I have some emotional baggage with the word-gharelu, because it evokes painful memories and events -- sometimes disgusting-- that I don't want to talk about, not even when I'm being flippant and telling you lies ( I call them guff, you call them lies, we disagree, and I love you) and then pointing ohmy your tummy has grown yaar, you should probably start doing zumba soomba or go for morning walks, so you're distracted from the guff. Yes, not even then. Some words are that powerful yaar, for no fking good reason.
I like gharelu and not-gharelu despite that though. Nepali words, they're not-- adapted from Hindi, gharwaali, gharelu Bharatiya naari, garelu grihiNi, and all that schtick, you know the deal. And when you have a late teenage or early twenties woman, and she's either a gharelu type keti, or not, or something in between. Like sexuality, it's not a binary choice( I can feel the uncomfortable vibes from my American friends already), so there's an entire scale of ungharelu and gharelu type ketis.
Lets talk about the not-gharelu type keti. Her boyfriend probably plays for the national team. Probably. This by itself would not be anything remarkable, except it tells you that first she has a boyfriend, and second, she's grounded enough to to realize that the national-team-player is another meaningless adjective you can put over a person without intrinsically increasing their actual value, while considerably jacking their perceived value. That girl in the fair&lovely ad is the same girl she was before, except she somehow gets things going with more interesting guys, so whatevs, she could go die, for all you fking care. It's her life yaa.
Cooking and doing dishes. Hm, now this one's interesting. If she's medium ungharelu, she won't do them. If she's totally not gharelu at all, she'll probably know how to do, and do these-- perhaps more often then gharelu types themselves-- she understands that it's a fking life, and no sonofabitch is ever going to dictate what goes where, and that includes her parents, so she will practice everything and do it when she wants to. She's the bomb card. i dont even know what i'm writing anymore. Rooneel out!
I don't even know her. I became aware of her existence 15 minutes ago-- and it's somewhat likely she may be aware of my existence after this-- but I think she's cool already (
So this is mostly fiction, but the totally-not-gharelu keti's real and she seems cool.
I have some emotional baggage with the word-gharelu, because it evokes painful memories and events -- sometimes disgusting-- that I don't want to talk about, not even when I'm being flippant and telling you lies ( I call them guff, you call them lies, we disagree, and I love you) and then pointing ohmy your tummy has grown yaar, you should probably start doing zumba soomba or go for morning walks, so you're distracted from the guff. Yes, not even then. Some words are that powerful yaar, for no fking good reason.
I like gharelu and not-gharelu despite that though. Nepali words, they're not-- adapted from Hindi, gharwaali, gharelu Bharatiya naari, garelu grihiNi, and all that schtick, you know the deal. And when you have a late teenage or early twenties woman, and she's either a gharelu type keti, or not, or something in between. Like sexuality, it's not a binary choice( I can feel the uncomfortable vibes from my American friends already), so there's an entire scale of ungharelu and gharelu type ketis.
Lets talk about the not-gharelu type keti. Her boyfriend probably plays for the national team. Probably. This by itself would not be anything remarkable, except it tells you that first she has a boyfriend, and second, she's grounded enough to to realize that the national-team-player is another meaningless adjective you can put over a person without intrinsically increasing their actual value, while considerably jacking their perceived value. That girl in the fair&lovely ad is the same girl she was before, except she somehow gets things going with more interesting guys, so whatevs, she could go die, for all you fking care. It's her life yaa.
Cooking and doing dishes. Hm, now this one's interesting. If she's medium ungharelu, she won't do them. If she's totally not gharelu at all, she'll probably know how to do, and do these-- perhaps more often then gharelu types themselves-- she understands that it's a fking life, and no sonofabitch is ever going to dictate what goes where, and that includes her parents, so she will practice everything and do it when she wants to. She's the bomb card. i dont even know what i'm writing anymore. Rooneel out!
Please, Iran is not Saudi, ok, the Saudis are crazy
"Please, Iran is not Saudi, ok, the Saudis are crazy," says a Tehranian female taxi driver to the guy, around 19.00 in the video. All you need is a different perspective.
The Iranians may not all be rich/middle class or liberal, but they know where the buck stops. The video is long, but worth every minute. Watch this:
The Iranians may not all be rich/middle class or liberal, but they know where the buck stops. The video is long, but worth every minute. Watch this:
Fear and insecurity
This month I realized that fear and insecurity in moderation can be good things to oneself under certain circumstances. They make you brave, and force you to take action, and get the complacency out of the the system. Sure, security is good, but it starts making you complacent, and you stop making choices that would be more interesting in the longer run. With insecurity, you learn to take action, to do things, to live the life to the fullest. Moderate insecurity, of course.
Idea: put myself in increasingly insecure situations. Specifically, cross the Khyber pass on assback in the foreseeable future.
Idea: put myself in increasingly insecure situations. Specifically, cross the Khyber pass on assback in the foreseeable future.
id
Interrupt if I've already written this one before. Ohh, I know you wont, so I'll go ahead anyway.
The Greeks tell us of a certain Narcissus. A handsome prince (of course!) who'd never seen his image. Goes to a lake to drink water, sees his reflection, is infatuated with it. Keeps staring at the reflection until he dies of thirst.
There's an alternate interpretation, and it's slightly more disturbing. Narcissus has an identical twin, who he falls in love with. The love is reciprocated. Incest happens, discovery, and then suicide.
We're all like Narcissus in our small ways-- we like looking at ourselves, and thinking about ourselves, and worrying about ourselves. and living for ourselves. They say those who like to write/indulge themselves in the creative arts are even more so-- they're the people who want to make copies and versions of themselves and distribute them around. No, sorry, not distribute--sell-- and sue you if they find you pirating them. You know the shazam.
So one day you wake up, and your concept of self has disappeared. You don't worry about you anymore. Rather your self-perception has changed-- instead of seeing yourself as that tiny and frail human being sleeping in the medical pod, you see yourself as the big-blue creature. Very expensive too. You won't be blue, and you won't have a tail that could be used for highly controversial acts, but you will be someone different from the one who went to bed with you.
It's a good thing, really. Imagine the possibilities.
The Greeks tell us of a certain Narcissus. A handsome prince (of course!) who'd never seen his image. Goes to a lake to drink water, sees his reflection, is infatuated with it. Keeps staring at the reflection until he dies of thirst.
There's an alternate interpretation, and it's slightly more disturbing. Narcissus has an identical twin, who he falls in love with. The love is reciprocated. Incest happens, discovery, and then suicide.
We're all like Narcissus in our small ways-- we like looking at ourselves, and thinking about ourselves, and worrying about ourselves. and living for ourselves. They say those who like to write/indulge themselves in the creative arts are even more so-- they're the people who want to make copies and versions of themselves and distribute them around. No, sorry, not distribute--sell-- and sue you if they find you pirating them. You know the shazam.
So one day you wake up, and your concept of self has disappeared. You don't worry about you anymore. Rather your self-perception has changed-- instead of seeing yourself as that tiny and frail human being sleeping in the medical pod, you see yourself as the big-blue creature. Very expensive too. You won't be blue, and you won't have a tail that could be used for highly controversial acts, but you will be someone different from the one who went to bed with you.
It's a good thing, really. Imagine the possibilities.
Wet dreams of Kathmandu
They say there are different Nepals-- one the Nepal that's Kathmandu, the other one that's urban but not Kathmandu, and there is this Nepal that's backward and rural, where people are dying of diarrhea and malaria and malnutrition, where people walk for days to get to a hospital, where the girl child does not go to school because there are no toilets for girls.
There's no Nepal but one Nepal, and Kathmandu is that Nepal.
Allow me to explain. What represents a nation or a city? What do you think of when you think of the United States-- the crime ridden inner-city Chicago, the dying urban glory that was once Detroit, the 'planned cities' all over that created roads and buildings but destroyed society, or the rising towers of Manhattan, LA and the dream of, as they said, Californication, and the ultimate poster city of American Liberal values and the progress they have lead to-- San Francisco? Tell me about it.
Nepal does not strive to become America. Singapore and HongKong have been doing well as quasi-Americas for the last five decades, Bulgaria has all but succeeded(to the absolute dismay of my Bulgarian friend), and the Gulf States have succeeded, at least for non-Muslims. Nepal knows it does not want to be America. Nepal wants to be Kathmandu-- perhaps a slightly less congested, polluted, and crazy version of Kathmandu, but Kathmandu nonetheless. Our aspirations do not lie in making to meetings on the dot, consuming fast food in dangerous (even though KFC and Pizza Hut openings and the soon-to-open McDonald's may convince you otherwise) quantities, and giving the power of thousands of horses to mid-teenagers on open streets. We may dream of it, but we don't want it. Nepal wants progress, and Kathmandu wants progress, but not in any sense the progress the America has seen. Our model is Kathmandu, and Kathmandu is what one lives for in Nepal.
Heretic, you will say. I hear you. One does not live for Kathmandu in Nepal-- one lives for America, or the Gulf, you will say. And you will be correct. They are our national obsessions, and will remain so for a long time. But they are not the end in themselves-- for the Nepal that's in the Gulf, and the Nepal that's in the East Coast and the West Coast and the Mid-west does not dream of these places-- they all dream of Kathmandu themselves. They dream of a Kathmandu that's very different from what is now, but Kathmandu nonetheless. Kathmandu is the concentric focus of our collective wet dreams.
We are mired deeply in fantastically corrupt and inept leadership and bureaucracy, fairness to a lot of us means definite victory of our side--at any cost, our institutions are powerless, those that may show some semblance of competence are so badly demoralized that it'll take them a long time to recover, and we are going through a serious case of cultural turbulence. They make it seemingly impossible for the Kathmandu of collective dreams, to become the real Kathmandu. The Kathmandu of our dreams will always remain so. Kathmandu, and by implication Nepal, will always remain a collective dream.
More impossible dreams have become real though. Africa is rising rapidly despite the constraints, and India has shown reasonable progress. Bihar has risen by leaps and bound.
After a particularly raucous round of discussions in the parliament last year, a lawmaker complained to the speaker on the record that fellow lawmakers were making everything 'seem like Bihar'. The Indian Ambassador who happened to be in the visitors' stand was heard to have said 'Bihar bhi toh 14 percent growth dikh rahaa hai yaar'
Manjushree Thapa has a fantastic piece on Kathmandu in The Daily Beast. READ IT!
There's no Nepal but one Nepal, and Kathmandu is that Nepal.
Allow me to explain. What represents a nation or a city? What do you think of when you think of the United States-- the crime ridden inner-city Chicago, the dying urban glory that was once Detroit, the 'planned cities' all over that created roads and buildings but destroyed society, or the rising towers of Manhattan, LA and the dream of, as they said, Californication, and the ultimate poster city of American Liberal values and the progress they have lead to-- San Francisco? Tell me about it.
Nepal does not strive to become America. Singapore and HongKong have been doing well as quasi-Americas for the last five decades, Bulgaria has all but succeeded(to the absolute dismay of my Bulgarian friend), and the Gulf States have succeeded, at least for non-Muslims. Nepal knows it does not want to be America. Nepal wants to be Kathmandu-- perhaps a slightly less congested, polluted, and crazy version of Kathmandu, but Kathmandu nonetheless. Our aspirations do not lie in making to meetings on the dot, consuming fast food in dangerous (even though KFC and Pizza Hut openings and the soon-to-open McDonald's may convince you otherwise) quantities, and giving the power of thousands of horses to mid-teenagers on open streets. We may dream of it, but we don't want it. Nepal wants progress, and Kathmandu wants progress, but not in any sense the progress the America has seen. Our model is Kathmandu, and Kathmandu is what one lives for in Nepal.
Heretic, you will say. I hear you. One does not live for Kathmandu in Nepal-- one lives for America, or the Gulf, you will say. And you will be correct. They are our national obsessions, and will remain so for a long time. But they are not the end in themselves-- for the Nepal that's in the Gulf, and the Nepal that's in the East Coast and the West Coast and the Mid-west does not dream of these places-- they all dream of Kathmandu themselves. They dream of a Kathmandu that's very different from what is now, but Kathmandu nonetheless. Kathmandu is the concentric focus of our collective wet dreams.
We are mired deeply in fantastically corrupt and inept leadership and bureaucracy, fairness to a lot of us means definite victory of our side--at any cost, our institutions are powerless, those that may show some semblance of competence are so badly demoralized that it'll take them a long time to recover, and we are going through a serious case of cultural turbulence. They make it seemingly impossible for the Kathmandu of collective dreams, to become the real Kathmandu. The Kathmandu of our dreams will always remain so. Kathmandu, and by implication Nepal, will always remain a collective dream.
More impossible dreams have become real though. Africa is rising rapidly despite the constraints, and India has shown reasonable progress. Bihar has risen by leaps and bound.
After a particularly raucous round of discussions in the parliament last year, a lawmaker complained to the speaker on the record that fellow lawmakers were making everything 'seem like Bihar'. The Indian Ambassador who happened to be in the visitors' stand was heard to have said 'Bihar bhi toh 14 percent growth dikh rahaa hai yaar'
Manjushree Thapa has a fantastic piece on Kathmandu in The Daily Beast. READ IT!
I, Stereotype
I stereotype.
Not my fault though. No, I'm serious. You're judging me yaar, I can see your eyes widening, the veins on your forehead getting thicker. Shit, he's racist slash sexist too, or maybe one of those fking a.holes whose favorite words are sluts and whores you're thinking. I try not to be, saachi, and i compensate for what might be unconscious bias, but let me tell you my part of the story, and we'll talk k. You have really big eyes yaar. So just for a moment-- only a moment-- listen to my story k.
You wake up this fine morning, and the morning is fine, the sun is nice, and you get a good breakfast, hoping the day is going to be fine, and why not, it's a fine little world we live in, with pretty women and all, and it being summer those girls are in flowery dresses, and you think of humanity much better than you would on a rainy day when you just want to bitchfight that bro whose 4x4 splashed water all over your fancy new dress you are wearing for the first time because you know, you don't get to wear that kind of clothes in college a lot, so you might as well make full use of such chances when you get them.
This fine morning, you go to the class and meet the girl who has been discussed once in a public forum-- remember that time you may or may not remember you went to your friend's room when her friend from other college was around too and when you may or may not have cried, but you most certainly did tell them about this girl from this particular class who you think is particularly attractive, and even more importantly, it's not that you like her only because she's pretty but also because you like her as a person, and then the friend asks you if you've ever talked to her and you admit that you don't even know her name, so you start making plans to somehow get to know her, and maybe knowing her name would be a good start, you start making crazy elaborate plans to extract her name somehow, because broduude, it would be so creepy and crazy if you actually asked her name, no? Yes, it would be, so shut the hell up, and go back to making really elaborate plans, you tell yourself, and that is what happens.
The plan is put into action. It works. You're happy. You have finally extracted the information you want. Well done!
And then the realization hits you. The name, brothers, sisters and all the attractive and/or smart women reading this, the name.
Names are interesting creatures, if you'll allow me some drama. If you called Rose something else, said the old bald guy who may or may not have written that, it would totally not smell any less beautiful. Unfortunately, even though you may never admit it to Rose, it probably would. Or more. Definitely not the same though
Names should ideally not evoke emotions. You should not judge a person's character on the fact his parents named herim xxx. But I'm not yet smart enough to realize that. It's unfortunate for me and for the world. Sentilife.
I judged. Hard. I judged the parents, I judged the grandparents, I judged the friends of the parents who might possibly have had a hand in recommending the name for friends' child, the child services officers who let this atrocity happen, the government, which allows parents to commit such appalling acts, and I judged her name.
And then suddenly, the veil of ignorance lifted and I became an enlightened entity.
Not my fault though. No, I'm serious. You're judging me yaar, I can see your eyes widening, the veins on your forehead getting thicker. Shit, he's racist slash sexist too, or maybe one of those fking a.holes whose favorite words are sluts and whores you're thinking. I try not to be, saachi, and i compensate for what might be unconscious bias, but let me tell you my part of the story, and we'll talk k. You have really big eyes yaar. So just for a moment-- only a moment-- listen to my story k.
You wake up this fine morning, and the morning is fine, the sun is nice, and you get a good breakfast, hoping the day is going to be fine, and why not, it's a fine little world we live in, with pretty women and all, and it being summer those girls are in flowery dresses, and you think of humanity much better than you would on a rainy day when you just want to bitchfight that bro whose 4x4 splashed water all over your fancy new dress you are wearing for the first time because you know, you don't get to wear that kind of clothes in college a lot, so you might as well make full use of such chances when you get them.
This fine morning, you go to the class and meet the girl who has been discussed once in a public forum-- remember that time you may or may not remember you went to your friend's room when her friend from other college was around too and when you may or may not have cried, but you most certainly did tell them about this girl from this particular class who you think is particularly attractive, and even more importantly, it's not that you like her only because she's pretty but also because you like her as a person, and then the friend asks you if you've ever talked to her and you admit that you don't even know her name, so you start making plans to somehow get to know her, and maybe knowing her name would be a good start, you start making crazy elaborate plans to extract her name somehow, because broduude, it would be so creepy and crazy if you actually asked her name, no? Yes, it would be, so shut the hell up, and go back to making really elaborate plans, you tell yourself, and that is what happens.
The plan is put into action. It works. You're happy. You have finally extracted the information you want. Well done!
And then the realization hits you. The name, brothers, sisters and all the attractive and/or smart women reading this, the name.
Names are interesting creatures, if you'll allow me some drama. If you called Rose something else, said the old bald guy who may or may not have written that, it would totally not smell any less beautiful. Unfortunately, even though you may never admit it to Rose, it probably would. Or more. Definitely not the same though
Names should ideally not evoke emotions. You should not judge a person's character on the fact his parents named herim xxx. But I'm not yet smart enough to realize that. It's unfortunate for me and for the world. Sentilife.
I judged. Hard. I judged the parents, I judged the grandparents, I judged the friends of the parents who might possibly have had a hand in recommending the name for friends' child, the child services officers who let this atrocity happen, the government, which allows parents to commit such appalling acts, and I judged her name.
And then suddenly, the veil of ignorance lifted and I became an enlightened entity.
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