Day 1087: Neither Here, Nor There
August 18, 2008 - Filed Under family & friends, midwest, new orleans, recovery, the game of life
After a good chunk of last week in Houston for work, I spent another glorious weekend in Ohio visiting family and friends.
Each time I see my family, they are older, the products of time, work, declining health, the usual and unusual wear and tear. When we are children, we see our parents, siblings and other members of the family all of the time; we cannot observe them age as they do not see us growing up right in front of their watchful eyes. Also, as kids, we think of our parents as rocks, as constants who aren’t going anywhere soon. Death happens mostly to the aged, and that is a long way off from the cognition of youth. In a blink of an eye, we’re transported to our 30s and 40s and, guess what, our parents are much older, too. Dissonance. Disbelief. Discombobulation.
My mother is not doing well and is most likely in for more surgery, this time on her back. At this year’s Varalakshmi Puja, a ritual very important and exclusive to certain Hindu families (so it has to be done right, or else), Mom’s hands shook while she attempted to steady herself and simple things like sitting, standing and walking were nothing but sources of immense pain for her. My beautiful, smart, agile, strong, strident, able busybody of a mother had a really hard time keeping it together and, to her helpless and onlooking daughter, it seemed like an invisible someone taking a knife to Mona Lisa, a hammer to David, a match to a monument. Why does life build us up just to take us down? I want to say you can’t imagine my anger and frustration, but you’re a child, too. You know.
Before leaving the area, D and I spent some time with my 92-year-old grandmother who taught me how to wear a nine-yard sari (the more common version of the sari is only six yards in length) while admonishing me in Tamil, “You knew how to wear a sari like this when you were only eleven, and now you stand before me having forgotten it all. Keep it in your head this time and pass it on.” D took approximately a hundred pictures of the process and I’ve promised my grandmother the definitive blog post on How To Wear A Nine-Yard Sari. This is my mother’s mother, whom I have spoken off before, who has now twice beaten cancer, but is a physical shred of her former self. While her mind is as sharp a tack - she wants to travel between the homes of her children, learn a new style of painting from my father, take singing lessons, talk up a storm about the past, present and future - her body does not cooperate.
Patti has been a permanent fixture in my life and never had I given a thought to her not being there. People die, so will my grandmother, so will my mother, so will I, so will my children and so on. Right here, right now, however, is as important in its gravity as it is in its fleeting weightlessness, its tiny speck of meaning in the larger cosmic timeline. The urgency of my grandma’s current stage in life and the importance of my visit didn’t faze me until I gave her a goodbye hug, inhaled her scent, kissed her cheek and a pang of understanding seared its way into my heart, scrambled up my chest and gushed out of my eyes as hot tears. Before I let go of my grandmother and let her see my face again, I willed my eyes to suck those tears back in, for I would not allow her to see me upset. I would not force her to consider her mortality at that moment, not because of me. She would see her happy and vibrant granddaughter and think of all the good times we’ve had together.
The dam broke last night when I sat in front of D and cried my heart out while asking, “How do you deal with your mother being gone? I can’t deal with her death, how can you?” It was not simply questions on mortality that arose, but also queries on what I want from my life and what exactly I’m doing down here when I should live close to my family and be a helpful daughter. A job, a career, it cannot be as important as my Mom and Dad, nieces, godbabies and everyone back home. They are not replaceable. What the hell am I doing more than thousand miles away from the people I love the most?
On returning to New Orleans, I’ve discovered that the city wrongly demolished a home, Jessica Hawk (from Ohio) was found murdered in her home on the 3000 block of Chartres in the Bywater, two people were shot to death at an Uptown intersection where my friend takes frequent afternoon walks, McSame and Bush will make their obligatory New Orleans visits this week (for more cake, I’m sure) and, to top it all off, Mayor Ray Ray will be presented with “The Award of Distinction For Recovery, Courage, and Leadership” by a group called “The Excellence in Recovery Host Committee,” led by a prominent member of our City Council. I feel like a bit character in a poorly-reenacted mashup of The Enemy Within and Mirror Mirror set in New Orleans.
Yes, corruption and incompetence are found wherever power and money are to be had, but not like this, not when we should all be extra-vigilant during this reconstruction. Returning to pre-Katrina dysfunctional bullshit is not recovery. It makes me want to run screaming back to Ohio or Wisconsin. The Upper Midwest is not exempt from flood, government incompetence and crime, but it’s not an excuse to dodge the issue that there are serious problems down here, and that almost 25% will leave if we as a city don’t address them. Wisconsin and Ohio don’t have Mardi Gras, Jazzfest, jazz funerals, the architecture, running through the Quarter in a red dress, the glory of Audubon Park and City Park, the food, the music and whatever it is you love about New Orleans, but no amount of culture and cool can overcome fear, assault and death.
Understand that these are not easy statements to make, nor are they concrete in their utterance. While crafting and reading emails and talking with members regarding Krewe du Vieux functions, finances, floats and costumes, I ask myself how I could ever stop being a part of an event so amazing, planning so much fun in its utter chaos, a group so goofy and unreal. How could I not own the streets of New Orleans with the Krewe of Chartreuse on Mardi Gras Day? How could I walk away from dear friends as unique as this city? There’s one thing more, I miss the one I care for, more than I miss New Orleans.
The pull of the South and my career here is strong. The push of home and family is stronger. Logistics and commitments prevent us from leaving any time soon, but the decision to stay or to go is going to be a big weight on my mind in the coming months. It’s not an easy one, so please hold the “New Orleans sucks, leave!” or “Go, you’re not wanted here!” comments, because it just isn’t like that. When faced with decision gates like this in the past, I’ve shut down or punted, taking the course of an inanimate leaf in the wind, with decent as well as disastrous results. Suddenly (to me), I’m an adult, it’s not a coin toss or a decision I can leave to someone else or fate. Suddenly, I’m an adult and I am forced to contemplate my parents’ mortality and accept that human life is something borrowed, not owned. Suddenly, I’m an adult, and I’m neither here, nor there.
Day 1065: It’s Black And Gold Forever
July 27, 2008 - Filed Under big easy rollergirls, blogistas, family & friends, new orleans, rising tide conference
The FYYFF: It’s Black And Gold Forever fundraiser party for the Ashley Morris Memorial Fund was set to start at 8pm. Nothing starts on time here, but I was worried about being horribly late when D and I entered One Eyed Jack’s at a quarter to ten. Fortunately for us, the Arena Bowl crowds, the sudden and heavy rain and the general Saturday-night-in-the-Quarter rodeo had snarled up traffic so badly that half the talent hadn’t yet shown and the opening act had just gone on. Jewish Standard Time sounds a lot like Indian Standard Time, yet another reason for a HinJew merger.
Walking on Chartres to One Eyed Jack’s, D and I received a free concert from Huey Lewis, whom we heard was playing at or outside the Hard Rock Cafe. “The Power Of Love” followed us into the fundraiser. Once officially wrist-banded, Jeffrey, Menckles and I sauntered into the main area to find the bloggers on the right hand side of the room, while the Rollergirls and their posse lined the opposite wall. I think Jeffrey likened it to a school dance, the sexes segregated to either side of the dance hall, while I pretended we were the Jets or the Bloods and stepped onto Rollergirl territory to see if a fight would immediately ensue. No one noticed; all eyes were focused on the stage as Supa Saint prepared to go on.
Things soon got going. Oyster spoke on behalf of Rising Tide, after which Ray re-read his What Is Ashley Morris? to thunderous applause. Hana, Ashley’s statuesque and strong widow, thanked all of us for being there and helping out. Hana and I both noticed that every time we’ve done anything Ashley-related in the last few months, it starts to pour outside. We’re both not superstitious, but the coincidence is a bit funny-eerie.
Bloggers I ran into, in order of encounter: Ray, Loki, Oyster, Jeffrey, Tim, Liprap, Michael Homan, Celcus, NOLA Cleophatra, Adrastos, Mark Folse, Patrick, Dangerblond, Bec, Cade Roux, Candace, NOLADishu, DB, G-Bitch, Mr. Clio, Christian Roselund, Becky Houtman and Humid Haney. Jason Berry was there, as was LisaPal who brought Huey Lewis over from his concert. If I didn’t mention someone, no offense.
Following the speeches came the auction and raffle. Oyster bid on and won a dress for Lovely, one freshly stripped off a member of Fleur de Tease. Haney got his wife a necklace created by Niki Fisk, a local jewelry maker, who just so happens to have attended high school with one of my cousins. Glad to know she is still in New Orleans. Mark Folse won one of Ashley’s cigar ashtrays.
I have crappy luck when it comes to winning anything, so imagine my surprise when I got not one, not two, but three pieces of art at the raffle. My booty includes a painting of a voodoo doll by Varg, Who Dat by Rex of NOLA Rising and Frankenstein which looks like the work of Tard Monster by Unknown Parts. I’ll have to check with The Dingler.
The night ended with D, Folse and me at Fahy’s, where Katie didn’t beat D and me for not showing up in eons. Fahy’s was where I first met Ashley Morris on Ash Wednesday 2006 and asked him where he blogged and what he had written. “Oh, you know, FYYFF and Sinn Fein.” “That’s you?” I responded, “you’re great.” Ashley smiled and said, “Here, have a cigar.” With a bad cold, I declined his offer, but had to smile. FYYFF and Sinn Fein, Ashley, we will never forget.
Day 1053: My Cousin, The NYTimes Science Columnist
July 15, 2008 - Filed Under family & friends, media, science & technology
This blog is only one expression of my family’s long-held desire to write. Having “perfected the art of bullshit,” as my brother puts it, we long to inflict it on others. I kid, I kid. Serious writing in my immediate family includes that of my mother’s, with her amassing tomes on Vedanta and Hinduism, and my brother’s long history of medical journal articles. Given a LARGE family and, by extension, my relationship to half of South India, let’s not forget the Sci Ref and Lexis Nexis searches that land on numerous scholarly articles penned by relatives.
We’re doctors, scientists, bankers, engineers, lawyers, businesspeople and computer geeks who have the ability to communicate well in print, but not one of us has been a real journalist. Until now. With great pride, I present the work of my little cousin who recently took up a job as science columnist at the New York Times. Here are some of Bina’s articles to date:
- * Microbes Eating Away at Pieces of History
- * Bioterrorism and the Food Supply
- * Countries Make Push to Increase Eye Donors
- * Farms In The Sky (quoted today by CenLamar)
Science and journalism! You couldn’t have done better, kid. This makes me want to go to J-school so bad, and while I ponder it, allow me to radiate proud glee.
Day 1011: Why I Love Wisconsin And Blogging
June 4, 2008 - Filed Under blogistas, family & friends, photographs, wisconsin
Face to face time with the marvelous and talented ladies of First Draft!
Scout!
Athenae! (with the honorable statesman from Louisiana)
The reunion of Athenae and Maitri at the wedding of a mutual friend was priceless. Dinner was over, cake had just been served and I placed my camera and purse in a chair before getting down on the dance floor to the Hometown Sweethearts. Eyes focusing in the freshly-dimmed lights, I noticed a familiar, solitary figure standing by the entrance to the reception hall (also conveniently where the bar was located). One of these things is not like the other … process process … she told me she wasn’t coming … process process … but that’s totally her. And I was off, sprinting in my heels, “Atheeeeeenaeeeeee!” Initially a blogger caught in headlights, Athenae jerked her head up with a WhoWha? look on her face, and then came the smile of recognition. The rest was all Hug OMG Hug Squeeee Hug HandSwat HandSwat OhYouLookSoGoodInThatOutfit Hug!!!!!!1!! Almost immediately after that came the Politics Sucks, Madison Rocks, Babylon 5 Was The Best, Who The Frak Is The Last Cylon and We’re Tired But Let’s Dance Like Olive To Superfreak In Little Miss Sunshine Anyway discussion among A, Mr. A, D and me. I love my friends.
Day 1005: Why I Love Wisconsin And My Husband
May 29, 2008 - Filed Under family & friends, funny, photographs, wisconsin
Day 1004: Of Water And Dosas
May 28, 2008 - Filed Under desi / india, family & friends, food & drink
Friend Viji has been busy traveling and writing for the Christian Science Monitor. This article is a part of her plan to put Mylapore, my mother’s Indian hometown, on the map.
… Chennai’s efforts to tackle its water shortage bears watching. By 2030, about 60 percent of the world’s population is expected to be living in similar large metro areas with limited natural resources. The renovated [Kapaleeshwarar temple] tank with its greenish water offers reassuring evidence that efforts to harvest rainwater here – a pragmatic step to fight water shortage – have begun to yield results.
Geography does not favor Chennai: No major river flows through this semi-arid city. But the city averages 48 inches of annual rainfall, six times more than Phoenix. Historically, importing water from neighboring states has been fraught with political tensions.
Another piece describes and celebrates the dosa (South Indian rice crepe), of which Alli recently enjoyed the masala version at That Indian Place. Dosas, you are so amazing on the palate and equally irksome to make.
… Making dosas used to be hard work. Cooks soaked rice and lentils in water for several hours and ground these ingredients in a stone mortar. After this muscle work, the job still wasn’t finished. The batter needed to ferment. Then, once bubbles rose to the top, it had to be refrigerated, or it would turn too sour and be fit only to make uthappams, a pancakelike dish I don’t like.
Used to be?! It is still virtually impossible in the absence of a gigantic, mechanized ammi, a Sumeet or a Preethi, which, with their voltage differences and conversion requirements, would take out the power to all of the Lower Garden District. Even with today’s American blenders, it is a royal pain in the lower back to combine the right quantities of soaked urad dal and rice flour paste, grind, mix, grind, mix and, finally, pour the viscous batter into a container while trying your hardest not to get it all over the countertops and hardwood floor.
Come to think of it, the last time I was done grinding dosa batter I cried for two hours straight and prayed to the heavens above for a divine-intervention shoulder rub. The chili powder in the open wound was cooking those dosas on a hot, hot evening a month before Katrina hit, and the cooking was the easy part. Oh no, you evil temptation dosa, you can’t lure me into making you again here in New Orleans, not when I can eat them at Komi’s or about twice a year at my parents’. Avast, my flat and flavorful yet fickle friend.
And, before anyone even mentions it, I’d rather never eat dosas again than look at, much less cook with, pre-packaged batter. Scoff.
Great, now my stomach is growling. A fortuitous thing I’m making rajma tonight.
Day 1004: Rest In Peace, Robert Asprin
May 28, 2008 - Filed Under books, family & friends, new orleans
D and I just found out that Robert Asprin passed away six days ago, and we’re crushed. The last time we saw him was the last time we were at Fahy’s, during Jazzfest, when he asked how my re-read of the M.Y.T.H. series was coming (had just finished Hit Or Myth). And I didn’t get to razz him about the awful puns.
Obituaries from the Times-Picayune and Hip Hop Elements (the latter of whom swiped the following picture of Asprin from my Flickr and didn’t bother with the whole attribution thing).
If one has to go earlier than expected, it had might as well be while reading Terry Pratchett. Catch you in another dimension, sir.
==
Goodbye, Frak: My silly feedreader only now picked up on the fact that R’s cat, Frak, passed away earlier this month, while living at John’s. Frak, the rest of the farm and I were housemates for six months after Katrina and the Flood. Crap. WTF. Crap.
Day 996: Travel, Sick Relatives, Computers. Gah.
May 20, 2008 - Filed Under computing & internet, family & friends, health, travel, wordpress
Things have been rather hectic here at VatulBlog HQ lately. So busy that I have neither the time nor the inclination to blog. I’ve seen more of the insides of airports and geophysical data than any human should and the best part is that it isn’t over. More travel and data schlepping ahead.
This past weekend, I flew up to Ohio to spend some time with my parents and grandmother, the latter of whom I haven’t seen since my wedding around sixteen months ago. This is Patti’s (Tamil for grandmother) second battle with that awful beast known as cancer and she has just come out of another demeaning round of chemotherapy and radiation. Yet, she got out of bed and walked into the living room to spend time with one of her favorite grandchildren and, through coughs and sniffles, lovingly related to me all the things I used to do as a precocious young kid visiting my grandfather and her in India. I want to take this opportunity to say the following to my grandmother: Should this fate befall me, Goddess help me be half as strong as you are and look half as beautiful as you do after swallowing harsh, cancer-killing chemicals and being zapped by gamma rays, neutrons and protons that make you sicker than your illness provides. You, my dear lady, kick ass. I love you. (I also admire the hell out of you for tuning out the inevitable, heated discussion on American politics that went on among your children and grandchildren.)
Should this fate befall me. Let’s see - paternal great-grandmother and maternal aunt dead of breast cancer, paternal uncle dead of lung cancer, grandmother fighting non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and I live on Cancer Alley. Nice. When I mentioned this to him, Herr Doktor Brother assured me that nanotechnology will cure all within the span of a decade and that I’ve got to have faith in the coming and unstoppable advancements in medical science. I’m similarly optimistic about the oil industry and alternative sources of energy, but, like any passive consumer of products I don’t know much about, I’ll believe the cure for cancer when I see it.
Speaking of frustrating illnesses, Dangerblond’s blog is on the fritz. More specifically, we are battling File ‘./blog/wp_comments.MYD’ not found (Errcode: 13), which probably means a corrupt Comments file/table which in turn means a Wordpress upgrade. I may not be able to fix cancer, but I will make her blog cry Uncle, by gum. Tonight, I go in with a Ka-Bar between my teeth. Wish me luck.
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