chuck e. cheese

Dining Hall, ca. Spring 1997

[Emma, Sach, Meron, and Jim are seated at a table eating dinner together]

Emma: Does this pizza taste like Chuck E. Cheese’s?
Sach: Yeah.
Meron: What’s that?
Sach: Do you have those in Florida?
Emma: It’s like an amusement park for kids where you go and get like cheese pizza.
Meron: An amusement park where you get pizza?
Sach: It’s like a restaurant with a bunch of like playthings in it.
Jim: Yeah. It’s like McDonald’s Playland, but like to the tenth power.
Emma: You can go there for hours.
Sach: And all these fuzzy characters put on shows.
Meron: You’re kidding.
Sach: No, they’re all on stage.
Jim: It’s just a big place where you have birthday parties.
Emma: Chuck E. is a mouse.
Jim: He really likes cheese.
Sach: His name is Chuck, then his middle initial is E. and his last name is Cheese. Chuck E. Cheese.
Meron: [Looks disbelievingly at Sach]
Sach: I’m serious.

the motorcycle diaries

so I finally saw 'the motorcycle diaries' last night. I thought it was beautiful, it went straight to my heart, too, I think, whatever the broad implications of his life afterwards. I felt a deep admiration for his intense spirit of solidarity and idealism and his extraodinary commitment to the eradication of injustice. it was a very simple movie, understated, and thus quite powerful in that it allowed the weight of this man and these early experiences of his to be appreciated by the viewer instead of trumpeted by an overdone narrative or ill-conceived melodramatization of events. I also might pick up one of his books soon -- perhaps his writings on the cuban revolution.

I was reading a little more about his life (hence the qualifier above about the broad implications of this life afterwards), and it made me wonder a bit about the nature of revolution and the ideals that are embodied within such a movement. I think of the passion and the intense belief in an ideology that foments an uprising of this caliber, like cuba, and what it becomes with time. I think of fidel castro now and the image that comes to mind is of the man in deteriorating health falling down last month or two months ago on stage, a humiliating image captured and replayed around the world. there's this complacency that seems to set in very rapidly, perhaps inevitably, after 'winning,' after triumphing in an endeavor of such ideals, of such weight. is it inevitable, I wonder?

cuba did not become this ideal place where injustice was eradicated. nor did the USSR, nor has china (far from it). I don't doubt the gravity, the sincerity of the movements, not after examining the lives of the revolutionaries that led them. I hope that I won't have to become that cynical that the historically 'great' revolutions, whatever our revised conceptions of them, must be classified as mere exercises in manipulative mass politics undertaken by a few to seize power. perhaps it's the power that corrupts, a notion long held. perhaps the charisma of the revolutionary cannot be expressed when not in resistance, when actually in power--within the very institutional construct against which he has been fighting so passionately, so forcefully, with such desperation and belief. and perhaps the people like che guevara, like gandhi, like martin luther king, are so rare, so elusive, that those that follow them (since their lives seem to be inevitably cut short), those charged with the responsibility of fulfilling the ends of their movements once they have triumphed, can never live up to their greatness, to the purity of their ideals (assuming, perhaps wishfully, that their ideals were never corrupted).

is the movement the end in and of itself? that would be a little disappointing, I think. is it naive (even in the context of revolutions) to believe that a system of ideals can not only overthrow, but perservere? history seems to have said yes so far.

some solace

"A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt. If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake."

---Thomas Jefferson, in 1798, after the passage of the Sedition Act

sense and sensibility

From: Sachin D. Shah [mailto:sdshah@alumni.princeton.edu]
Sent: Sunday, October 03, 2004 9:32 PM
To: 'matheyites@yahoogroups.com'
Subject: sense and sensibility

a sad story from this week that I felt compelled to pass along. sorry this is the first thing you're hearing from me in a while, I've been meaning to write, but I just haven't gotten a chance to.

I'm in my third year of med school now, and I started my clerkships this past july, so I'm in the hospitals full time. for me this has been 100% better than the first 2 years in which we were just lectured to and required to memorize exorbitant amounts of information for exams every 2 weeks or so. while most of the information was admittedly important and at least somewhat relevant to our profession, it just wasn't my bag. I like the process of applying and solving, not the mindless hoarding of information that is unfortunately highly rewarded in medical school.

still, finally doing what I signed up for remains a double-edged sword, since it exposes me to realities that by association with the journeymen and women health professionals I'm training under I feel myself becoming desensitized to. what once were (and still, I can't help thinking, should be) overwhelmingly genuine, striking examples of death, suffering, and tragedy (to name a few abstract characterizations) are becoming alarmingly routine. so many in this profession I'm training to join, I'm finding, are callous human beings. and I feel myself becoming subject to this inertia, which is undoubtedly a personal (collective) defense mechanism.

I've been on surgery the past month and change, and I still have 3 weeks left. it's been simultaneously fascinating and depressing, since I've been working on the trauma service in the only hospital in one of the worst parts of detroit. I see about 4-5 gunshot wounds daily, another 5-7 each night that I'm on call, and at least that many victims of motor vehicle accidents, in addition to frequent stab wounds and victims of assault, gang violence, and any number of other run of the mill traumatic injuries we associate with 'rough neighborhoods' and avoid like the plague whenever possible.

the last 5 days, for example, I've scrubbed in on 5 exploratory laparotomies secondary to gunshot wounds. a laparotomy entails taking a scalpel and making a giant midline incision from the xiphoid process (the bottom of your sternum) down to the waist, and just opening up the abdomen to assess and hopefully fix the damage that bullets and shotgun pellets do. we've done countless bowel resections and reanastomoses, spleen repairs, liver repairs, and all the other abdominal and other critical repairs you can think of. we leave the brain stuff to neurosurgeons, but most of the time, as you can imagine, there's not much to fix once a bullet has gone through your brain.

the low point last week was tuesday when we got 4 people in at the same time with GSWs from a guy that opened fire (w/ an automatic weapon) in the morning at a daycare center. I was taking care of a 3-year-old girl (3 years old?!) who was shot in the head. this beautiful child took a bullet that went in the back of her skull and came out from the top of her head. she didn't make it. I don't know what anyone could have done to deserve such a fate let alone a 3-year-old girl. don't even get me started on the absolutely asinine obstinance that continues to pervade this country in regards to gun control (how recently did the ban on assault weapons expire? how many people did I hear saying that those weapons don't have much of an impact in the grand scheme of things?). all the legislators and NRA members that oppose such fundamental common sense should have to spend a week on the trauma service at this hospital and tell me that they still feel the same way afterwards.

the hours are long. I wake up at 4 every morning, and with my 2 call nights last week I worked 99 hours on the nose. but in truth I don't mind it too much. most weeks I have one call night and I end up between 85-90 hours. I'm not doing much else right now b/c I simply don't have the time or the energy, but I figured this much coming in and know it's for a finite period of time, which makes it not too bad. too much associated bullshit for me to want to do surgery, like hierarchy and egos and blind ambition and competitiveness, to say nothing of the hours, which render you rather one-dimensional, by my estimation--or would me, in any case. but it's undeniably cool stuff at the medico-scientific and technical level, and I'm learning a whole lot.

but I'm also recognizing a subtle transformation in my attitudes toward human tragedy since I've been seeing so much. it worries me, but I guess I understand it, because we become desensitized to that which becomes routine to us, which I guess makes this transformation simultaneously natural and unnatural.

but I do think that I would be allowing these events to become far less routine to me if I were on my own experiencing this, and were able to trust my intuitive reactions more. it's amazing how influential the people around you are in these situations. you suppress what is natural in order to assimilate, so that you more rapidly blend in and appear to know what you're doing, which is a coveted way to be perceived in general, and this profession is no exception.

on the bright side, I'm doing ob-gyn next, starting on october 25th, for 2 months. I'm also doing this rotation in a pretty rough neighborhood, but at a women's hospital that is renowned for its maternal and fetal medicine program. we'll get a lot of complicated pregnancies with very little to no prenatal care, but I should get to deliver between 30-40 babies over those 2 months, which should be an energizing reprise to what I'm doing now.

I guess that's all I got for now. I hope everyone's doing well.

I miss you all.
much love,
sach

bihar day's night - excerpts

My layover in Delhi is 5 hours, during which I make my way from the international to the domestic terminal on the free hourly shuttle that keeps leaving 20 minutes earlier than scheduled, causing me to miss it 3 times before finally catching it. Though the flight to Patna (the closest airport to the village I will work in) is only one hour, it takes two tries to land. On our first attempt, quite close to the ground and within a few hundred meters of landing, we abruptly lift up again and circle the city. After 3-4 minutes, the captain comes on over the intercom: "Ladies and gentlemen, on our first approach, we noticed another plane was attempting to land at the same time as us. That was not very polite. We will circle and try again. Nothing to worry about." The second approach was successful, and I had arrived in the notorious Indian state of Bihar.

I was picked up at the airport by a man named Dilip from the organization I was working with. Exhausting a full third of my Hindi repertoire at that point, I asked him if he spoke any English. Negative. I thus resigned myself to a rather quiet 3 hour journey to the village. There were plenty of Hindi music tapes strewn about the jeep, so I popped one of those in; soon we were both singing along to songs in the very language that had prevented us from conversing in the first place.

After about 2 hours of weaving in and out of traffic, swerving around trucks and buses while dodging oncoming traffic and the occasional cow, we stopped at a little roadside stall/restaurant. Dilip gestured for me to take a seat at the table and then went towards the back after saying something I didn't understand. So, naturally, I followed him. He stopped, looked at me rather confusedly, and asked me something else I didn't understand. Homer Simpson-esque blank stare. Damn, I think to myself, I got to learn more Hindi. After momentarily returning said stare, he resorted to a gesticulation that will go undescribed. Epiphany. “Oh!” I said, grinning sheepishly, “you're going to the bathroom.” Very good. I'll be right here, then. I really got to learn more Hindi.
..

It’s oppressively hot here; the heat just brings you to your knees. While there are no thermometers (they probably would be bad for morale), I know that it's well past 100 degrees Fahrenheit by 9am, and easily reaches 120 by 2pm.

Among the most refreshing feelings is taking a cold bucket bath in the evening, not bothering to dry off, and then, if the electricity is working, lying on your bed under the ceiling fan. For about 5 minutes, it's complete relief.

On the whole, though, the heat is almost insufferable. It radiates everywhere, overpowering the windows, the walls, ceiling fans, the shade, even the dark. Forty-seven degrees Celsius again today.

..

Efficiency carries the day here at the eye hospital where I spend most of my days. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday the outpatient clinic alone is open, and between the 5 doctors/surgeons here, we see between 350-450 patients per day, with an average of 80 per doctor per day. If I weren't slightly near-sighted myself, I could now recognize a pseudo-phakia or aphakia from a mile away. I've seen all sorts of cataracts and patients with glaucoma—which are far and away the most common cases—and even rare things that I'll never see in a developed country. Yesterday I saw an old woman who had smallpox as a child, as evidenced by pustule scars on her cornea, followed by two polio patients. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday are surgery days, and the operations are done with factory-like efficiency in the 2 operation theaters, with 3 surgeons working at a time. The overwhelming majority of procedures are cataract operations. At about 20 minutes per routine surgery, in peak season, the hospital, with its 5 surgeons doing surgeries 3 days per week, does up to an astounding 1200 operations per month.

Since the population served here is almost exclusively poor villagers, the cataracts and other ailments are routinely at the most advanced stages. Only when the problem becomes severely debilitating—and, incidentally, often too severe to effectively treat, especially with the budgetary constraints of a free rural eye hospital—do they come in. So they go blind.
..

The surgeons are trained to be rather callous—to objectify the patient in the interests of performing their functions; they are, after all, technicians. In observing all these eye surgeries, I too find myself falling into the trap of seeing what's on the operating table not as a patient, but simply an eye to be repaired. Indeed, their entire face and head are obscured by a large white cloth leaving an oval hole only for the eye of interest. One almost treats them as if they're dead; or perhaps more accurately, as if they were simply an eye, independent of any adjoining body.
..

I remain troubled by the way we treated the villagers—like cattle, and with such detached condescension. Still, I wonder, how can any other way be accommodated given the circumstances? How else do we see 400 patients in one day? Meanwhile, 200 more are left waiting in a situation in which to be unseen is to go blind.

Nearly every family I spoke with has lost at least one child—and often many more—to a miscarriage or in early infancy; cholera outbreaks still come with every monsoon; and the overall life expectancy for a person born in rural India—a demographic representing almost 75% of India’s one billion people—is roughly 58 years.

Poverty is a powerful force. It transforms even compassion into a prohibitively costly luxury. I kept reminding myself before I came that Bihar is India’s poorest state. It strikes me today how hard of a superlative that is to truly fathom.
..

Originally written in June 2003
Full travelogues: http://www.sdshah.com/soapbox/travelogues.html

cause and effect

There’s a chapter called “Rebellion” in book five of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, in which Ivan, one of the title characters, explains to his brother Alyosha why he cannot accept God’s world. It’s a masterfully written chapter in a brilliant novel, one I have spent countless nights contemplating and arguing with friends over. If you haven’t already, I urge you to read both the chapter and the novel, since any attempt I make to paraphrase it could never do it justice; but for the sake of discussion, here goes anyway.

Ivan, a tortured, rational intellectual, is talking to his compassionate, deeply religious brother, Alyosha, a novice monk, about reconciling the suffering of innocents with the existence of God. He recounts a recent story he read in the newspaper about a child of five who was beaten, thrashed, and kicked by her parents for no reason, then locked up at night outside in the cold and frost. Moreover, when she didn’t ask to be taken out to go to the bathroom, her own mother smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement. Evoking an image that has stayed with me since the first time I read it, Ivan asks his brother:

"Can you understand why a little creature, who can't even understand what's done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her?"

In his next story, Ivan recalls a tale of an aristocratic retired general in the days of the feudal system in Russia. He owned property with roughly two thousand serfs and had kennels of hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys, all mounted, and in uniform. As Ivan explains:

“One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and hurt the paw of the general's favorite hound. 'Why is my favorite dog lame?' He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog's paw. 'So you did it.' The general looked the child up and down. 'Take him.' He was taken -- taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his dependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy, autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... 'Make him run,' commands the general. 'Run! Run!' shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... 'At him!' yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's eyes!”

What could the boy ever have done to deserve such a fate? Ivan uses the stories to illustrate his point; he simply cannot reconcile the existence of suffering among innocents with the existence of a just God. He rejects the notion that there is some higher truth, some eternal, unknowable harmony in the universe at work that justifies everything.

“If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It's beyond all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their fathers' crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow up; he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the universe it will be when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: 'Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.' When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, 'Thou art just, O Lord!' then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can't accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures.”

While he is on earth, he makes haste to take his own measures. Ivan’s argument in The Brothers Karamazov resonated with me when I first read the novel, and continues to today. While Dostoevsky writes about Christian beliefs, the ideas discussed are relevant to Jainism as well, and particularly to karma theory, which I admittedly have not studied in detail and do not understand well. While I do think I have a likely oversimplified understanding of the gist of karmic philosophy, I hope I will be called out if I make any inappropriate assumptions.

Karma theory, as I understand it, basically says that all effects can be traced to a particular cause. Our intentions, thoughts, and actions stay with us and impact our future situation, circumstance, and happiness. To quote a similar concept from the Bible, “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” We are thus required to take responsibility for our actions, and those who do right are rewarded, those who do wrong are punished. Sounds fair enough, right?

The catch, of course, is that karma transcends our lives and stays with us. As such, karma and reincarnation are companion doctrines. According to a literal interpretation of Jainism, karmas are invisible, fine particles of matter that surround us, like molecules of oxygen and nitrogen in the air we breathe, and our souls attract these karmas. Since our soul (atma) is our spiritual essence, its transmigration, complete with its accumulated karmas (both “bad” and “good”), into another, worldly life signals our rebirth.

But this is where I run into some philosophical problems. Karma theory, as I understand it, purportedly offers reconciliation between inequality, injustice, and suffering in our mundane lives with some larger sense of justice in the universal order. On the grand scale, all is just.

But I can’t help wondering: are the millions of slum dwellers in Mumbai—living in poverty, without toilets, running water, or electricity, without enough money to feed themselves or their children, and without access to any kind of health care—emblematic of the higher justice inherent in the universal order that governs our lives?

I’ve always been taught that the Jain response to these realities is to show compassion, which I have always strived to do. But what about the beliefs of our religion that seemingly validate these realities as somehow “justified”? Is a starving, destitute child in rural Botswana, orphaned by an AIDS epidemic that has infected a full third of her nation’s population, somehow responsible for having been born in such a situation? Karma theory, like Christianity here, requires faith in the greater, unfathomable harmony. Either everything is justified, all will be revealed, or both. At least at this point in my life, though, I find that explanation hard to accept.

With karma theory, there’s an implicit blame assigned for one’s misfortune. Ivan’s argument always comes to mind for me at this point. What does the innocent child have to do with any of that? How can she be made out to be guilty? How can she be made to suffer for the deeds of a past life to which she has no conscious connection?

I believe that I have a soul that is in fact transcendent, but I also know that I am ignorant of the deeds attached to it from previous lives. I don’t have dreams of past lives, and I’ve only ever been conscious of myself as myself in this life. Fundamentally, we are all “this-worldly,” and while on this earth, I feel compelled, like Ivan, to take my own measures. And by my “this-worldly” measure, a starving infant, dying an insufferable death from dehydration at the hands of cholera-induced diarrhea, while his mother cradles him helplessly, could never have deserved his fate.

Yes, I am distorting the question some with my examples by playing on emotions; how can you possibly say that a poor, dying child had it coming? But these scenarios are realities, and I cannot reconcile them by simply subscribing to karma theory. I don’t necessarily expect a good answer, but I certainly can’t accept what thus far seems a bad one.

I also feel like it’s particularly easy for us to accept karma theory without protest, since we have it so good. We are by and large well off, born into circumstances that don’t leave us in want of basic necessities like food, shelter, or health care. In many cases we are indeed blessed—with intelligence, wealth, education, and opportunities. So on the flip side of the implicit blame that I reject (assigned to those who are suffering), is the implicit sense of entitlement that we could conceivably feel for being in such a good situation. We must have done something right to be here. Well, I reject that, too. Most of us were born on third base; let’s not act like we hit a triple.

To both my mundane, rational mind and my spiritual, intuitive sense, there is only a seemingly arbitrary disparity between my privilege and so many others’ poverty. I can’t just chalk it up to karma and walk away whistling merrily. It’s troubling.

Faith is a fine line for me. I rely heavily on my spiritual convictions in my daily life, but they must make intuitive sense to me. I can always take responsibility for my own intentions, thoughts, and actions; it’s those that I’ve never been conscious of or associated with in any tangible way that I can’t. To expect others to bear that responsibility as a means of explaining their misfortune and suffering seems to me a rather facile and unfair way of justifying an otherwise frighteningly irrational phenomenon.

Originally written in February 2002 & published in "Young Minds," a magazine published by Young Jains of America (YJA) and the Federation of Jain Associations in North America (JAINA). Vol. 10, #1, Spring 2002.

bollywood review: k3g

There is clearly a different set of standards I use when watching Bollywood movies than for almost any other type of film. Bollywood movies, especially for ABCDs like myself, often seem ridiculously melodramatic, idealistic, and unbelievable, particularly when compared with most above average Hollywood films. Still, I watch them and generally enjoy them, even if I don’t always like to admit it. There’s a lyric in “Hey Jealousy,” by the Gin Blossoms that goes: “If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.” I guess that sums up my approach to these movies—as long as I don’t go in expecting a brilliantly innovative storyline, a suspenseful climax, or a compelling, thought-provoking cinematic masterpiece (and as long as I go to the bathroom beforehand), I can usually enjoy myself. And sometimes, I’m even pleasantly surprised (e.g. Dil Chahta Hai).

Cast-wise, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham (aka K3G, in the wonderful desi tradition of seizing upon every possible opportunity to create a new acronym) is Bollywood’s answer to Ocean’s Eleven. It boasts 6 of Hindi cinema’s biggest stars: Amitabh Bachchan, Shah Rukh Khan, Hrithick Roshan, Kajol, Kareena Kapoor, Rani Mukherjee, and the return to the screen of Amitabh Bachchan’s real life wife, Jaya, in only their second ever film together.

As even the most diehard fan will tell you, originality, especially of plot, is not Bollywood cinema’s forte, and K3G (which, translated, means “sometimes happy, sometimes sad”) is no exception. This movie has all the usual plotlines: forbidden love, the constraints of family tradition and arranged marriage, and hidden identities, and weaves them together into a story that takes a Bollywood-standard three and a half hours to tell.

Yashovardhan Raichand (Amitabh Bachchan), as many Bollywood father characters are, is a successful Indian businessman who simply falls into the generic category of “globally important captain of industry,” which I suppose is all the detail necessary for explaining his character’s motivations. It’s a strong, patriarchal role that Amitabh plays often (Mohabbatein, Ek Rishtaa), and well, though I’m still not liking the gray beard with the black hair, it spooks me out. He and his wife Nandini (Jaya Bachchan) have raised their sons Rahul (Shah Rukh Khan) and Rohan (Hrithik Roshan) in privilege, but while always showering them with love and affection; in short, theirs is a storybook, “perfect” family, complete with mansion, helicopter, and private boarding school educations.

The Bollywood vision of contemporary Indian families seems to increasingly focus on the elite, multi-millionaires with their glorious mansions and Western-educated children, the latter of which often provide the convenient plot segue that enables the film to move to a London where most people speak Hindi.

A great early scene in the movie has Yash getting ready to leave for work, the picture of a high-powered businessman, dressed in his suit, barking orders and in a hurry. Before he goes, however, he calls his wife into the room, because he needs her to tie his tie. In a delightful sequence, she approaches him, and without breaking stride, steps onto a chair in order to ascend to the proper height to be face to face with her husband and complete her daily ritual. The scene illustrates well the dynamic between the two, and works because of their chemistry.

Rahul’s discovery at age 8 that he was adopted (a convenient way to solve the problem that Shah Rukh Khan and Hrithick Roshan bear absolutely no resemblance to one another) is the source of his especially deep devotion and gratitude to his parents. Yash has always stressed the importance of family tradition to his sons, and as a respected “captain of industry,” image and status are everything. Nandini, a strong, silent, doting mother, shares a special bond with her eldest son (Rahul always teases his younger brother Rohan that their mother loves him more), but Yash’s wishes are the ones that Rahul always follows, for he reveres his father.

Then comes the forbidden love part that tears the family apart and drives the plot forward. Rahul, the son of an extremely successful and wealthy (not to mention globally important) entrepreneur, falls in love with the beautiful, charming daughter of an equally successful, wealthy, and globally important entrepreneur and they get married, making everyone involved happy and perpetuating the wealth and status among a small, aristocratically exclusive circle of social elites. Ok, that’s not true. There’s not enough for a three and a half hour movie in that storyline. Although the socioeconomically equal girl does exist (played by Rani Mukherjee in a cameo), and is the one Yash wants his son to marry, Rahul instead falls in love with the spirited Anjali (Kajol), from the poor Delhi neighborhood of Chandni Chowk. That’s more like it.

Kajol’s performance as Anjali stands out among the star-studded cast as the highlight of the movie. She is feisty, passionate, and beautiful. Everything from her dialogue delivery to her facial expressions embodies her character, and the audience sees immediately why Rahul falls so desperately in love with her and risks estrangement from a family he cherishes so deeply for her (not an easy task). Using the tried and true combination of Shah Rukh and Kajol (the same duo that propelled the enormous success of DDLJ and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai), and even the names Rahul and Anjali for their characters, the main love story works quite well. The two have a great, convincing chemistry on screen, and the scenes in which they banter with each other were my favorites.

Yash, however, reacts predictably by forbidding their marriage, and then disowns his eldest son when Rahul disobeys him and marries Anjali anyway. Mother and wife Nandini is devastated, torn between her eldest son and her husband, while little brother Roshan, played by a chubby child actor in the early part of the movie (i.e., the first hour) is too young to understand (and considering his size, probably too preoccupied with ladoos to catch on). Rahul and Anjali move to England, taking Anjali’s younger sister Pooja (Kareena Kapoor) with them, and Rahul is forced to establish himself on his own in a new country. Not surprisingly, he does so immediately, and that consequently allows filming to proceed in another gorgeous home, this time in London.

Roshan, having grown into Hrithick Roshan in a highly abrupt and suspect transformation from boy to man (think “Chunk” from The Goonies growing into Russell Crowe’s character in Gladiator), and having become aware of Rahul’s estrangement from their father, makes it his mission to reunite his broken family. He travels to England, enlists the support of childhood friend Pooja, and manages to move in unrecognized as a guest into Rahul and Anjali’s house (this is the part that most requires the obligatory Bollywood suspension of disbelief in the interests of enjoying the movie).

A note about Kareena Kapoor. She seems right now to be the most popular, coveted Bollywood actress, landing all the top roles and adored by Indians, NRIs, and ABCDs alike. From her debut in Refugee back in the summer of 2000 until now, her popularity has shot up. I’d just like to go on record as saying that I think she’s awful, and I understand the praise she gets for being a great actress about as much as I understand the praise George W. Bush gets for being a great president—it makes absolutely no sense to me, and when I hear it, I feel like I must be missing something. Her role in this movie is absolutely obnoxious, and the presence of her character single-handedly lowered my opinion of this movie by a full Thum Up out of four. She plays an insufferable, spoiled, superficial lush, wearing too much makeup and micro miniskirts in what is perhaps some ridiculously misguided portrayal of what Indians in India perceive of Indian girls in the West. To top it off, I just think she’s a horrible actress. It’s one thing to play an obnoxious character well, but she succeeds in playing an obnoxious character obnoxiously. She’s the antithesis of Kajol in the movie, which, as it turns out, is probably the highest compliment I can pay Kajol’s performance.

Anyway, as you may have guessed, the plan works, and the waterworks, continuing sporadically until the end of the movie, begin: Roshan reveals his identity to his brother, and after a tearful embrace convinces Rahul to come home to try to make amends with their father. Several emotional scenes ensue, and there is a glorious, teary-eyed reconciliation…and they lived happily ever after.

Overall, Kareena Kapoor’s abhorrent character aside, I enjoyed the movie quite a bit. Though I often write about them sarcastically, many of the emotional scenes in the movie are well done, and the chemistry between both Rahul and Anjali and Yash and Nandini is wonderful (sorry, Hrithick didn’t have much to work with, though they should’ve known better, since the previous attempt at a Kareena Kapoor-Hrithick Roshan pairing, Yaadein, was one of the worst Bollywood movies I’ve ever seen). Kajol is outstanding as Anjali, there are some great dance sequences, several references to recent Bollywood movies (Hum Aapke Hain Koun and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai in particular) that enthusiasts will enjoy, and a cast that does not end up disappointing, which is quite an accomplishment when considering its star-studded composition. Three Thums Up out of four.
--
Originally written in February 2002 & published on thesala.com.
http://thesala.com/episode05/10.html

religion, spirituality, and intution

When most of us hear someone talking in public about the value of religion in their lives, especially if it’s not our religion, we usually roll our eyes, avoid getting involved in the conversation, and file them away under “hysterical religious zealot” for future reference—they’re probably trying to convert people.

It’s difficult to discuss religion or spirituality in a rational way unless you are satirizing it, which is why many intellectual discussions of the subject tend to resort to scorn. But the inherent difficulty—and hence rarity of serious discussion—lies in addressing a necessarily irrational concept within a logical construct. Religion is not rational; whenever it tries to be, it usually fails miserably and ends up being mercilessly lampooned for its hypocrisy and illogical rationalizations.

Religion and spirituality are fundamentally about justifying the irrational; about trying to gain a sense of security within an unavoidably insecure existence; about finding the faith to walk blindfolded through the minefields that are our lives. There’s nothing rational about it.

If someone were to ask me, I would not describe myself as a religious person. In the same breath, though, I would probably contend that I am spiritual. Religious entails religion, which connotes ritual and dogma, which I shy away from. To me, spirituality is much more personal—almost exclusively so. Whereas religion is institutionalized and thus often static, spirituality, at an individual, intuitive level, can always be evolving.

I’ve been raised loosely following Jainism. I say loosely because I’m not particularly well versed in Jain history, philosophy, or ritual. This is not because I ever rebelled against it or rejected it when I was younger, I just never really learned much about it growing up.

Jainism is not a common religion as it is. In India, there are only roughly 4.5 million Jains, and in North America maybe 70,000. It is seen as a strict, austere religion, even in India, and self-denial often plays a major role in its practice. Nonviolence (ahimsa) is the most fundamental concept, and Jains must show compassion for all living beings. All other beliefs, more or less, radiate from this central principle.

For most of my childhood, though, the primary manifestation of this compassion was in our strict vegetarianism; I really didn’t know how else I was supposed to act differently from others. So being a Jain basically meant eating a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch when I was in grade school while my friends ate turkey sandwiches and hamburgers.

I grew up in a community and within a school system that was almost exclusively white and Christian. Among all the red-blooded, meat-eating, church-going kids I grew up and went to school with, I was a dark-skinned, vegetarian, godless anomaly. And while this environment was never outwardly hostile towards my religious beliefs (beliefs that were always rather nebulous to me, anyhow), I usually kept them to myself unless someone asked about them—usually a mother of one of my friends, whose house I had gone over for dinner, after I announced that I was vegetarian and would be fine just eating the salad, thanks. Even then, half the time I’d make up answers to more specific questions I didn’t know, fairly confident that with such an obscure religion, no one could possibly call my bluff. And so began my invention of my own version of Jainism.

As I grew older, I often found myself troubled by my value system, mainly because I remained unclear on what it really was as dictated by my religion. I never took matters of conscience lightly, and I often agonized over whether I should feel guilty about joining in on certain “normal” adolescent behaviors with my friends: your garden-variety peer pressure anxiety. I realized that it wasn’t a very Jain society I was growing up in.

But my intuitive conscience, whatever its source, continued to win out, and I continued to feel more and more different from most of my friends as a result; not because of anything I did, but rather what I didn’t do. Whenever asked to justify my decisions, though, I ran into the problem of rationalizing again. I’m still terrible at explaining why I don’t drink, for example; it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, and no matter how hard I try, it sounds overzealous. So the easy (though not entirely accurate) response is that “it’s a religious choice,” because Jainism does forbid drinking. In reality, it’s less Jainism than instinct.

Jainism—or at least my version of it—has become increasingly intuitive to me. Practically speaking, I usually cannot fast as much, or be as strict about my diet as Jainism calls for; I cannot avoid killing insects when I’m driving on the freeway; I cannot go to a Jain temple to pray and meditate as often as would be desirable. Instead, I use the framework as a guide, but interpret the specifics as I intuitively see fit. I follow the spirit of the religion insofar as I understand (and occasionally invent) it, which is why I prefer the label of spiritual to religious.

But I don’t have a static set of beliefs, which is why I don’t think I fully embody Jain beliefs or would fully embody any other religion’s beliefs (I have the same problem when people ask me my political affiliation). Jainism has undeniably been a—perhaps, the—major influence on my value system, but I do have personal reactions that I suspect are sometimes hypocritical to Jain Dharma. And my beliefs are still evolving. Instead of having to constantly reinterpret a religious dogma to avoid a crisis in faith, I would rather rely on my own personal intuition—influenced, but not dictated, by religious beliefs—when evaluating something I find myself ambivalent about. Is animal testing justifiable? Do I support military aggression under certain circumstances?

When I feel lost, I can usually find guidance through introspection; when I have trouble understanding events in my life, my first instinct is to seek answers within myself. And in truth, I still make the most important decisions of my life intuitively, often irrespective of how rational they are.

In 1964, Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, in the Jacobellis vs. Ohio decision, wrote about defining the term ‘hard-core pornography’: “I shall not today attempt to define further the kinds of material I understand to be embraced within that shorthand description; and perhaps I could never succeed in intelligibly doing so. But I know it when I see it.”

Though admittedly a questionable analogy to use, that’s pretty much how I feel about my version of Jainism. I know it when I see it. As a consequence, I also feel much less like a hypocrite as I attempt to embody my beliefs, whatever they are.
--

Originally written in December 2001 & published on thesala.com.
http://thesala.com/episode04/01.html

a rhyme to fill (a congratulatory ode)

Subject: [p-sat] a rhyme to fill (a congratulatory ode)
Date: 2 Nov 2001 17:54:54 -0800
From: sdshah@alumni.princeton.edu
To: psat@princeton.edu

'twas a night in november,
the year was 2k1
I was sitting at work
the week almost done

started reminiscing 'bout times
the ones from past years
of driving in vans
and bowing to cheers

of spending all our time
engrossed in a play
writing one-liners
and rehearsing all day

there were desis, and chases,
the birds and the bees
dances and fights
from our hands and our knees

there was feasting on donuts
and sleeping on floors
racing in shopping carts
and banging on doors

there were flat tires in ohio
in some no name town
there was falling glass in rhode island
leaving us bloody at brown

wachusetts was lonely
MIT was unreal
michigan was crowded
but I think ivanhoe was ideal

some crowds laughed uneasily
finding us somewhat precarious
one crowd had cocktails
making everything hilarious

others spoke afterwards
of being genuinely inspired
praising us for the poignancy
beneath our satires

still others were offended
by our presumptions and gall
accusing us of stereotyping
and generally dropping the ball

but thespians we weren't
for playwriting was new
directing was foreign
and our tech skills were few

still interviews were postponed
and school work cast aside
to deal with the drama
for the sake of p-sat pride

we were premeds on stage
alongside fobs who were fighting
we were economists dancing
beneath bollywood lighting

the first and the oldest
south asian theater troupe
composed fully of students
unlike any other group

and so we remain
touring with 'chasing anjali'
following two original successes
we're back for number three

so with nostalgia and regard
and our first trilogy complete
congratulations are in order
for the memories are sweet
--

congratulations, p-sat, on tour #3, and making us all proud.
love,
sachin

stochastic

Note: This piece is written from the point of view of several different people with whom the author has spoken in recent months.

There was a time, once, when I believed in god. In this benevolent being that was looking out for us all. Someone who was responsible for the beginning, someone who would see us through to the end. He justified the irrational, explained the otherwise inexplicable, and gave meaning to daily events. But that was before the Big Bang.

On July 17, 1996, the sky exploded. It bellowed out fire and volume into the night and resonated for what seemed like an eternity. I collapsed to my knees, covering my bowed head with both arms and sobbing hysterically as hot shards of red debris rained down on me.

Maybe there is no meaning. Maybe things just happen. Maybe our lives are simply a series of random stochastic events.

After it happened I could either believe in god and hold myself somehow responsible, or abandon a concept that had abandoned me. I could no longer reconcile my experiences with the idea of a benevolent god. I was already devastated with grief; I refused to feel guilt as well.

Was it a bomb? Or maybe a missile? Some even suggested a meteorite! In the end, the official conclusion was mechanical failure. A short circuit most likely ignited the fuel-air mixture in the center fuel tank.

The truth is, they have no fucking idea. That should’ve been the official conclusion. The mechanical failure explanation, even if it is the most likely, is also the least objectionable. And for those in charge of the investigation, it was the lowest maintenance account. It required essentially no further action.

At the same time, though, it’s perhaps the most disconcerting. The officially determined cause of this catastrophe was flimsy at best. There was no Timothy McVeigh to execute here, no Osama bin Laden to hunt. At least the capture of criminals deemed responsible for such tragedies gives us some comfort. It allows us to believe we have eliminated the source; that we have somehow defeated the enemy and thus purged ourselves of the threat. Having been reassured in this manner, we are able to resume living our lives, feeling secure.

Instead, the culprit in this case was most likely a random spark in an obscure part of a mammoth jet. The best that could be offered to the public here, in the absence of a definitive perpetrator, were assurances that measures had been taken that may or may not correct the problem that may or may not have caused the plane to crash.

In the end, regardless of the plausibility of any given explanation, it was a random stochastic event. My life was devastated by a random stochastic event.

We seek reasons to lead us into believing that these catastrophes are preventable. If we take the necessary precautions and rigorously adhere to certain procedures, everything will be fine. This is more than a tendency; it is a knee-jerk reaction.

Columbine happened, and we all said “well, look at the music they were listening to, look at the websites they were visiting, where were the parents?” as if it was a foreseeable and thus—most importantly—preventable incident. When a Georgia man bludgeoned his wife and two children to death, and then went on a shooting spree at two day-trading firms in Atlanta the next day, killing 9 more and wounding 13, we said, “the stress of day-trading got to him, the markets were down, he lost a lot of money, he snapped.” Every effect must have a logical cause.

If something goes wrong, someone must be held accountable, something must explain it. In retrospect, there were always blatant oversights; in the aftermath, there are always justified outcries. How could this have happened? We identify a reason for the calamity, and then we fix it. The world is, after all, perfectible, right?

Or is it? On July 17,1996, I was introduced to the irrational. It exists. Though events in our lives regularly remind us of its presence, we usually close our eyes and plug our ears and hum to ourselves instead. We rationalize the irrational away. It’s far too scary to acknowledge if you don’t have to.

It’s true: if Osama bin Laden did not exist before September 11th, we would’ve created him. The very existence of the man responsible for our fear since that day will allow us to feel secure again once he is taken care of. Just think how much worse it would be for us all without him.
--
Originally written in September 2001 & published on thesala.com.
http://www.thesala.com/episode03/10.html

paranoia (excerpt)

viii.

Enter Alex and Dexter

Jake – Hey guys, long time no see! What are you doing he—wait, you guys know each other?

Dexter – Oh. Yeah, we go way back.

Jake – Really? I had no idea.

Alex – Yeah, well small world.

Jake – I’ll say. So what’s going on?

Dexter – Well, funny you ask, Jake.

Alex – Maybe you should sit down.

Jake – What is it?

Dexter – We, uh, have to tell you something.

Jake – Ok.

Alex – I’m not quite sure how to explain this, because it’s kind of—

Dexter – Complicated.

Alex – Right.

Jake – Ok…Well?

Dexter – It’s actually pretty funny.

Alex – (to Dexter) Well, maybe to us. But it won’t be to him.

Dexter – Yeah, I guess you’re right.

Jake – Are you going to tell me or what?

Alex – Jake—(deep breath) Jake, we’ve been meeting.

Jake – Who? Meeting about what?

Alex – Us.

Dexter – About you.

Jake – I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense.

Alex – Jake, let’s face it. You’re a disaster.

Jake – What?

Dexter – You expect too much.

Alex – You’re too demanding.

Jake – What are you talking about?

Alex – (shrugs shoulders) Uh, how do I say this.

Dexter – The paper.

Alex – Oh yeah! (takes out sheet of crumpled paper from his pocket and starts to read) Let’s see…“you’re self-centered, oversensitive, and unreasonable.”

Jake – What are you saying? What are you reading?

Dexter – Jake, we’ve been meeting.

Jake – Guys—

Alex – Thursday nights.

Jake – (agitatedly confused) What? Who?

Alex – Well, a bunch of people.

Dexter – Who all know you.

Jake – What’re you meeting about?

Alex – Well, lots of things, really.

Jake – Alex—

Dexter – Uh, you, mainly. We meet to talk about you.

Jake – What do you mean you meet to talk about me?

Alex – Uh, well, every Thursday, we get together and talk about you.

Dexter – Behind your back.

Jake – Guys, this isn’t funny. Cut the fucking bullshit.

Alex – Yeah, your analyst said you might react like this.

Dexter – Oh yeah, that’s right! He’s good.

Jake – My analyst?

Alex – Yeah. Theodore comes, too.

Dexter – To our meetings.

Alex – He warned us about your irrational temper.

Jake – My irrational temper? What the fuck are you doing meeting with my analyst?

Dexter – Renee invited him to come.

Alex – To our meetings.

Jake – Renee? My ex-girlfriend, Renee?

Dexter – Yeah, that’s the one.

Jake – Ren—Renee is meeting with my analyst?

Alex – Well, we’re all meeting. Not just Renee and Theodore.

Jake – Who else?!

Alex – Lots of people.

Dexter – Lisa, for instance.

Jake – My girlfriend??

Alex – Yeah. She and Renee get along great.

Jake – What the fuck is going on?

Alex – Oh, right. I knew this was going to difficult.

Dexter – It’s complicated.

Alex – Right.

Jake – What are these meetings?

Alex – Ok, let’s try this again.

Dexter – Just stick to the paper.

Alex – Right. So basically (reading again from crumpled paper) “we feel that you are self-absorbed and have too grandiose a sense of self-importance.”

Jake – No I don’t!—what are you reading?

Dexter – Oh, those are just some notes.

Alex – So we remember what we’re supposed to tell you.

Jake – What you’re supposed to tell me?

Dexter – On the group’s behalf.

Jake – What group?!?

Alex – Aren’t you paying attention?

Dexter – Listen up, Jake, this is important.

Alex – Yeah. (continues reading) “You also seem to believe that you are ‘special’
and unique, and can only be understood by other ‘special’ or high-status people.”

Jake – What are these meetings about!?

Dexter – Well, basically we meet to talk about you.

Jake – Behind my back, yes, you said that. But why??

Alex – Well, basically we’re sick of your shit.

Jake – What shit?

Alex – (reading again) Uh, “you frequently show arrogant, haughty behavior and attitudes and are often envious of others or think they are envious of you. ”

Jake – That’s not tru—would you stop reading!?!

Alex – I just want to get it right.

Dexter – We spent the entire meeting last time making sure we got this worded right.

Jake tears the paper out of Alex’s hand.

Jake – Without reading from this goddamned paper, tell me what these meetings are about!

Alex – (agitated) See, this is exactly what we mean. Every month we consider disbanding, but every month you justify our meetings with your continued—

Dexter – Pomposity and self-importance.

Alex – Exactly!

Jake – Every month? How long have you been meeting?

Alex – (counting on his fingers, then looking up at Dexter) About 4 years now?

Dexter – Yeah, it’ll be 4 years in March.

Jake – What have you been doing for 4 years!?

Alex – Well, basically, we devise strategies.

Jake – Strategies?

Dexter – Ways to keep you mired in perpetual uncertainty.

Jake – I don’t believe this.

Dexter – Well, it’s true.

Alex – We all conspire to keep you frustrated and discontent.

Jake – You guys are full of shit.

Dexter – You know how Lisa keeps refusing to, you know—

Jake – That’s none of your goddamned—

Alex – You’re wondering does she not love you enough? Is she not attracted to you? Is she justified in needing more time?

Jake – Alex, I’m warning you—

Dexter – Well, none of that’s really the issue.

Alex – We all decided that she should keep saying no just to play on your insecurities.

Dexter – But take my word for it, she’s dynamite!

Alex – Oh yeah.

Jake – What?! Fuck you!

Dexter – And remember how no one invited you to the Super Bowl party at Ken’s house?

Jake – Get the fuck out of here!

Alex – Were we mad at you for something? Did we not want you there? Are we really even your friends?

Jake does not respond.

Dexter – All part of the plan.

Jake – What plan?!

Alex – We’ve made a pledge, Jake.

Dexter – We’re neither going to love you as much as you’d like nor cut you adrift.

Jake – Wh—why!?

Alex – The truth is, nobody really likes you.

Dexter – Especially me. I hate you.
--

Excerpt from 'paranoia,' a one act play originally written in March 2001.

amplified silence

Arms folded and scared, I kneeled over the back of the couch and stared out the window into the darkness. No headlights. For at least six blocks down the street, there was no approaching car, no signal of a possible return.

It had been snowing. Hard. The roads, they had said on the news, had been "assaulted." The temperatures had dropped still further. Beware the black ice, they warned, showing only a glimpse of the 36-car pile-up on the Interstate. Eastbound, just west of Grand River. There were several fatalities.

Still no headlights. Oh God. Come on, please. The snow had stopped outside the window. It was, in fact, eerily still now. Dark, but only as dark as it can get with an 18-inch blanket of glittering white draped upon the lawns, streets, and sidewalks, illuminated by the waning crescent of the moon. The bare branches of the trees shivered in the wind, sagging wearily under the weight of the night, the gravity of the sky. The houses sat stoically like toy soldiers, frozen at attention; they held their chimneys upright like bayonets, unfazed by the bitter cold.

Sitting next to the warmest heat vent could momentarily temper my anxiety. But now the furnace groaned wearily and shut down from the basement, hushing with one command the entire house. Goosebumps rose on my arms and legs; the silence was suddenly amplified; my apprehension grew exponentially. I had turned off the television twenty minutes ago, according to the clock. It had in fact been much longer.

...

Hope flickered in pairs down the street. A set of headlights approached gradually, fishtailing helplessly between the curbs. My eyes focused intently on the strengthening glow. "Come on," I whispered desperately, "come on." Three blocks before my house they turned cautiously into an unfamiliar driveway (thankful to be home, no doubt) and vanished. Again there was only darkness as far as I could see.

My urgency intensified. They were now two full hours late. My eyes began to water dejectedly. I fought it angrily, the hollow lump in my throat, the scorned tears on my cheek. I hated myself for crying, for not showing the proper courage. I scolded myself harshly and hastily wiped my face dry with the heel of my palm.

...

I began to imagine my mother's last thoughts, her last words, as she lay crumpled beneath the shattered glass and cold steel, shivering and bleeding helplessly. The ambulances wouldn't be able to get to her in time. The crimson streaks in the snowy embankment would mark the site of the wreck for the rest of the night and into the morning until the sky opened up again, callously whiting out the remaining evidence and moving forward like the rush-hour traffic. The roads would be plowed and salted by then.

I would get a call from the hospital. "I'm sorry, son… We did everything we could," and the phone would fall from my hand as I crumbled to my knees in disbelief, hands clenching fistfuls of hair. "Hello?" they would call from the receiver. But I would not hear. My eyes would be tightly shut; my head would be shaking in denial. I would remain there on the floor until someone came and found me.

...

I began to pace in the hallway. Past the kitchen, past the stairs, past the bathroom, into my bedroom and, after a momentary glance out towards the shadowy white corners of my backyard, back the same way. There was nothing else I could do.

My eyes struggled drowsily to stay open, but the prospect of falling asleep terrified me. What if I was to wake up the next day at noon and again hear only stillness?

I would look anxiously out the window at the undisturbed driveway. No tire tracks. The garage would be sealed shut now by 20 inches of snow. My stomach would churn mercilessly as I scrambled upstairs, nauseous with panic; the lump would be rapidly reasserting itself in my throat; the tears would be streaming uncontrollably down my face. I would turn the corner into the master bedroom and stand fearfully in the open doorway, finding the bed neatly made and empty, just as it was last night. And it will have been over twelve hours since their scheduled return. What would I do?

...

The furnace restarted with a grunt from the basement. The heat vent again warmed my bare feet, breathing gently into the room. My eyes first wavered, then closed involuntarily for several minutes, sinking slowly into darkness.

I emerged momentarily, dazedly rolling my eyes in an arc from the far corner of the floor past the painting on the adjacent wall and onto the ceiling directly above me, which faded magically from white to dark, taking me under once again.

Images rushed in from all sides like water until I was immersed. I descended gently until I reached equilibrium, and, suspended within, felt weightless, consumed.
It was ecstasy, the pure submission to it. It did not occur to me in that final moment of semi-consciousness to fight it any further. I happily surrendered, gaining composure in my oblivion.

But even that was ephemeral. I soon found myself scrambling frantically in a mist, helpless. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh please, God," I cried desperately. I looked up apprehensively and saw the plane. An explosion bellowed out fire and volume into the night sky and resonated for what seemed like an eternity. I collapsed to my knees, covering my bowed head with both arms and sobbing hysterically as hot shards of red debris rained down on me.

My face was scalded; my head pulsated with pain. The anguish and the guilt crippled me. I was left with nothing. I could not stop sobbing.

I thought for sure that I would drown on the floor of this raging sea, suffocated by heat and grief, engulfed in despair.

...

The sound of a distant echo lifted me from the bottom. The cool touch of a palm on my forehead extinguished much of the fire, and I again felt suspended, weightless, consumed. I remember catching a second fleeting glimpse of the ceiling.

Only moments later I awoke to the tear-blurred sight of my undisturbed backyard, glittering in the sunlight, and the sound of a teapot, clattering in the sink. According to the clock, however, it had been much longer.

Originally written in October 1998.

out of the question

He knew she was coming. He wanted to be ready; he wanted her to see him the way he wanted to be seen. The moments when he was vulnerable to being caught off-guard worried him; he obsessed over them in an attempt to minimize their frequency. He had conceived a notion of his 'element,' and it was in the epitome of that element that he wanted to be seen, to be recognized, to be remembered.

He sat ponderously, pen in hand, in a premeditated pose as he awaited her arrival. He knew precisely what she would see when she looked at him; he had painstakingly made sure his appearance was precisely as he wanted it. The anticipation of her arrival quickened his pulse now; he took a deep breath and looked down as he cautiously checked his hair with his hand once more in a nervous habit.

The book in his hands offered him distraction, but only in small doses. His eyes kept darting periodically from the page to the door, to the window, for a glimpse, a sound, anything that would signal (or even suggest) her impending arrival. The door creaked (it was not her); someone coughed (it was not her); a whisper from the corner (still not her). He kept himself readied for her emergence; it was critical for him to maintain his focus lest hebe caught unaware.

At last, she appeared. He recognized her form, her demeanor, peripherally; her black hair curled slightly up and out at the bottom, as it dangled just above her shoulders. Her stride was neither hesitant nor confident, but it was closer to the latter than the former when her arms were folded across her chest as they were now.

She had an alert look to her, as always, as if she had just taken a cold shower, fresh and attentive. And her eyes! How he longed to be granted some sort of permission to gaze deeply into her eyes for as long as he pleased. A photograph might even do; just an image of her face, her smile, for him to examine shamelessly at his any whim. He suspected that her eyes were brown, but he couldn't be certain. Eyecontact, especially extended eye contact, was dangerously engaging.

She sat down near him. He took a casual glance about as she did, inhaling nasally (unnecessarily), with a meticulously calculated nonchalance. He strove (successfully) to just barely take notice of her arrival; acknowledgement had been out of the question. He felt empowered in his silence; his stature was heightened when he fell within the unknown. Here he could be anything and everything to her. His strength was in his possibilities as she perceived them, and he clutched to these for security, relentlessly denying the prospect of any further action that could elucidate his real character and thus threaten to undermine his assumed status.

He wanted her to look at him. He wanted her to wonder what he was thinking. He wondered what she thought he was thinking. He was, after careful preparation, a stoic there, with his face, with his aloof stare, his distracted eyes. He was the embodiment of non-concern for her situation. He was truly engrossed in his question, agonizing over the scenarios, the mechanisms, and the possible solutions in his mind. His look of determination, he thought (hoped) was surely intriguing, his iron will certainly admirable. He was perplexed (though only momentarily, of course); enveloped in astate of contemplation. He was an enigma facing one himself.

He was putting on a show. He sat in her presence distractedly for the next two hours, discretely sneaking peripheral glances as to maintain his relative disinterest. After this time, however, she gently closed her book, pondered the back cover a moment, and then got up and walked out, followed closely by his gaze. He was torturing himself with thiscomplicity.

He had taken a detour through the alley this afternoon, in order to pass by a bench where she probably would not be. But 'probably would not be' had significantly better odds than 'had never been,' so it was only natural he make the trip, if for nothing more than an outside chance. It was the anticipation that motivated him; it had to be. He was too great a coward to live in any particular moment; that implied present tense. Memory and anticipation were his realms; past and future only. Realization, the moment, was uncharted territory; it lacked such critical words as 'safety,' 'certainty,' and 'control.' It was, therefore, out of the question.

This afternoon, though, he had been faced with the moment, for there she was from a distance: a flash, the unexpected. He was ecstatic. This meant a glimpse—he could see her, and she him. He was well prepared to be seen (for the outside chance). He had rehearsed potential passing remarks, potential conversation starters, and even extensions for possible 'awkward silences' that could eventually provedisastrous. <>But when the moment came, it paralyzed him yet again. A feverish wave suddenly flushed across his face, beads of sweat appeared on the back of his neck, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ear. He became unnerved and scrambled to alter his plans.

He found himself walking by in a pre-constructed daze, back within his comfort zone. He stared distractedly down as he passed by, (as if he hadn't had even the slightest notion of her presence there!) as if concentrating on the stains of the leaves that were once on the sidewalk, how they shadowed in crimson and mahogany the ones that were there now. His attraction, he decided while berating himself for his latest failure, would have to be his mystery.

He was conscious of each time he passed in front of her window and acted as though she were gazing out at him every time. Each separate time, he reasoned, there was a chance that she could be looking out (seeing him). So he carefully gathered himself before each pass and made himself into the person he wanted her to see. God forbid sherecognize him (remember him!) any other way.

He had never met the girl. He had not even heard her speak. He was merely enraptured by her aura, her look. She was someone intriguing; this he knew (from her silence, from her mystique). He could not rationalize it; it was an instinctual obsession. Soon, though, he was going to meet this girl; he was going gather up the courage to introduce himself. Very soon. Tomorrow, in fact. Each successive failure, though, forced him to postpone, and each day postponed, he knew, was one less day he would have left. His window was progressively closing as his urgency intensified.

What was it, he wondered, that restrained him? It too, whatever it was, was strangely (cruelly) fundamental, instinctual. Why this paradox, this seemingly programmed dilemma? Look, he seemed to be told, but do not touch! Which impulse would he be forced to deny (toovercome)?

It was up to him. She would never (could never) take the initiative herself, this he knew. Exclusively from her demeanor (her walk), he knew it would've been out of character for her. He already had a well-constructed notion of the type of person she would be. For him, it could be (would have to be) completely natural, nonchalant, to introduce himself, to take the initiative. In fact, he would almost be doing her a favor. It would, in any case, be progress; a move from the status quo.

His one attempt at an introduction (at acknowledgement) had surprised them both. It was met with a momentarily startled look, then a hurried reciprocation, as clumsy as its unplanned stimulus; and that was it. Though it was far from ideal, it was certainly fitting.

He could not help but to analyze the one encounter. She probably had not expected anymore than to simply walk by, focusing on the ground as usual, and nothing more. She had no reason to expect any different; there had been no prior interaction between them, and there was no sign (sigh!) that there would be anytime in the perceivable future. What other reaction could be hoped for?

Had she thought anymore of it? Had she ever looked at him as more than just background, a passer-by, an extra? He feared (hopelessly) that she had not. And hence the apprehension seeded within his fascination (but the status quo simply would not do).

He sat quietly (thoughtfully) at a bench of his own now, preoccupied rather than distracted. He was relaxed, mindless, (disorganized!) just before he realized that she was about to pass by.

Again, he found himself flushed with chaos and reaction, the realization of which simultaneously triggered an instant of utter exasperation. On her approach, she looked over at him (he sensed it), and there was an ideal moment (frozen) for him to establish eye contact, for a smile (for success!). But almost automatically, before he even realizedwhat he was doing, he began (and continued) to stare profoundly at his blank notebook page, lost in his hastily reconstructed, disgustingly artificial enigma as her eyes left him; acknowledgement had been out of the question.

why i write

a brief letter to a friend

written inside a card, with a black and white landscape, and the
following caption:

"do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?"
--marcel marceau

the mime said it best. perhaps it is useless, then, to write inside this card in an attempt to explain something that is better understood when left unsaid. but I don't know if I'm ready to accept that on faith quite yet. so on to the attempt to say what doesn't (or shouldn't) need saying.

wait. this first about my motives. maybe I want to say it, or to write it, because it's so fragile. vivid right now, yes, but fragile nonetheless. so maybe I am writing it for future reference. but that's what frustrates me (and, odds are, you, too). trying to capture something that always seems to elude me. the best I can do, it seems, is to be able to bear witness to it; to know I am in the moment. it is an intrinsic, wholly indescribable (as far as language will allow) essence. and here's the hitch: I don't know if I want to capture it. I always find myself (however futile the struggle is) trying (and wholeheartedly at that). but inevitably it is an attempt that ends (and, I feel now, rightfully so) in failure. coming close is maybe the more approachable (if you'll pardon the word choice) goal.

so maybe I'll spend my life as an asymptote. always coming closer to my limit (pure and complete expression?), but never quite arriving.

there were times when I thought, ignorantly (blissfully), that I had done it. that I had accomplished my unattainable goal. but that was naïve. the reason I thought that I had done it, I think, was a result of mistaken identity. I only 'captured' what I had, I know now, after the original and consuming sense of it had passed. so, when I think about it now, I wonder if what I had really 'captured' had even really been what I originally set out searching for. there was certainly something there before me on the page; but it was not what I had intended it to be. I think it would've been worrisome, in retrospect, had I actually done what I set out to do. in fact, I am rather comforted by the impossibility of attaining such expression with language, of an experience I deem so influential, so beautiful to me as to inspire me to write about it. if I could actually capture with a set of 26 letters and several punctuation marks an essence that profound, that moving, then I would have to question my judgment ofthe impact of such an event on me.

so maybe this is just an attempt to remind me one day when (god forbid) "the original and consuming sense has departed," of the magic I bore witness to for a moment, an hour, a night. I pray that I am given such an opportunity to again feel such euphoria in my life. but I guess I don't want to be left wondering how it really felt some day, although (because?) it will inevitably happen anyway.

I think the futile struggles are the most heroic, though. that is why I will always try, even though my ceiling restricts me from attaining any distinction above failure. but I think the glimpse of success, even from beneath, like the sight of the light sky from just under the surface of the water, is enough to drive me indefinitely, and forever passionately.

echo

Echo

The music stopped so long ago
But still I hear the sound
Keeping dreams from dying
And hopes from off the ground

The rain falls alone tonight
My thoughts land in July
I am left without umbrella
Staring at the sky

The water streams down my face
My eyelids slowly close
All I feel is the emptiness
Of raindrops on my nose

All I hear is the music
Echoing in my ear
The song against the raindrops
Playing crystal clear

The chorus like the numbness
Consumes me then and there
The wind whispers promises
As vacant as my stare

I am driven to distraction
And for a moment, I forget
Sodden with illusion
I am cleansed of all regret

The lightning flashes instantly
And all the dark is light
My eyelids slowly open
To see the blackened night

The music stopped so long ago
Now I cannot hear the sound
The echo is forever lost
And silence briefly found

do I dare?

do I dare
disturb the universe?
in a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions
which a minute will reverse
---t.s. eliot