The Room Next Door

In the late 90s, we lived in Montclair, a delightful little town in New Jersey. Like all American cities/towns, a great divide (usually one of the main thoroughfares) ran through Montclair, separating the "North" from the "South." We lived about half a block away from this divide on the "Southern" side (to the consternation of some members of the Bengali community, but that is a story for a different day). Immediately on the other side of the divide from us was a little strip with ethnic restaurants, shops selling Birkenstocks and bandanas, and an independent movie theater. My parents enjoyed staying with us in  Montclair more than any other place in the US since they had the freedom to walk around and do things when we were at work. My father would walk around the corner and up to a grocery store to buy catfish nuggets and potatoes, which my mother would incorporate in a curry. One day, they decided to walk out after lunch and catch a (recommended) movie at the theater. Being a weekday, they did not expect it to be crowded, but they did not imagine they would be the only two people in the theater. The theater dutifully played the movie to an audience of two, showing "Todo Sobre mi Madre" (All About My Mother). 

I was reminded of this recently when we went to see The Room Next Door, Pedro Almodovar's latest movie and his first full English feature (he has made two shorts in English earlier). It wasn't an audience of two, but aside from me, Chandreyee, and Jayanta, there were only two other people. It was a bitterly cold Wednesday evening in Natick, and I was transfixed by Almodovar's latest offering. 

Pedro Almodovar was a favorite during my Duke grad student days after they screened "Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios" (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown). This zany, fast-paced, lighthearted comedy was easy to digest but not a lightweight by any means (nominated for Best Foreign Language at the Oscars that year.).  Looking back, it had all the elements of an Almodovar movie that persist until today in most of his films and definitely in TRND - vibrant, emotional, and focusing on female protagonists. The pace, and the degree/manifestation of emotions have mellowed over time. 

When I like an author or a filmmaker/actor, I tend to digest their entire oeuvre, and I did the same with Almodovar then, watching Matador,  La ley del Deseo (Law of Desire), ¡Átame (Tie me up! Tie me down) and Tacones Lejanos (High Heels). They were all in the mold of "Women...", high drama, usually dark and sometimes comic, many featuring his favorites Antonio Banderas and Marisa Paredes.  

After moving to Boston, I met some people at a party and the topic of Almodovar came up. His latest "La flor de mi Secreto," (Flowers of My Secret) happened to be playing in theaters then. I planned to go watch it with a couple of them so that we could see muchos sexos, as one of them said. It was a sudden departure from the high-energy and dark comedy movies and a lot slower. I remember watching it in Kendall Square, and I soaked it in. It had comedy but also a high degree of drama. My companions were disappointed, but this change in Almodovar sat well with me. His next movie, "Carne Tremula" (Live Flesh), despite being an erotic thriller, was still relatively restrained (and for the first time he had Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem working with him). It seemed that Almodovar had walked away from his early campy style of movies and into serious melodrama. 

This was when he makes "All about.." It was phenomenal, my parents loved it. It had numerous female protagonists who were front and center of the story. Dealing with complex issues but with a poetic narrative, I thought this was Almodovar at his peak. I was wrong; I think his best movie was the subsequent Hable Con Ella (Talk to Her). Oddly, his most acclaimed movie centers on two male protagonists caring for two women in a coma. I have seen this movie several times, and I am sure more viewings are destined for my future. 

Almodovar continued to make movies along the same line—"La Mala Educacion, Volver, and Los Abrazos Rotos"—maintaining his focus on relationships, women protagonists, and eroticism while featuring the incredible palettes in which his movies are presented. My life got complicated after that, and I lost track of his creations. Recently, I  came across a "Strange Way of Life" on Netflix. It was in English primarily, with some Spanish dialogues. It instantly connected me back to my old fascination with his work. Lo behold, I find The Room Next Door releasing locally, and we are in Natick in the arctic cold. 

I walked through the arc of Pedro Almodovar above, but connecting a line from "Women.." to TRND is beyond me. It maintains his hallmarks, such as the women protagonists, relationships (in this case between a mother and a daughter, completely conveyed via dialogue between two friends), and, of course, that wonderful tapestry that serves as the backdrop for his stories. However, he minimizes actions and makes this Bergman-esque film where introspective conversation is the meat, potato, and dessert. Almodovar has tackled complex issues previously, but his choices in this one struck a deep chord in me  - death with dignity and the comfort of friendship in your final days/ minutes. I have been mulling about both of these for several years now. 

I am not going to discuss the plot, not that there is much of it. The movie focuses on a cancer-stricken woman laying bare her emotions through dialogue with a newly found old-friend. The dialogue is odd to your ear, but I think that is because it non-Hollywoodish, and may even have a touch of a Spaniard writing English dialogue, a bit like translations of Spanish. But one looks past this fluency or lack thereof. The words convey such intensity, both raw in emotion and pensive in nature. Most of the movie shows the two actors (Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton) talking, set across different backgrounds in hospitals, gardens, apartments, and a vacation home. There is an occasional scene here and there depicting flashbacks. The most distracting part for me was the scenes featuring John Turturro, whose character was a common lover to the two friends in their pasts. I understand the need for this character, but I wish he was primarily featured in the dialogue between the two women and not be an actual character. 

I don't know what else Pedro has in his bag, but my appetite has been whetted. 

Maybe the greatest of all

 On June 13^th, 2021 Novak Djokovitch beat Rafael Nadal in a marathon encounter at the semifinals at Roland Garros. Rafa, a 13 times winner of the French Open, was thought to have reigned supreme in Paris but Djoko re-wrote the script with a stunning display. I watched the entire game, (it had been a while since I did that with a tennis match) and when it ended, I told myself that I should make an effort to attend the US Open Final and watch history being made.

My decision was further validated by the Finals (Djoko beat Tsitsipas, despite being down 2 sets at the start). He proceeded to win Wimbledon in a similar fashion. The US Open tickets came on sale the day after Wimbledon and my friend Vivek, who is somewhat of a regular at Flushing Meadows, snagged a few of us some tickets. The die had been cast for me to watch my first Grand Slam game live, and it could not be under more exciting circumstances.

Social media was buzzing with the G.O.A.T. debate, from the puerile partisan bickering to more sober in-depth discussion. It was pointed out often that a Grand Slam HAS been achieved since 1969, and it was not just a Grand Slam but a Golden Grand Slam, but even that was back in 1988. In the middle of all this, Djoko, a crowd and participant favorite at the Tokyo Olympics, lost in the semi-finals to Zverev. He then proceeded to lose the bronze medal. Looking back, maybe those were early signs but excuses abounded – if only those were 5 setters.

On September 12, we were at Flushing Meadows bright and early. When we got to our seats and I looked around, it appeared that every Serb in the US was at the stadium. T-shirts, hoodies and caps with Novak slogans lurked in every corner. The game began at 4 PM sharp, and Djokovic promptly got broken in Set 1, Game 1. He went on to lose the set and we exchanged knowing glances – he is just warming up. Then he went on to the lose the second set, and grinning nervously, we told each other “Ah, he is going to replay the French Open script. All the more exciting”.

It was when Djokovic was 5-3 down in the third set, with Medvedev on serve, that it suddenly hit me that almost everyone in the Stadium – Serbs, non-Serbs alike wanted him to win. It had been previously unimaginable to see a crowd heart and soul behind him. The atmosphere became beyond electric, the do or die moment seemed to be not just for Novak but for all of us seated there. I have been watching tennis for almost forty years and I have never seen a Grand Slam crowd cheer a double fault, erupting as if the match was won. We wanted him to win, because we just wanted to believe that it can be done, we wanted to see a Grand Slam just like we would want to see a human set foot on Mars. After almost two years of the effing pandemic, we needed to know that we were still capable of astounding feats.

Alas, what we saw instead was the fragility of humans. 

I think it is without debate that Joker Nole is among the top hundred humans in terms of handling stress. In fact, I am being generous as he may even be in the top ten. That day, his superhuman power slowly dissolved in front of our eyes. It wasn’t that Medvedev played like a colossus, and neither did Djokovic crumble. Everything was off just by the smallest fraction – the sizzling ace was instead a fractional fault, the down the line forehand just tentative enough to miss being a winner. All Danil Medvedev had to do was stay in the game  and watch the human psyche eat itself, crumb by crumb.

The game was over in record time. I had made plans to party with friends and return home the next day but instead I dragged my despondent self through the Flushing Meadows parking lot looking for my car for 45 minutes. I then drove home battling the Mets crowd and was back by 11 PM. The only thing I could think of was a near-tears Djokovic saying: “I would like to say, that tonight, even though I have not won the match, my heart is filled with joy and I'm the happiest man alive because you guys made me feel very special on the court. I've never felt like this in New York”.

During my drive back, a friend texted to say "Sorry Joker lost, I didn't care but I was rooting for him".  That made me think – I wasn't rooting so much for him as I was for us ordinary humans and tonight Novak made us understand that he is one of us, which is why we ended up caring.

Facial Hair :-(

 Today was a coming of age ritual for the 15 year old Oyon. He has been asking me about shaving for a while and today the stars aligned. I had gotten him a new Harry razor, and armed with his new toy, we gathered in the bathroom. I had also not shaved and started by giving him a "demo". After lathering, I started shaving and then was reminded that I was supposed to join a Zoom call for a cousin's birthday - half-shaved, I started the call immediately as we were supposed to be present and ready to wish him a "surprise" Happy birthday. In the meantime, Oyon started lathering, and it was not going well. I had left the video off on the call, and I started help him lather. Where was the surly teen who argues with me - I had shaving foam in my hand that I was rubbing on the cheeks of my pliable little boy. I just had to soak in the moment. He started shaving afterwards, and I think largely remembered my advice about how not to keep the pressure just right so as not to cut himself. Of course, the 15 year old pimply face was a little too susceptible to a cut (across a pimple). However, that set up another teachable moment - the use of toilet paper to clot the bleeding. 

I finished the call and hurried down to find a little boy (minus the wispy whiskers) with a bit of tp stuck to his cheek. I told him to take it of, and off he hurried with his cross country skis to enjoy the swirling blizzard. I will now have to wait for his next shave to photograph it for posterity, but another milestone done. Time rolls on. 

Stage 3 - in which I add the Mighty Squirrel Taproom to my speed dial list

We are back to package store basics

As mothers against drunken driving heave a sigh of relief, alcohol intake for many went through the roof. The two incidents above have the same root. Given a pandemic license to drink alone at home, barriers dropped significantly. It serves as a great panacea for soothing anxieties. Although this wave will pass quickly for many (I hope), there are some who will sink further into oblivion. Domestic abuse will be on the rise, and no neighbor can come to their rescue now. There have been many uplifting visions of how we will emerge out of all this into a better world, but I first want to wait and see what actually emerges out of each household. Perhaps some of us will choose never to emerge at all. When you taste isolation, you may initially recoil at the texture but eventually , you may like it. If the alcohol does not get your liver, you could start to have an enjoyable and even fruitful existence. Perhaps you will physically step out , but mentally check away from others.

That may not be a bad thing. Human's have always tried to keep up with the Joneses, but once we see that, in quarantine, the Jones are in the same boat, it may be a good lesson learnt.

Cheers. 

Stage 1, in which Dystopia makes its appearance and starts becoming familiar

Has dystopia ever been imagined thus?

Bad things are no doubt happening, not just half-way around the world but only a few hundred miles South of here in NYC where refrigerated trucks are being used to store the dead. If you did not watch TV - I don’t- and if you selectively screen out that kind of news, then life is strange but without much discomfort. There is no violence on the street (yet), in fact passerby’s maintain safe social distance but smile and are in general friendly. I have witnessed empty store shelves but thankfully have been spared the sight of people fighting over toilet rolls. In what fearful society can  people go out for fresh air or attend Zumba classes separated by fences.

There is anxiety, however. In some cases, it is out in the open in the form of naked panic, although I cannot see the rationale behind it yet.  For the rest of us, it is underlying but very much present. It is about the unknown, or about bad situations that teeter on the precipice of occurrence and you cannot do a damn thing about it.  This is indeed Stage 1, and I don’t have a good one-word name for it yet. It is manifesting itself in socially distanced parties, excessive alcohol consumption, insomnia and a strong dose of home-body-ness. We go about our daily business for the most part with one important exception - we do not head out much or interact with anyone but family. 

Bernie & Me - A Coming of Age Tale in Vermont by Anonymous

A post from a guest blogger here, but I will proudly say his views represent mine. In fact, he tilted me towards Senator Sanders in the 2014/15 time frame long before Bernie become the phenomenon that he is today.
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I first met Bernie Sanders in 1987 or thereabouts as a student at Middlebury College in Vermont.  He was the popular incumbent mayor of Burlington, which was then a thriving, mid-sized city just 35 miles to the north, with a great theater and an Indian restaurant.  For this native of Calcutta, with its 10 million plus population, Burlington was a welcome refuge, easier to get to than Montreal. 

Having grown up relatively privileged as a middle/upper middle-class student in Calcutta, India, my transition to the idyllic Vermont town was not always easy.  Having literally arrived with $700 in cash on me, I found myself suddenly visibly brown and poor at Club Midd.  I remember having excitedly bought a lovely cardigan at a thrift store in town only to be acutely self-conscious when a classmate excitedly recognized it as their favorite sweater that they had donated the previous week!  I knew, for the first time in my life, what it meant to be “other” -- and gravitated toward others that seemed to be questioning the mainstream

Among college kids who were friendly with me were a bunch who had protested on campus against apartheid in South Africa and supported disinvestment by the college.  The Central American movement had begun and they started focusing on the excesses in El Salvador with U.S. military support in the mid-to-late 1980s which led to the rapid increase in the movement of refugees from the region. The Soviet empire had not yet collapsed and Middlebury, with its strong language and international programs, was a happy recruiting ground for both the Peace Corps and the CIA.  I also made many friends within the broader Vermont community.  Mid-week jazz at Woody’s became a regular haunt, with many independent thinkers of all political persuasions.  Occasionally Ben or Jerry from the eponymous ice cream company or the founder of Vermont Bicycle Tours joined their friends in the larger community as did members of the Bread & Puppet collective or the Bristol Theater. 

It was during these heady times that I started attending a political awareness club called Armadillos that invited the charismatic mayor of Burlington as a speaker.  I had vaguely heard about him, but the description of him as an independent socialist from Burlington was not much of an attraction. You see, as a privileged young boy in India in the 1980s, socialism had always been associated with long lines, thick unopened files and rent-seeking bureaucrats.  A young Rajiv Gandhi was Prime Minister and even the young dynast seemed to be challenging the old status quo.  So, I remember the first question I asked Bernie during the Armadillos forum related to my experience and challenging him to defend socialism. To my surprise, he engaged with me, gruff as ever, and explained what socialism meant to him and how he had revived Burlington.  I spoke to Bernie after the session and convinced that he was no Stalinist or Maoist, I stayed in touch.   

A few months later, I heard Bernie was considering a run for the U.S. House of Representatives and I heard him speak again.  He asked me if I wanted to accompany him for a few visits to voters.  I was intrigued and so the curious duo of a white-haired Brooklyn-accented independent socialist and a still fresh-off-the-boat Calcutta crusader with a posh Indian accent started knocking on doors in Addison County and beyond.  While the state had a mix of residents, the majority were not your dyed-in-the-wool hippies who moved from New York state to get away from it, but rather most were “real Vermonters.”  These were those who had lived in Vermont for at least two generations and prided themselves on their Yankee independence and conservatism.  And I watched how they looked suspiciously at Bernie, asking “Aren’t you a socialist or somethin’?”  And Bernie looked them in the eye and said that he believed in the family farm and how he was against corporatization of farming and how he wanted to go to Washington to stop acid rain from destroying the quality of life in Vermont and how the U.S. should leave Central American governments alone.  And they nodded agreeing with every word he said as he closed with “If that makes me a socialist, then sure, I’m a socialist, but vote for me if you agree with my beliefs.”  And there were many similar conversations with decent, conservative Vermonters across the state, from Chittenden County and Rutland and Montpelier to the Northeast Kingdom.

Bernie lost the 1988 election as the vote was split three ways between a weak Democratic candidate and a moderate Republican.  But Bernie was back at it in 1990, when he won convincingly to claim his place as Vermont’s only U.S. Representative.  And he has been consistent in his beliefs since then as he became one of Vermont’s two Senators in 2006 and has been re-elected twice with nearly 2/3 of the vote.  Examine his values – he is against extreme income inequality, supports parental leave, equal rights for all and health care as a human right.  He has marched against racial inequality and mass surveillance of citizens.  He has also teamed up with conservatives to introduce legislation when it was common sense to do so. 

My message to voters unsure of Bernie’s self-affixed socialist tag – look beyond the label and listen to the man, as Vermonters have for decades! There may be reasons you choose not to vote for him, but don’t let it be the label of socialist – the man is a social democrat at most and frankly, a decent public citizen in many of his impulses.  As a disclosure, I have not contributed to Bernie’s 2020 primary bid, because I have decided that I will only contribute in the general election race. 

(Not Just) Electric Guitarist

In the mid-1980s I would often troll “Bambino” at the corner of Hindustan Park and Gariahat Road in search of new music that the record company may have found fit to send our way. The clerk at the counter, in anticipation of my usual question, would say “Nothing yet, new release expected next month”. It was during one of these forays that I encountered “Natural Elements – Shakti with John McLaughlin”. I’ve wondered about the title a lot, was there ever a Shakti without McLaughlin? At a Spring Fest audio/visual quiz, the quizmaster played a clip which was not music but the announcement at a concert. In his slightly nasal intonation, Zakir Hussain was saying “The next piece is called What Need Have I For This, What Need Have I For That, I Am Dancing……”. Some in the crowd did not wait for the end before blurting out “Shakti, Live at Southampton College, July 5, 1975”. That was the first major Shakti concert, a band formed after the founders Zakir and John did an impromptu session at Ali Akbar Khan’s house in California in 1973.  Over the years Shakti disbanded and then came back together as “Remember Shakti”. Even though some of the previous members had moved on, there was never ever a Shakti without John McLaughlin.

A few years after Natural Elements was released, Shakti made their way to Calcutta. The 16-year old me attended his first major concert at the Maidan with some friends. After injecting John M. into the Calcutta psyche, HMV then released Mahavishnu Orchestras “The Inner Mounting Flame” in India. Many of my friends did not like it. I did not appreciate it that much either (appreciate may be a strong term, given that I am not a musician, nor do I have any formal/informal training in music or musicology. Suffice to say that I did not dislike it but I also did not wear out the grooves of the LP I borrowed from a friend).

It was in college that some of my seniors, in particular two future architects, chose to fill in the gaps of my jazz education. I listened to more Mahavishnu, and I was also introduced to yet another avatar of McLaughlin. It was as one of the greats in THE guitar trio, playing the phenomenal concert “Friday Night in San Francisco”. If John had not been a part of Miles Davis ensemble, had not formed Mahavishnu or joined Shakti, his reputation as a jazz legend would have still been cemented purely on the basis of this one performance. He, along with Paco De Lucia and Al Di Meola, electrified the stage with their acoustic guitars.

Also in college, we listened with insatiable appetite to “Southampton College”.  “…I Am Dancing At The Feet Of My Lord, All Is Bliss, All Is Bliss”.

Fast forward to a few years later. I am in the US spending whatever money I could afford from my graduate stipend and then my salary at used book and music stores. I filled out my Mahavishnu collection (Birds of Fire, From Nothingness to Eternity, etc.), solo McLaughlins (Belo Horizonte, Electric Guitarist), more Guitar Trio albums and whatever Shakti came out with (researching while writing this, I see that there are so many more albums left that I can waste my money on). In the first half of the 90’s, I saw McLaughlin at a small cozy concert at the Regatta Bar in Boston. The music was very dense and obtuse to my ears and subsequently I remember very little of that concert including who he played with (it was a trio of guitar, bass and piano if I remember correctly). Later in that decade, he reunited with the other two guitar gods on a tour, including a stop at San Francisco 25 years later! This concert was not comparable to the original one, even the format was different. Each one played a solo set, did a duet with each of the others and then, in a short grand finale, all three played together. I don’t know if it was age, reputation, or record company restrictions that prevented them from re-creating the original. It was still a very good concert, the opening bars of Frevo Rasgado made your heart dance, but it lacked the scintillating energy of the original. I know, since I was there in the audience.

In 2017, John McLaughlin announced that he would retire from touring after a final set of shows in the US, including one at the Wilbur Theater in Boston. It was a fitting tribute to his life-long contribution to jazz music which he has helped amplify on so many world stages in various genres. These final shows focused on his work with the Mahavishnu Orchestra, the group he had formed at the urging of Miles Davis (“Miles was really forceful” John said at the concert) and named after the moniker given to John by his one-time guru Sri Chinmoy.  After an opening set by Jimmy Herring, John and his current band The 4^th Dimension kicked off things with “Miles Beyond”. After a set of old and new music, they were joined by Herring and his band and proceeded to run through a Mahavishnu catalog. For me, it was a culmination of my devotion to the work of my hero who I have deeply admired since childhood, a long way from my first concert at 16.  Now at 50, I have to thank John again for the opportunity to be able to hear the music made by a band that had disbanded before I joined first grade, at what was the last of his live shows.

There are still many more albums to buy and listen to, and my stereo has been stuck on McLaughlin-related items since the concert. However, never else will we have the pleasure of seeing and hearing him play on his PRS twin-neck that he brought out on this tour. There were no overtones of a twilight of an ageing star in the show. As John said, he wanted to go out on a high note while he still had the chops and true to his word, he amazed the sold-out crowd of mostly 50- and 60-year olds. At some point there was an yell “I love you John, don’t retire!”.  It’s a good sentiment but I prefer the way he went out in style leaving an indelible impression.

https://www.bostonglobe.com/arts/music/2017/11/09/memorable-farewell-from-jazz-fusion-giant-john-mclaughlin/eQeCVZXvJNcuszrlTvRtYL/story.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakti_(album)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPWa9F4UBQQ&feature=share

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_McLaughlin_(musician)

For 25 straight years, winner of NPR's "Most likely to be cancelled !"

Tom Magliozzi, a co-host of Car Talk, died earlier this week. I have not listened to the show in more than a decade, other than in passing; the show itself stopped new broadcasts since 2012. The morning after he passed away, WBUR (where it all began) had a long remembrance during its morning show. I laughed all the while with a lump in my throat. Then the floodgates opened.

I can recall the one long period of my life when I listened to Car Talk religiously, I think it was Sunday evenings. I would usually be driving back to the Cape from friends North of Boston. Sometimes, I would even turn on the radio at home. It was somewhat of a dark point in my life and Car Talk was an extremely pleasant refuge.  I always knew the show was popular but only now do I realize that I was not the only lost soul who looked to the show for such relief. The connection that hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, made with the disembodied voices on the radio was phenomenal – here is what a fan said recently: “These guys could have been reading the phone book and I'd still tune in. It's a tribute to them, especially because I am really not that interested in vehicle repair. But the show was so much more than that.  He gave me so much to laugh about!”

In a world of self-promotion and endless marketing, the Tappet Brothers were a refreshing contrast. They made fun of everyone, most of all themselves and took great delight in poking fun at their own success. I heard Tom recount that they started the show on a volunteer basis and eventually decided to ask WBUR for $50/week (a request that was immediately sanctioned). The brothers then looked at each other and said “Boy, we are in Fat City”. At this point, Tom dissolves into helpless laughter and he can’t even finish the story. On the show, many thoughts and anecdotes used to be left similarly suspended, overcome by what was the textbook example of infectious laughter. Even the dourest listener had no choice but to grin from ear to ear. Just by being, Tom (and Ray) delivered public radio from a stodginess that was a standing target of SNL skits and enhanced the popularity of radio in an era of strong competing influences. “Even though members of the Emily Dickinson Fan club smother the radio with their copy of Hope is a Thing with Feathers every time they hear us say it, this is NPR”. (Paraphrasing here, I don’t remember any specific sign-off but there are hundreds).

Farewell Tom Magliozzi. I hope you re-incarnate soon since the void left by the likes of you needs to be filled quickly. 

Spicy cooking

Whilst the world at large fretted about the solvency of Greece and the United States, were traumatized by the Mumbai blasts and crowed about the fall of Murdoch, my attention was drawn to the screaming headlines on Page 3 of the Arab Times: HOUSEMAID ARRESTED FOR RUINING SPONSOR's FAMILY THROUGH MAGIC.

Before I go on further, let me admit that the world at large was probably more focused on the break-up of J-Lo and Marc than any of the above.

The incident, reported by "agencies", involved an Asian housemaid who was detained by the police following a complaint by her Kuwaiti lord and master that "there was a high degree of confusion" in his house and the maid was likely doing black magic. Apparently, his children were walking around dazed and confused which was attributed to strange chanting and other magic being practiced in the kitchen (the deliciousness of the Gobi Manchurian was also attributed to the same).

In case any of you worldly nay-sayers have started snickering at this, let me assure you that the case is closed. It was reported that "during interrogation, the maid is said to have admitted to this act". She now awaits deportation (or will use black magic to beam herself back home, though the police have reportedly seized all her magic charms). Inshallah, the man's children will now no longer look dazed. Stay tuned.

With God on our side

He first called his son. In the boy’s time zone, school had not yet let out for the day so he left a voicemail. “I am leaving now son. It will be difficult to call the next few months so we’ll just do that Skype thing, okay. Be good at school and enjoy the ball game. Love you, bye!”

He then made a second call. This time, he did not need to leave a voicemail. He discussed mundane everyday things, offered some advice on how to get the computer up and running (“and if that does not work, call Dave”). He ended with “Don’t forget your medications, and remember to refill them when you run low. Awright, gotta go now, I’ll see you soon, dad”.

He hung-up and went back to horsing around with his buddies who were all being deployed to Bagram Air Force Base.

It’s a scene that Hollywood has used often with great success, but I found it to be even more effective without the dramatic pauses and the violins. Maybe it was the 3-D effect, since it happened in the seat next to mine on an airplane to Kuwait.

My other neighbor had trouble with his headphones. He had an old-fashioned one that did not work with the socket on his hand rest. My set was missing from my seat pocket and you cannot get an United airlines attendant to help you even if you offer a bribe. My first neighbor offered to share his airline headphones, since he had a personal one. When he took it out however, we found that the cord was frayed and on the verge of snapping. He grinned, displayed a gold cap. “War is hell, ain’t it?” he said.

A friend of mine thinks that everything reminds me of a song by Bob Dylan. I would like to keep that delusion alive, so here goes:

".....the reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side"

Weight, weight, don't tell me.

My state of denial defines my greed as refined epicureanism ! The truth occasionally finds it's way out of my subconscious when I struggle into clothes or feel enervated under the weight of too much food or drink, but I manage to shove it back in by bedtime. Of late, truth has been fighting back and forcing my brain to to ruminate on Ben Franklin's value of Temperance. My state of denial calls this Old Age !

So I ruminate: Franklin said - "Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation". Let's start with the latter. This is, at times, very necessary. However, those times are becoming fewer and further between with life's growing responsibilities and worries, though of course that presents exactly the sort of situation from which drinking is a refuge. Hmm, this is a tough one. Ruminate further...

The former actually makes sense, food coma is never desirable but it creeps upon you as you convince yourself that you are "just tasting" everything on the table or while thinking about starving children, you decide not to waste any food and stuff your face with the last three kebobs. However, moderation is possible, I think. What I shall do is convince my mind of the same by weighing myself every morning (when possible) and record it on a white board in my study. In short, allow my subconscious to plant a seed to trick my mind to accept reality. That's food for thought as I continue thinking about food.