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\twocolumn[\centerline{\large
{\bf COLLECTION OF STORIES BY MAHADEVAN RAMESH II}
}\bigskip]

\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  COLORADO LIVING}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}
     
Life in the boondocks of Colorado, far away from the coasts, is something
that would be very difficult for most desis to even imagine. We are so high
above the sea level my head practically scratches the stratosphere and I only
breathe pure ozone. But it may come as a surprise to many that the Denver area
gets more sunny days than Florida in a year.

And I live in a small village. There are cows and horses everywhere. Sometimes
they would wander on to the roads and then the cops come and chase them off,
creating minor traffic jams that the whole village talks about for days on end.
It is like living in a village anywhere else. They take personal checks
everywhere, without even checking IDs, whereas elsewhere, they used to demand 
IDs even when I was paying by cash. You don't even have to lock the
doors, they say, although times are changing. The same village barber cuts 
everybody's hair, imposing his unique style uniformly on everyone. After two
years of non-stop haircutting, fearing that hell might freeze over soon, the
barber took a much-deserved vacation for a week, rendering the whole village
barberless. This caused much identity crisis and the cafetaria chat at work
always revolved around when the barber would come back from his cruise. The
entire village operates in slow motion. Even a McDonald's meal is served only 
after much chit chat. 

And this region may forever remain the Last Frontier for desis. There is
hardly any desi community to speak of. In fact, after the Kevin Costner movie,
'Dances with wolves', it has become fashionable here to claim Indianness, that
when mention I am an Indian I get the 'Oh, yeah' look. Once, when I mentioned 
I am from India, someone responded that his ancestors were from Italy. Also,
for the first time in my life, I met a guy who did not know where India was 
in the world. The one Indian store, some sixty miles from here, serves not only
our area, but also Montana, Wyoming, New Mexico and ... But the nearby town, 
Boulder has a lot of desi influence, despite being lily white, demographically.
There are many Yoga institutes, two Nepali restaraunts (more per capita than 
even in Nepal) and even an Ayurvedic clinic, where probably an Indian granny 
would personally apply Brahmi Amla Thel on you or a hulk would give you a 
relaxing 'champi'. 

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Last week, me and my friend Sooth, went to a bar where they played Rhythm and
Blues. The patrons, beering and smoking, were waiting to be saddened. The small
ensemble was led by someone calling himself 'Barbecue Bob', with 'Troubled Tom'
to keep the rhythm and 'big Wally' biting into his harmonica. Big Wally was 
hardly bigger than me and on a good day, I could knock him flat with a left
hook. Bob himself was like a huge heap of spaghetti. If you mentally 
subtracted out all that hair, you could actually visualize two beady eyes, 
which enjoyed depressing the bar patrons. After about half an hour of drumming
and strumming, the hair mountain suddenly realized that he needed sing out the
vocals and bent forward and quizzed the mike "Wheh hav yu bin, daahlin ?" 
After another forty five minutes of crooning and adlibbing, it became crystal 
clear to the audience of twenty odd people that Bob's 'baby Rita' has just 
left him, still very mean to him whenever possible and he was going to go to
'Nyo Yok' to start over. Apparently, the lyrics were based on his true life
incidents and that is why he has come to be known as 'Barbecue Bob'. Dig ?!

\medskip\hrule\medskip

And Denver also has a professional basketball team called 'Denver Nuggets',
which is probably the joke of the whole league. They used to get sexually 
harrassed by every team that played them. The team is so pathetic that
the very mention of the name 'Denver Nuggets' would bring bemused smiles to
even the grouchiest people. They were so pathetic they didn't even finish last
in the league. However, they did manage to sign the Georgetown star, Dikembe
Mutombo (a student from Zaire) for a multi-year, multi-zillion dollar deal. He
is supposed to be much taller than people like you and me, that he can actually
change channels on his TV from his sofa without using the remote. When
reporters asked him about his new 'deal', he simply told them "Mutombo khush
hua". At any rate, he has a visa problem. He came to this country on a J-1 visa
and now has to go back to his home country for two years. That will be two best
years of his career. So visa gurus, how can he solve his problem ? Send replies
to the Denver Nuggets office and make this town happy. 

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Last night we went to a party. John Thomas (Kerala born unconfused Kuwait
brought-up, US living guy) and Sooth (from Ganga) went off to Seven Eleven to
buy cigarettes and when they came back, John had an incredible story to tell.

He said, "We went to the store and were looking around for some candies too,
when this oldish woman, around sixty or so, looked like sort of hispanic, came
up to us and started staring at me. It was a pronounced stare, and just at me.
Then to avoid her we moved to another aisle. There she came back and stood 
close to me and continued staring. I got irritated, turned to her and said 
'Lady, haven't you seen brown-skinned people before ? Quit following me and
staring at me, like I am some kind of an animal.' whereupon, she broke into
tears. It was embarrassing. She said I reminded her of her own son, who is now
stationed at Saudi Arabia and she was missing him. and here comes the
incredible part, she asked me to call her 'Mom'. I said no, I can't do it. She
pleaded with me and I was adament. I don't want to yield to some sentimental
old lady. She talked for a couple of minutes, went to the counter and bought
her stuff. Me and Sooth were shocked by the whole thing. It was unbelievable.
Then as she walked out of the store, she waved to us a big goodbye and said
'Bye, son'. At that point, I said what the heck and said 'Bye mom'. One of
those good samaritan things. We were still in a state of disbelief as we
walked to the counter and got our cigarettes and candies. The clerk at the
counter said 'That would be twenty four dollars and forty two cents'. I said
'What ? For cigs and some dumb candies'. The counter clerk replied "That plus
about twenty dollars for what your mother just bought. She said you would pay
for her.'

John continued."My mom ? That was shocking. Imagine being tricked so easily, 
that too by an old lady. I left
Sooth at the counter to explain to the clerk and maybe even pay up if we had to.
I rushed out, just in time to see her in the parking lot, just slamming the
door of her car. I raced to her car, an old beat up Chevy. Luckily, the dumb 
woman had her windows rolled down. I could grab her and asked her to cough up 
the twenty bucks and that we won't be conned.  Mom, eh ? She turned violent 
and started
screaming that I was attacking her and robbing her and trying to rape her.
Imagine her cheek ! I got even more angry. I yelled at her to call the police,
because I had my friend Sooth and the store clerk as my witnesses. I tried to
pull her car keys from the ignition. God, she was strong. And desparate. But
an old lady is no match for my strength. I pulled the keys off in a brief
struggle. She then unexpectedly kicked the car door open, almost knocking me
off backwards. I got absolutely mad. I didn't care for any consequences. I
wanted to pull her out of the car. I reached down and tried to pull her legs,
just like how I am pulling YOUR legs now...."

Wonder who made this story up. I wish I did.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Epilog


As I lay myself down to sleep,
'Morrow is in my thoughts, foremost
Will it be joy or sorrow so deep ?
I rest, 'cos there'll always be a 'Looking for ...' post.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  Conference call}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}



(Thus spake Dora-zusthra in his posts ! Ramses is trying to rise from
the ashes one more time, to be seen in the Abbey ! The following article
is based on some 'true' incidents narrated to me by my friend 'Sooth')


\centerline{\bf CONFERENCE CALL}
                       

Ajay Palvayanteeswaran could not believe himself. His adviser's words were
still ringing in his ears, like some unpicked-up-phone. Just a short while
ago, he was summarily beckoned to his adviser's office, made to stand between
two piles of research mess. Ajay was wondering what he had done wrong now. To
his pleasant surprise, there was even a little bit of a smile sticking to his
boss's upper lip. 

"Good news, Ajay, our paper titled 'An Algorithmic Approach to Massively
Perpendicular Systems Using Discrete Elements' has been approved for the
Pittsburgh conference."

Ajay sensed electricity. He almost felt like jumping over his adviser's desk 
and giving him a big bear-hug or at least a high five. But fearing that that
might jeopardize the rest of his Ph.D, Ajay pretended as if nothing
out of the ordinary was happening.

His adviser, Prof. Ringo Rangopadhyay, continued. "Ajay, lets not rest on our 
laurels. We still have to write the code and generate data and write the 
paper and make slides. There is plenty of work. Don't just stand there. From 
now on, for the next month, thou shalt survive on mere five hours of sleep. 
Now get your beer belly off my desk."

Ajay was still in a stupor. The Pittsburgh conference, wow ! Isn't it
unofficially known as the 'Computer Science Mela' where everybody who is
anybody in computer science and his aunt, showed up ? Somebody told him
that they even sold baloons and 'bhuda ka baal' (cotton candy) there. 
He quickly rang up his buddies in Pittsburgh to make plans for all the 
after-conference hours. In fact, it will be just wonderful boozing out the 
nights with Bala, Srini and their roommates in Pittsburgh and bunking the 
morning sessions.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Ajay suddenly relapsed into nostalgia. It seemed like just yesterday when he 
arrived from India to this country. He remembered how he faced his very first 
traumatic experience within months after arriving, namely, 
'Buying that winter jacket'. In fact, after much agonizing, about twenty of 
the first yearites were lead by a shoppaholic senior desi guy, like Pied 
Piper, into a dime and nickel store and they all ended up buying the same 
shit-colored jacket. Ajay remembered the words of that senior "Kids, most of 
you will probably spend more time, perhaps experience more anguish over a 
winter jacket than choosing a Ph. D topic or adviser. But its worth it."

How true !?! He bumped into Ringo and joined his research group purely
by accident. Now he is sure he could not have found a better boss. True, there
are plusses and minusses when a desi student works for a desi adviser. Its
always like who blinks first. Ajay remembered the time he was almost seduced
by Professor Archibald Smithers into being his student. ('Call me Archie') 
Prof. Smithers specializes in the fourth order effects of a highly theoretical
problem and besides someone in China and Hungary, he was the only one working 
on such things. He promised Ajay a great future, full funding and even a 
Professor's post after graduation with an office right adjacent to his own. 
Thank god, Ajay had the sense to go for a more practical topic in a 'hot 
area', with a big shot like Prof. Rangopadhyay. Ajay even felt guilty for 
giving his boss a lot of 'gaalis' in absentia, especially when he was drunk 
and having always derisively referred to him as 'Chutki' ('Shorty') when among
his friends.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

The next month was truly hectic. His code did not generate the results he
and his adviser promised in their 'digest' which got accepted in the
conference. In fact, the results they got had nothing to do with their initial
cure-all results. He was trying to use polar coordinates to see if the graphs
looked more politically correct. In the middle of everything, someone suggested
that he write up his resume and take two hundred copies of it and distribute it
to all and sundry in the conference like a cinema notice. He could barely fill
one page of his resume with 'skills' and could not impose any pleasant lookiing
format on it. 'Secretary of Indian Students Association, one of the largest
organizations in the USA' he wrote proudly under Accomplishment and under
memberships and societies he put down 'Member of BMG and Columbia CD and 
cassette club'.

His adviser wanted to stretch his research contract dollar. "Lets all drive to
Pittsburgh" he suggested to Ajay. "I know it is over two thousand miles, but
if we took turns and drive through the night, we can reach there soon enough"
Even though the conference was taking place in a Hilton Hotel, Ajay was booked
in the YMCA with a hundred Teamster Union delegates.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

The conference hospitality suite. Beer and computer geeks were flooding the
place. There were at least half a million professors in the hotel lobby, each 
looking more professorial than the other. Ajay was very confused and felt 
very out of place. There were tall professors, short professors, thin 
professors, bald professors, very, very bald professors - all having nothing 
in common apart from being generally professors. Ajay tried to mingle in. But 
the professors ignored his Polish joke as being rude and racist and he was 
left to nursing his beer. 

"I used to work in the area of 'Theoretical Programming Languages' when I was
younger and foolish" said one professor to the others huddling around. Ajay
could not imagine if that professor ever could have been young. "Really"
answered another professor, who could not believe it. "Even I used to work
in 'Theoretical Programming Languages', heck, I have even published some of my
work. This is really a small world". The two profs looked at each other 
and shouted 'Bhaiya' and then sang 'Yaadon ki baaraat'. Ajay could not handle
it. He felt guilty and deprived.

There were hundreds of desi students and desi professors. The luckier 
desi dudes found themselves in a mixed crowd. But the rest of the other desis 
just formed a big circle in a far corner and were entertaining themselves. 
Ajay tried not to look at them and tried to mentally forge a separate, 
more universal identity for himself. How come everyone else fitted
in so well and he could not ? Must be the 'Old Boy network', he concluded. 
He went for his tenth beer. He was slowly getting drunk. 

"Hello, young man, are you here for the conference ?" asked a very old
gentleman in a wrinkled suit. "My name is Joe Feldenstein. I have been the
professor emeritus of Springfield University for the past seventy five years.
In those days, our conferences used to be simple. I still remember, some
eighty odd years ago, my good friend, named them 'electrons'. Before that we 
just used to call them 'green thingummies' on the oscilloscope. By the
way, here is my resume. Do you know if your adviser has any funding ?" Ajay 
felt even stranger. He turned around to look at the bunch of professors he
had just handed out his resumes. They were using the backside of his resume 
as scrap to derive some equations. 

Suddenly all the professors in the hotel lobby were transformed into a bunch 
of baboons. The baboons were doing their primitive mating rituals. It was
vulgar. They were lusting after some very specific creatures, who were trying 
to dodge their menacing advances. The baboon-professors were almost driven by 
their hormonal instincts and were after something even more primitive and 
satisfying than sex - NSF Grants ! It was disgusting. Ajay turned around. 
The desi dudes were still in the far corner. Only their numbers had 
multiplied ten folds by now. Ajay made eye contact with five of them. He 
could not take it anymore. "Hi I'm Ajay" he said, as he walked to join them.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

It was the morning of the conference. Ajay had already hit the panic button.
He was scheduled to present his paper barely an hour from now. 
He was sure he had brought his tie, but now for the life of his, he could not
find it. And just when he was looking around his suitcase, he realized he
forgot to bring any banians. Finally, when he spotted his tie, sticking to the
lid of his suitcase like a dead snake, he found out that it was actually a
dead snake after all. Where did all his underwears go ?

He almost forgot ! He does not know how to wear a tie ! He remembered his 
dad tearfully handing over his 'sentimental' tie to him  as he left 
India. Why didn't he make a knot in it too ? He was getting desperate. He 
called Srini and Bala for help. But they only had 'clip-on' ties, and have 
never knotted anything more complicated than shoelaces in their entire lives.
It was unrealistic to rush to their place and borrow their ties. His last
night's booze was numbing his thinking. He must quickly put on his tie
in the next ten minutes.

In principle, Ajay could have rushed to his adviser's room. After all
he too is a desi and the desi-desi bondage will always come through in
emergency situations like this. But Prof. Rangopadhyay himself, despite
being a professor, never learnt the art of putting on a tie and relied
on his wife all these years. However, he tried to help Ajay. "Let me see, 
somebody told me there is a desi in Iowa City or something - he is supposed 
to be the only desi in the USA who knows how to tie a necktie. Maybe we can 
find him and call him...."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

The conference organizers had tricked Ajay and scheduled his talk for the 
last day. Ajay thought that the hall would be jampacked with professors
fighting with each other to get the best seat when it was his turn to 
present his paper. But to his chagrin, there were only three or four people. 
And if you discount Bala, Srini, his boss, there was only one other person. 
Where are the half a million professors ? Ajay could not find even his first 
transparency. He thought he just saw it a minute ago. The chairman of the 
session rose to introduce Ajay.

"Welcome to Session JB. The first paper in this session titled 'Blah...
Blah... Blah". Ajay still could not find the first transparency, sweating
profusely. "Will be presented by, ab aapke saamne pesh karegi, Kumari
Ajay Palvayanteeswaran, laadies and jaantalman, let us give him a hand."

Miraculously, Ajay  found what he was looking for. He clumsily walked up to
the podium. Tried to verbalize something, but could not find his voice. After 
a minute of trying, some sounds came out. Just then, the only professor in the 
audience walked out. Ajay felt insulted. But, in walked - Sridevi ! dancing 
through the door, grabbing the mike, pointing out a typo in the slide, 
making an obscene gesture on the overview projector. Why is she here and why 
is she doing the rain dance in a CS conference ? Am I hallucinating ?

"The massively perpendicular systems are the 'high-throughput' tools which 
are controlled by the protocols. ... " Next, Ajay slipped in his carefully
prepared joke, which he expected to lighten up the audience and make them
relate to his dry talk. "By the way, folks, talking of perpendicular systems, 
let me give you an example of one. Do you know that my grandmother, bless 
that ninety year old woman. She is now prpendicular to herself....ha ha ...
The protocol is implemented by ..."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

It was a long drive back from Pittsburgh. Now Ajay had to make the two thousand
corrections in his paper in the next twenty hours and Federal Express it. It
was time to reflect. Was it all worth it ? The conference and the paper ? The
whole thing is a dehumanizing ratrace. Life under Stalinist Russia could have
been better. He is not cut out for it. His nerves 
are too fragile. The problem with the world today is that it is infested with 
far too many professors. Ajay took an exit, stopped by a convenience store - 
and bought himself some Lotto Jackpot tickets.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  CONTINUING SAGA OF THE }
\centerline{\bf FRESH STUDENT}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Time has a way of diluting the intensity of anything, with the
possible exception of Martillo's lunatic rantings. Me and this
fresh desi graduate student, who forced his way into my
apartment and sought asylum in my place, have kind of resigned
to each other's presence under the same roof. We both have even
developed a symbiotic relationship. He now makes coffee for me
and fetches me beer at my beckoning and I take him to the mall
and garage sales. If he stays with me for just one extra
weekend, we might even become friends. He gets his other 'fresh
friends' over and we have a lot of fun. There are the usual
tales of some vegetarian guy eating a cheeseburger by mistake.
And then there are the American English lessons like "you TAKE
the GRE test and not GIVE it" etc. No, all radios sets here
don't have short-wave frequencies. No, they are not killing each
other, they are only playing football. Leave me alone, please. 

Just last weekend we went to this 'rummage sale' organized by the
local Presbytarian Church. A bunch of freshies picked up an
iron, typewriter, plates, spoons, women's clothings for just a
dollar. In fact, these desis and other international students
cleaned the place out. Ashok, personally carried the cross,
pulpit and altar for a few bucks despite the pastor's screams.

It was a hot saturday afternoon. We had barely entered the KMart
and set sights on the row upon row of sale items, when not one,
not two, but six freshies emerged from behind the camera
counter, followed by a lively introduction. "Hi this is Ajay,
this is Ramki, this is Achal, this is Palvayanteeswaran ..."
"Hi", "Hai", "Hi", Hi". 

"Accha, this umbrella is on sale for \$ 5.98. Is it a good price
? Can it stand Pittsburgh rain and snow ?" a curious freshie I
had just been introduced to, wanted to know. 

"I don't know. I always steal my umbrellas. The price should be
okay". I said without caring.

Boom ! In a jiffy all six of them disappeared and turned up a
minute later each with an umbrella. "Accha, the sale brochure
said this bedsheet would be \$ 4.99, but the price written is \$
14.99". "That's because this is a king size sheet and yours is
possibly a twin bed". "No, no, mine is only a single bed". Then
a lengthy explanation of the sizes of beds. This was
soon followed by a lecture on how many milliliters make a
gallon, capped with a lively discussion on the concept of a
'raincheck'.

"Machi, look out there, Ajay is frrreaking out there with a
fundu chick" exclaimed the beanpole, Ramki, loudly. In the KMart
?  Isn't it against the tenets of Hinduism ? Well, it turned out
that the 'chick' in question was just a cashier and 'freaking
out' amounted to merely checking out, with his bowels in tact.
We overheard the conversation at the checkout counter.

"Do you accept TCs of sorts?"...pimply desi to the clerk. 

"Pardon me, sir ?"

"Do you accept travellers checks for purchases" and so forth.
and then,

"Accha, Whatdo you recommendas a decen teating pla cearound
here for light grub ?"

"Duh ? My Swahili is no good. Here is your change and have a
 a nice day, sir"

The scene shifts. My protege and four others have found a home
in a house that looked very much like the haunted mansion in
Bees Saal Baath. It is only a stone's throw away from the U.
Pitt stadium. (and they actually throw stones, when U. Pitt does
badly in any football games) When we climbed up a rickety
staircase, we came up to a spacious apartment. 

"How does it look?  Doesn't it look neat ?" The freshie asked
me. 

"I would think so. There seems to be several closets" .. Me.

"No, those are actually our bedrooms and Srini is going to stay
in the bathroom" 

And just then, a prehistoric gigantopithecus, who somehow
reminded me of Joachim Martillo, stepped out of the bathroom. It
was smelling of denatured alcohol, tobacco, sweat and peanut
butter and was muttering obscenities under his foul breath. "He
is the landlord, I think he is very decent", the freshy informed
me. "Yah, he sort of looks cute too" I managed to mumble. 

My 'friend' finally left today. He gave me a sandalwood
something and uttered a big thanks, which I am sure, was quite
genuine.

Epilog: This article is based mostly on real life incidents.
(Thanks to Abin for some of the incidents quoted) Also, this
post is as much about my inability to cope with the situation
as it is about the exploits of a fresh student from India. After
all, I too came to this country as a graduate student, albeit
more than a decade ago. 
\medskip\hrule\medskip 
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  COW MENACE IN INDIA}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Man, I just returned from this third world country called India
and I am appalled by all the poor sanitary conditions there. My
nose is all messed up and I don't think my appetite will ever be
the same any more. I will never be able to drink Mountain Dew
again. The whole of India is one giant bathroom. Indians are
preoccupied only with relieving themselves, here, there and
everywhere. So much so, now after two months since I came back,
I get this incredible bladder itch anytime I see a wall. In
fact, I can present a socio-scatological analysis and the
comparitive advantages of broad gauge tracks over meter gauge
tracks and psychological profiles of the Great Urinator. Even
SCI is isomorphic to India in its pathetic sanitary conditions.
In my opinion, this is the only problem that the Indian
government needs to solve and instead the stupid politicians are
interested in dumb things. But folks, I am going to focus my
attention on another great problem which has been ignored by all
the planning commisions - the Great Cow Menace in India and
their poor toilet habits.

You know, dudes and dudettes, that India has millions of these
creatures.  You can't walk ten yards in India without bumping
into a cow or its end product.  Cows in India should be trained
to control themselves. It isn't that major a task, given the
advances made in Skinnerian conditioning. Take any cow and train
it like a dog. Give it a mild electric shock or prod it till it
learns not to urinate anywhere on the road. Who said it will be
simple, especially since the cows are so inept in India that
even speeding trucks slow down and swerve around them. You can
employ many of the large numbers of unemployed youths to do
these socially useful jobs.

You have to look for creative ideas to combat this serious
problem. How about for example using diapers on these animals ?
I am sure diaper manufacturers like 'Huggies' and 'Pampers' make
the extra-extra-large diapers for the future football player
babies and so the know-how already exists. We can import them
and wrap them around the cows. Sure, these diapers are not
environmentally friendly and will have to be trashed in large
land-fills. But at least, that will look prettier than the slimy
scoops of poop everywhere.

Look at New York City for example. They have a law that forces
people to clean up after their dogs. You see all these ladies
and gentlemen walking their dogs and when the dogs drop their
whacchammacallit, they don't feel silly or embarrassed. They
don't curse the dogs. They gladly scoop it up with a smile and
civic pride. Why can't the people in India do the same thing
with the cows and follow the animals with a pan ?

Cows in India are not merely animals randomly coloring the
Indian landscape, but they are a part of the ecosystem as well.
They are genetically mutant, because they not only eat paper and
digest printing ink, they even photosynthesize proteins from
nitrogen. But recently they are using tetrapaks in India to
package beverages and fruit juices and these disposable packs
have an aluminum lining and the cow is confused about whether to
digest the aluminum or not, thus producing non-biodegradable
excremants. This again is not good for the country. This again
complicates an already tough problem on hand.

For example, they can build Parking Lots for the cows at various
places in the city so that the cows can go there and do their
acts privately and make it easier for people to clean up later
on. And have you ever been to Kanpur Central railway station ?
It is almost Hell Junction. The platforms have a million push
cart vendors, ear-cleaners, coolies and yes, a thousand cows.
What will a visitor to Kanpur think if all they see is a bovine
welcome.  They have to be very careful to avoid the cow chips
and it isn't funny to carry your suitcases and play Hop Scotch
on the station platform. And they have 'Men's and 'Women's
restrooms on the platform. Why couldn't they have built one for
the cows ? Here is where the Indian planners lack the foresight.
When you have the third largest pool of engineers and scientists
and when the World Bank and IMF freely lend money to India, why
can't they plan well.

And where do you think the cows get their mental attitudes from
? From the people, of course ! You don't even need any complex
analysis to arrive at this. In India most cows and water
buffalos are brown in color, like the people. They are also
lazy, inept and dirty, like the Indians. All they do is eat and
crap.  They see all these people relieving themselves all over
the country. Even my uncle who is a well-regarded IAS officer
sprays the walls of Vigyan Bhavan five times a day. These cows
see the Indians merely as an extension of themselves and copy
their habits and say to themselves "What the heck ?" and raise
their tails in an arch at all kinds of places.  Instead of
setting an example to the cows we spoil them rotten by calling
them 'Holy Cows'.

Don't have a cow, dude ! ....... Bart Simpson.

\medskip\hrule\medskip 
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  CULTURE SHOCK AND COSMOLOGY}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Dear Sir/Madam,

Kudos to all your esteemed readers for relating their
experiences in this much venerated forum. Apropos from all the
letters on this topic, my heart melted with pity when I read
some of the "Culture shock" tales. I am a retired government
servant and I am currently visiting my daughter Smt.
Baghyalakshmi and son-in-law Thiru. Palvayanteeswaran, who live
in a very modern flat in New Jersey, a stone's throw away from
New York and both of them are breadwinners of the family. I
write to the editors of 'The Hindu' oft, and I am herewith
attaching a copy of the same for the benefit of all the kind
souls in the Soc.Culture.Indian.  Much ado has been raised about
the 'Culture Shock'. But, as they describe aptly in this
country, "You ain't seen nothin yet, my main man", till you read
my experiences.

Let me take twenty seconds of your valuable time. I am trying to
find the whereabouts of my dear friend Thiru.
Ananthavenkataraman, of 1917 batch, Presidency College (first
class, B. A in Chemistry).  He was a very interesing person and
knew many bawdy sanskrit verses. He even wore trousers to the
college, breaking the tradition. He had the longest 'chotee' in
the class. This is also an open invitation for all alumni of the
above-mentioned college, 1917 batch, dead or alive, to please
contact me through email or ouija board.

Now the Culture Shock. The hoi polloi of the S.C.I is very mild
in describing the events as 'shock'. Sometimes, my eyes were
welling with moist tears. To me it is 'Catastrophy'.  (In this
country they might spell it Katastrofy, Mr. Shaw must be rolling
in his grave) and what is this, 'Kind of cute, kind of neat', I
say? What kind of civilization is it if they show advertisements
for windows during world news. They call it world news? I will
show you what world news is. The newspapers here are not worth
the newsprint they are printed on. No moving religious article
on 'Sita's loyalty, and Hanuman's Bhakti' like the ones that
appear in the last page, first column of your number one
paper in our land. I would also like to know what kind of
country is it that allows dogs to sit in the front seat of the
cars and children in the back seat; that would allow its
honourable citizens to dress in nothing but banians; that allows
nubile ladies to show their private parts in magazines sold in
public?  Couples practising marriage everywhere in public? And
people turn a Nelson's eye towards these things here. There
is sex and violence everywhere. It is disgusting and I love it.

Where can I find vegetarian cuisine here, I say? Nice curd
baath. All non-vegetarian, everywhere. Cows are slaughtered on
all days.  Their karma will catch up with them, you wait. One
day I went to that organized garage sale called K Mart and asked
them in a humble tone "Sir, where can I find chappals". He
thought for a few minutes and said "There is one down the road
and a cathedral in the campus". What is the point of having
computators everywhere if you cannot even handle such simple
horse-sense situations?

On Mahasivarthri day I was observing the holy fast. I had only
eaten about a dozen idlis to propitiate god. Very suddenly I
produced a 'Hic' sound. And then another one. I don't believe in
allopathic treatment and so brought my homeopathic medicines.
When I tried to reach for it, I found out that my grandson had
eaten the whole bottle of sweet homeopathic medicine. No control
over children in this country? Isn't this shock? Spare the rod
and spoil the child. And no doctors visit patient at homes here.
So they took me to a hospital. Someone quickly asked me to
remove my dhoti and put on hospital gown. I tried to make a fig
leaf out of my hands, even when I was in the semi-conscious
state. This was another shock for me. Despite the best medical
attention and a huge bill, I passed away around 1.00 am. I
thought I had broken all the worldy bonds and 'Culture Shocks',
Joachim Martillo posts and have become a humble servant of Him.
But, when my soul went up, I was most shocked to find a
gentlething, most horrible in appearance, pointing a pen and a
sheet of paper and asked me to sign the form. I signed after
being on the horns of dilemma for a few seconds, and then
realized he was my agent and I am featured in the movie
"Ghostbusters III".  Isn't this culture shock?

It was my pleasure to share many of my shocking experiences from
my mind's eye. I have to leave now, since I am skejooled to meet
Sri Ayatollah Khomeini in a few minutes.

Namaskaram
/....../

\medskip\hrule\medskip 
Do Tamils have last names (surnames)?

I had posted the following in soc.culture.tamil.  A nettor feels
that the topic may interest the citizens of SCI as well.  

     What is your last name (surname)?  A question Tamils from TN
encounter when they leave their home state.  We don't have last
names or first names or middle names.  We are given a name (or
names in some cases) and an initial.  When last names and first
names are needed, the entire resume is fed into a grinder and out
come all the necessary names.  Thus sometimes last name of a
Tamil is really the name of a town he/she has never been to. 
And/or the first name is really the father's name.  Or any
other imaginable combination.  Sometimes the caste name becomes
the last name. 

     Robert Kanigel has a book on Ramanujan (kaNitha mEthai)t
titled "The man who knew infinity."  He describes the initial
system thus:
     "Srinivasa was just his father's name, automatically         
      bestowed and rarely used; indeed, on formal documents, and  
      when he signed his name, it usually atrophied into an       
      initial "S."
      . . . 
      As he would later explain to a Westerner, "I have no proper
      surname.
Perhaps he might have added "Nobody out here has a surname."

      The initial system is not as simple.  Some belong to the
single initial system and some have two initials.  Some have more
than two.  A textile shop in our home town bore the name of the
founder with his all four initials.  Often the two initials stand
for the names of the village and the father.  Sometimes not.  I
hear that L.R. Eswari's full name is Lourdu Rajeswari.  Since
there was a M.S. Rajeswari, the former decided to compress the
name.  Why do some have one and others two?  Why does
Soundararajan have two but Susheela only one?  Puzzling.

      It is not just persons who have initials.  Towns do too. 
IF you enquire about the bus to Kallupatti in Madurai bus stand  
you will be asked whether you want to go to T. Kallupatti or M.
Kallupatti.

      Often the names of persons turn into a bunch of initials. 
Not just for stars - M.G.R., S.S.R.  Go to any office.  You will
hear statements like "neenga ethukkum K.S.R.-te oru vArthai
chollividunga."  

      We also come across persons with multiple names (not
including the name used by ones mom because she is not allowed to
say the father-in-law's name).  Tamil Christians have multiple
name syndrome.  John Xavier Athisaya Kumar.  You can get a first
name, middle name and a last name and still have a name to spare.

     Some have names that naturally split up (unstable
molecules).  Kamal Hassan is a case in point.  Many of my Hindi
speaking friends asked me whether he is a Tamil Muslim or a
Malayali Muslim.

      A word of caution to non-Tamils.  When you hear a Tamil's
last name, assume nothing.  The other day I introduced my father
to my department chairman.

     "Scott, this is my Dad.  Appa, this is our chairman."

He shook my father's hand and said "Pleased to meet you 
Mr. Ponarul."  I explained the situation to my father later but
he didn't like the fact that he was called by name.

\medskip\hrule\medskip


     I have a friend from Guyana (once British Guyana) who tells
me that the Indians in her country are broadly classified into
three groups.  Hindus, Muslims and Madrasis.  As far as possible 
marriage partners are sought within the group.  How do tell if
some one is a Madrasi?  My friend says it is by their last name. 
Madrasi's tend to have last names that do not come from India or
from any other place.  They are just made up names.

Richard 
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  MUCH MUCH MUCH MORE OF }
\centerline{\bf THIS AND THAT}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

EVEN THOUGH I am a total goofball and have no known academic achievement,
I was inducted into the Executive Committee of a mega project at a major
university, (no names please !) just because my corporation dishes out 
money toward the project every year. That was one of those 'life-changing' 
events for me, because all these big, bad professors have started 
dancing in circles around me, like a bunch of Mujras, just to get a 
piece of the sponsorship money. Before I realized it, the Dean, Vice 
President and the Provost (just what the hell does a University Provost 
do ?) took me out for lunch at one of the luxurious, inner sanctums 
of the university and treated me to a lot of weak jokes and
inane anecdotes about the university. One of them even told me "We always 
like students from India. You all have a solid foundation in mathematics."
or some such, just to ingratiate me. It all sounded eerily unreal, sort of
like poetic justice, because I have always been terrorized by professors,
until very recently. In case any of you go on to become project sponsors, 
here are some useful tips.

Remember, it is like a tug-of-war between the professors, who are trying to 
impress the committee - and you, trying not to get impressed. First thing you
ought to do during project presentations is to go to the very front desk, 
spread all your stuff across two chairs, empty your brief case and spread 
the contents on the desk. Ignore the speaker and his project presentations 
as much as possible. Always keep doodling something on your notepad and 
only occassionally should you look at the speaker in his eyes. Just when 
a new professor is called on to present his part of the project, leave the 
room to re-fill your coffee cup, just to unnerve the professor.

Always address the professors by their first names, even if they had won two
or three Nobel prizes. If you don't know their first names, just call them
Dave.

When the professor claims that the 'Mechano-fudge coefficient increases with
temperature', you should interrupt him and mutter "Hmm. Interesting that it
is increasing." If on the other hand, the professor mentions that it decreases
with temperature, you should simply say "Hmm. Interesting that it is 
decreasing." In either case, the professor should get the idea that you somehow
know these results already and that they are trivial.

Watch out for the professor who talks excitedly and jumps arouund as if 
he is on burning coal. He would claim that he has made a lot of 
technological breakthroughs and has several 'exciting' results. "These
results are hot off the oven" he would claim, trying to imply that his lab 
is the hotbed of all research activity in the world, "As we speak, Wei Chen 
and Srini are measuring the Mechano-fudge coefficient on the latest samples 
in the lab."

At the end of any presentation, you can psych them by asking how come they did 
not do something. "Why didn't you measure the Mechano-fudge coefficient as a 
function of the phase of the moon ?" you can always ask them. To which, they 
might twist and turn or have stock answers such as "Jane is the only one 
who does these measurements. Now she is on maternity leave."

Let me tell you folks, it is a lot of fun to be on the supply side of 
the money-line.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

EVEN THOUGH I don't personally own a dhoti, I think I can write a 
thesis on dhotis. In fact, a comparitive ethnic study of 'dhoti-tying' 
habits across the various states of India is much needed. By the way, 
the New York Times, in its infinite wisdom, has once referred to dhoti 
as 'an oversized diaper'. 

For example, the Kerala folks, I am told, tie a dhoti asymmetrically, with
the knot on the left hand side, (Verdad ?) whereas the Uttar Pradesh
style is simply starting it such that LHS = RHS and then wrapping around
symmetrically. In Rajasthan, the trick is to reduce the bulk to a neat,
streamlined form. While you are in Tamil Nadu, you would tie it around
like a barrel, in the 'lungi' format. There ought to be a law in India 
banning these lungi people, who fold their lungis at thigh level in a 
'half mast,' from kick starting their bicycle and riding them. It can be 
very obscene.

The Bengalis, by the way, are the only ones who hang onto their dhoti
ends in one hand. This is probably because they are still trying to figure
out where to stick the ends of their dhotis. It is not uncommon to see 
them walk around in Calcutta, clutching their dhotis. However, in these
modern times, when getting in and out of subways and tram cars are so tough,
guys who are 'short-handed' because one of their hands is already occupied
with the dhoti, are particularly at a disadvantage. For example, when the
train or the bus jostles, oftentimes, the dhoti end and the owner get
momentarily separated. But thank god for Newton's laws, the dhoti ends always
come back to the hands, except that the guys discover that they are holding
the wrong man's dhotis and not their own. The Bengalis of course are much
more civil and gentle than most other folks in India and so under such
situations, they would simply ask the others "Excuse me, may I have mine
back, please". (This 'holding onto the end' is also observed among some
Punjabi women and their 'Pallus', but then, that is another Ph. D topic)

Also, one of the most serious problems facing Indian men, to the point of
affecting their general well-being, is the 'nada' (strap) of a pyjama getting
sucked into the pyjamas. This is an acute epidemic across the globe and 
has to be halted right away. I have half a dozen pyjamas with the strap
disappearing on one side. No matter how much brute force one applies, there is 
no way to yank out the sucked-in strap. My mom suggested that I buy a safety 
pin and thread the strap in again. But then, in these high-tech times, who has
even heard of a safety pin ? You can try to cheat the pyjama by tying a knot
out of the strap all the time, leaving no free end. But then, there is 
always the danger of your not being able to unravel the knot, especially 
when you need to go to the bathroom urgently. Also, strange as it may seem, 
the moment you put the knotted pyjama in the washer, the pyjama strap 
Houdinis itself and the black hole opens up and gobbles up one end of the 
strap. Is there any end to this malady or is this a grand conspiracy by 
all the tailors across India to generate guaranteed employment for 
themselves ?

\medskip\hrule\medskip

EVEN THOUGH these are highly unfunny, here are some very poor jokes.

Q: What is the name of a desi-owned chain departmental store ?
A: Desi Penney.

Q: What is the name of a desi-owned fast food chain ?
A: Dosa Hut (Pittsburgh actually has a restaurant by this name)

Q: What is the favorite American city of desis ?
A: Desi Moines, Iowa.

Q: What is the favorite motel chain of the desis ?
A: RamaDas Hotel and Inns.

Q: What is the favorite sporting team of the Sangh Parivar and the Hindutva
types ? (No, not Cleveland Indians or Cincinnati Bengals)
A: Los Angeles 'Rams'. 

Q: What is desi's favorite river ?
A: Of course, it is Ganga, stupid.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

EVEN THOUGH many of the desis who come to this country are cream of the
crop, topping their IITs and so forth and apply themselves to the most
challenging Ph. D problems, they are also equally likely to spend a lot
of time and energy on wasteful, lowly projects like enrolling in CD clubs, 
book clubs and otherwise involving in various trivial scams. There is not
a single All-India topper who is not enrolled in one such club, because when
it comes to Compact Disks, it is not the quality, but the quantity is what
counts. Desis and scams are intertwined.

For example, during one of his visits, my uncle called me up and told me
that he was a Numismatist. I told him I was so sorry to hear it and wished
him good luck on getting better soon. Instantly my uncle called me an idiot
and explained to me that a numismatist collected coins, for whatever reasons. 
He told me that he was going to send a hundred dollars to a place in 
New Orleans for some rare nineteenth century coins. When he got them by mail, 
they were all suspiciously marked 1899 ! Another time, he had to fake 
'medical reasons' in order to extend his Air India ticket back to India 
and stay for a few extra months and the doctor ripped him off for more 
dollars than my uncle ripped off Air India. (of course, I was thrilled ! You 
don't know my uncle.) 

Desis are not always at the receiving end of a scam. Frequently, they dish
it out to them. One of my friends traveled to India by Lufthansa and sent
copies of his tickets to three local airlines and got frequent flier mileage
credit on all of them ! Then there is this guy, who buys tents and sleeping
bags at a fancy store, takes them out on a camping trip and promptly returns
them for credit after he gets back !

\medskip\hrule\medskip

continuing along the same vein,

TIME TABLE FOR A FRESHLY ARRIVED DESI GRADUATE STUDENT

6 Sept 1993 - Arrive in this country.

7 Sept 1993 - Get all information about credit cards and how to apply for them.
Send Emails to all and sundry.

8 Sept 1993 - Apply for the first credit card. 

9 Sept 1993 - Discover Soc.Culture.Indian.

10 Sept 1993 - Join the CD club.

11 Sept 1993 - Rejected for first credit card.

12 Sept 1993 - Receive junk mail announcing that 'You have won the Grand 
Prize in a Sweepstake.' Be thrilled for half a day and phone up the scam 
company.

13 Sept 1993 - Watch first American football game on TV. Make a comment that 
soccer is much better.

14 Sept 1993 - Go to Ohio State University on a visit to see friends.

15 Sept 1993 - Make a post on Soc.Culture.Indian.

16 Sept 1993 - Make father, brother, roommates as members of CD club.

17 Sept 1993 - Buy Nike Air Jordan shoes and Levy 501s.

18 Sept 1993 - Find an American football team to support and be a fan of 
that team like crazy as if you have known the team since you were born.

19 Sept 1993 - Locate all wingmates and classmates and compile a mailing 
list of all old classmates.

20 Sept 1993 - Be the first in the batch to attend a Jethro Tull concert. The 
Tull group now plays exclusively for the IIT guys, because they are the only 
remaining fans of Tull.

21 Sept 1993 - Be disgusted with Soc.Culture.Indian. Discover that Kuram 
T Narayana offends everyone, no matter which ethnic group you belong to.

22 Sept 1993 - End 'piling on' with seniors and make that first pot
of dal and rice.

30 Sept 1993 - Receive first paycheck and buy VCR and watch hindi movies.

1 Oct 1993 - Receive first phone bill for three hundred dollars.

1 Dec 1993 - Be the first one in the batch to go to get a driver's licence 
and go to Florida. 

23 Dec 1993 - Enroll in Dancing class, swimming class and aerobics class.

24 Dec 1993 - Be the first one to shed 'rookie' status by getting a real 
credit card, (other than an American Express card) buying a car, organizing 
a football party, visiting Delaware and actually starting a project toward 
Masters or a Ph. D.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
Acknowledgements: This post is generated out of idle conversations with
Kannan Subramanian, Chidambaram, Sunil, Swagatha and R. Sundaram
and has several of their comments.
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  A GRANDMOTHER REMEMBERED}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

There is something universal about all Indian grandmothers. It is
almost as if they all went to some sort of an IIT of
grandmothering and took the same courses. For one, they are
always in the background. They are all extraordinary ladies who
lead ordinary lives. And when they lose their teeth, they don't
always rush to the nearest dentist and slap on dentures. Pursy
lips are okay for them. Whatever may be their appearance, they
are pictures of dignity. They never once upstage the
grandfathers, even though sometimes they bear the brunt of their
husbands' irrational outbursts. On the flip side, it isn't too
difficult to coax them into a deliriously happy mood that they
rush in and make sweets, especially for you. They expect very
little out of their grandkids, even though their entire lives
revolve solely around their families.

After living till a ripe old age of ninety something, my
grandmother finally called it quits and died a few days ago in
India.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

My earliest recollection of her was when we were negligibly
small. She and grandpa would come unannounced one day and would
stay on for several months at a stretch. In a matter of minutes,
she would take over the kitchen from my mom and rule supreme.

She enjoyed cooking in some sort of a masochistic way. My mother
would take out the most massive cooking utensils, since
grandmother was most comfortable with caveman-like primitive
cooking tools. I remember the war footing they were on when they
launched into making pickles.  At least a million mangoes were
chopped and kilos of chili powder and masalas were mercilessly
ground and plowed into a sea of oil. Her repertoire was so
enormous she made at least twenty kinds of sambhar.  Some of her
'surprise' recipes were not always the tastiest, but she would
insist that they were good for our health and were certainly the
right stuff to improve one's brains to do the schoolwork.

New rules would be imposed by my mother just so that she would
score brownie points with grandmother. "Today is New Moon day" my
mother would announce "And so no onions." Obscure festivals and
lesser known avatars of Vishnu would be discovered and celebrated
with grandma directing the show.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

And I was always the official escort for grandmother when she
dropped in on her numerous relatives. With her around, it felt
like half of South India was related to our family one way or
another.

"They live just on the next street. Why do you want me to come
along ?" I would protest feebly.

"They have a dog and I don't dare go in."

"But grandma, I am even more scared of the dog than you are."

She probably figured that with me around, the probability of the
dog attacking her is reduced by half.

Hanging around grandparents wasn't one of the coolest things to
do when I was in high school. I remember running into my teacher,
Lakshmi Miss of all people when I was chaperoning grandma to a
temple. I was speechless and embarrassed that my school life and
personal life somehow intersected. Grandmother even struck up a
conversation with Lakshmi Miss.

And when she walked back from the temple, it was never as the
crow flies. She would stop at every house on the way and pick up
the neighborhood gossip. She had an incredible memory, a keen
analytic mind that separated the real gossip from the chaff and
an intuition to compile a large database of reliable sources to
maximize her gossip intake. Her interrogation techniques would
have probably landed her a job with the FBI - sometimes she would
pretend to be dumb, some other times she would unnerve the other
person and yet other times, she would simply have to exchange one
of her juicy gossips in order to get a newer one.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Usual events in life, like births and deaths and marriages hit
her like bolts of lightening. Toward the end of her life, her
only mission in life was to make sure everybody around her got
married.

It didn't matter to her if the visitor in the living room
happened to be the wife of my father's boss. She always took the
liberty of asking "You said your Anita is in college. Are you
seriously looking for a boy ? I know several boys from very good
families. I am talking about IAS officers' sons and doctors'
sons."

In fact, she has engineered several marriages and would give us a
blow by blow account of what happened, long after the bride and
the groom themselves forgot that my grandmother was responsible
for their wedding. Before she was widowed, she was an
indispensible member of many wedding entourages and would be
present in every frame of numerous wedding videos. People really
believed that her presence was auspicious. Also, she was very
knowledgeable about the wedding ceremony itself and its many
customs and protocols. They would send cars to our place to take
her to the jewelry and saree stores to help them select. Even as
a saree revolution was going on around her, ushering in the
Chiffon era, she was the unquestioned authority on silk, wedding
sarees.  "Your Sunita is slightly wheatish complexioned. So this
off-blue color will be better for her. I can already picture the
bride."

And birth of babies was a source of immense joy for her. 

"Does the baby look like our people or does he resemble your
husband's folks ?"  she would ask an obscure aunt over the
phone. In a few days, she would visit the newborn and raster the
baby from top to bottom with her eyes and would assert, like a
biblical prophet, that "the eyes look like your husband, but the
nose and the lips are ditto like the grandfather."

She had a way with all babies and handle them effortlessly like
Michael Jordan handles basketballs. She would grab them with one
hand and spread them on her spacious lap and launch into a babble
of baby talk, which in itself used to be fun to watch.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

I remember the time when the mess workers went on strike at IIT
Kanpur and they closed the college promptly and sent us scurrying
home early for the summer holidays. I didn't have time to even
call home. I reached home and pressed the doorbell, hoping to
surprise everyone. I could see grandma in the front room, reading
some magazine.

"Who is it ?" she asked from inside.  

"This is the 'raddhiwala', looking to buy old newspapers. Do you
have any old stuff for me today, Madam ?" I said, disguising my
voice.

"It is Ramesh !!" she yelled and the door was sprung open in no
time at all, followed by an excited conversation. You know how it
is - the first fifteen minutes of reaching home after a long
absence.

"Oh, hello, come, come. When did you arrive ? How come you didn't
write or phone about your coming ? Your parents just stepped out
to go to your uncles'. Grandpa is napping. How did your exams go
?"

"They closed our college grandma. There was a strike."

"I thought you were all good students and never went on strike."

"No, grandma, the mess workers are on strike." That was enough to
satisfy grandmother.

"Look at you ! You have grown so much." My grandmother was
visibly happy "I remember you still as a little kid, in your
khakhi shorts. Always breaking your leg or a hand. You used to be
so short tempered. I can't believe you have matured so much. Now
your younger brother is doing everything you used to do - playing
cricket and hanging out with friends till late night." I wanted
to tell her that I was a lousy cricket player.

She came up to me and touseled my hair. "Pretty soon you will
follow your cousin Raju and go to America also. Then you will not
even remember your own grandma and grandpa. Study well and become
a big officer.  That's all what we want."

"Sure grandma, its all your blessing." 

"In my excitement to chat with you, let me not forget coffee !
Let me set the coffee filter. Poor boy ! You have come all the
way and I haven't even given you a cup of coffee yet."

She quickly came back from the kitchen and handed me something.

"Here, have it."

"What is it ?"

"It is your favorite, cashew barfis. Your mom happened to buy a
kilo of cashews yesterday. Your father was mad at us for spending
so much money. And we sat down all morning and made it. Maybe we
had the gut feeling that you were coming today for your summer
holidays."

"Those used to be my favorites some five years ago, grandma, when
I was in high school. You are incredible ! By the way, how is
your health these days ?"

"My health ? It is going. Even my blood 'pleasure' is
normal. Whatever god has willed, it will happen. Nothing is in
our hands. It is already five past four. I need to wake up
grandpa and give him his four O' clock medication.  What a
pleasant surprise it will be for him to see you."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

The last time I went to India, I made a videotape of my
grandmother. By this time, she had already become stooped,
shrivelled up and completely wrinkled.  Me and my cousin tried to
'interview' her, to add spice to the video.

"Grandma, question number one, how old are you ?"

"Me, I am eighty." She lied, unwilling to tell us her real age.

"How was life those days, when you were a small girl ?"

"Oh, well. I got married when I was eight and when I was just a
teenager, I went to live with your grandfather. My in laws were
cruel people. They would force me to go to the river and fetch
water everyday for the entire household and do all the chores
around the house. Then your grandfather left for the big city to
study and then came the world war, independence... Rice used to
sell for ten rupees a sack. I used to go in bullock carts. And
now I ride in planes and cars. Those days even going to a movie
was considered evil. And now, we have movies in our own living
room on TV. All these modern gadgets are definitely good - as
long as they don't corrupt the morals of the people."

"What would you like to say to all your relatives and wellwishers
?"

"That they all live well and in happiness and good health."

"Grandma, now you sound exactly like a grandmother from a hindi
movie or a tamil movie."

"Me, like a movie grandmother ?" She was absolutely amused and
started to laugh, with her wrinkles quivering. "Hehehehe. Don't
make me laugh. Oh, stop recording. People might think I am a
silly old woman. Go take somebody else's video. A movie
grandmother. Hehehehehe. You are always a great kidder."

She still kept laughing as she walked slowly to her room. I was
somewhat puzzled that she found my little remark so uproariously
funny. But that was perhaps one of the last images of her that I
have in my mind.


\medskip\hrule\medskip
An Open Letter (by Mahadevan Ramesh) - 67
Keywords: serious

                      DISCLAIMER
This is to warn you all that I did *NOT* write these
articles (wish I did, though!). Nor I am Dr. Mahadevan Ramesh. 
I'm merely reposting these articles.
Please contact Ramesh at mahadevan@stortek.com.

\medskip\hrule\medskip Rangaswamy

\medskip\hrule\medskip
Note : I thought of skipping this and the next few posts because they
       are not 'typical' Mahadevan Ramesh articles. But I decided to
       go ahead and repost them for two reasons :
       (1) Many new netters may not be aware of the acrimonious debate
           that went on in SCI during the days following the demolition
           of the Barbri Masjid/Ram Janma Bhoomi. Some of the characters
           who crop up in the article expressed such extreme sentiments
           that I was shocked and disturbed to see such bigotry even among
           the educated desis. Ramesh's response eloquently expressed
           what many of us felt. Those of you who were not then can get
           a 'taste' of what went on if you read this article.

       (2) This and the following articles show a different 'facet' of 
           Ramesh. I do not have some of his serious articles, particularly
           the one where he analyzed an article of a 'idiot professor'.
           If anybody has these and the Libel-101 articles, please repost
           them or send them to me. 
                        
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  AN OPEN LETTER TO }
\centerline{\bf VIRENDRA VERMA }
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}
                

(This is a serious post and I do apologize for its strong
content.  But sometimes, you have to vent your feelings.  Please
skip this one if you don't want to read a post from a
secularist.)

Priya Verma-ji,

I have been amused by many, many of your moving missives over the
last several weeks, aimed squarely at the 'crocodiles'.  Your
theories of East meeting West and the lucid examples you threw at
your 'crocodiles' were enlightening.  You finessed the whole
discussion with your pinpoint accurate explanation of why you are
an American citizen and yet change India from the outside,
whatever that means.  By the way, now that you are calling people
'crocodiles', can I please, please call you a 'goon' or perhaps
something more fashionable like 'Squirmin Vermin' ?  Thanks.
Also, can I give you some reality checks so that you can see the
world beyond your little 'kuan' you now live in ?  Let me keep
this post naively simple so that something permeates to you.

First of all, Vermaji, understand a very simple fact.  We, the
silent majority on the net and in India are the real Hindus.  You
are slightly different.  People of your kind are called Hindu
fanatics.  Let me explain some of the differences between the two
groups of us.  For example, fundamentalists like you, Vermin -
oops Verma, invent imaginary concepts like 'Hindutva'.  But for
the majority of India, for the mainstream Hindus, such pseudo
concepts are irrelevant and we don't give a damn about Hindutva
or Christiantva.  We have no quarrels with the Muslims.  Such
drastic differences in attitude distinguish your cult-like groups
from the normal, mainstream folks like us.

You, the fanatics, are merely trying to hijack Hinduism from the
mainstream.  Too bad, your tactic will not work, because there
are too many of us good folks.  We are proud to be Hindus and we
don't feel compelled to avenge a supposedly historical episode,
after a zillion years.  We believe in the common good of people
and we believe that most Muslims, like most Hindus are decent,
honest people trying to eke out a living.  You, my friend are the
terrorist, exactly isomorphic to the Kashmir terrorist that you
so eloquently write about.  We, the mainstream Hindus, have
absolutely no problems practicing what we believe is Hinduism in
our privacy and we also believe that at the governmental level,
secularism and democracy are wonderful and fair ideas.  There is
no contradiction or pseudo-secularism.  You are the pseudo Hindu.
Sure, India can implement secularism in a much better fashion,
but nothing warrants or excuses the events of December 6 th or
the Bombay riots.  You are not a spokesman for the Hindus,
because what is happening is not a Hindu vs Muslim thing, but a
Hindu fanatic vs all Muslims and Muslim fanatic vs all Hindus
thing.  You are a fanatic and who knows, if you hadn't become an
American citizen but stayed back in Ayodhya, you could have been
one of those saffron robed fanatics and may have even been called
Swamy Virendrananda.

Let me teach you some arithmetic.  You cry foul in all your posts
that "40 % of the Hindus want the mosque demolished and so it is
okay to demolish the mosque."  That opinion poll you quote so
often, was compiled in the northern states of India.  If you take
the whole nation, including West Bengal and the south (and for
some reasons, Hindus there seem less interested in mosque
destruction) the per centage is probably around 25.  If you
include the opinions of people of other religions like the
Muslims and Christians and Sikhs (remember they too are Indians,
just like you.  Oops, forgot you are NOT an Indian) the number
goes down even more.  If you subtract this number out of 100, the
result is greater than 70.  So a majority DOES NOT want the
mosque destroyed.  So don't go around whining that the 'Majority
opinion is not respected'.  In fact, the Hindu fanatical goons
are the ones who did not respect the majority opinion and went
around destroying the economy, lives and a nation's pride.

Would you stop writing on the SCI if a majority of us asks you
not to write ?  And should you ?  You have no idea how a
pluralistic, secular, democratic country should function.  You
will probably flunk the American citizenship test.  A democracy
does not mean that whenever 51 % of the people wants to do
something, they go ahead and do it.  Fortunately, we have a long
way to go before the 'fanatics' population reaches 51 % in India.
It never will.

And also, Verminji, you don't have an inch of remorse for what
happened following Ayodhya and in Bombay, even though it is a
crying shame.  I and the rest of the mainstream guys are willing
to pledge to my countrymen that we will work for the harmony,
collective good and national integration of India and be a
watchdog so that my secularism and democracy are not trampled.
Would you ?  Even now it is not too late for reconciliation and
emphasizing the common Indianness of all of us.  The economic
good of the country and brotherhood between various religions are
of higher priority for us than building a temple, whose only
purpose is to enforce fanaticsm.

We, as Indians and Hindus, feel very ashamed of what happened in
the name of Hinduism, because the Hinduism we, (the majority)
know does not preach hatred.  I apologize to all the people who
were brutalized, whose loved ones got killed and pillaged.  If
you are man enough, Virendra, you ought to apologize too.  Would
you ?  Remember, your own heros like Advani and Vajpayee DID
apologize on the day of the Ayodhya plunder.  If you don't
apologize, I surmise that you don't see anything wrong with the
killing and looting and tacitly support it.

Next, you and your fellow rabid fanatics like Kuram Narayana and
Mohan Sekhar would turn around and label me as a communist.
Unfortunately, I am as capitalistic as it gets, because I work
for a corporation and try to improve its bottomline and I have
also invested thousands upon thousands of dollars in stocks.  And
there is nothing wrong if the communists ask the right questions.
Thanks to the Hindu fanatics' stupid actions and now silly
rhetorics, archenemies like the communists and the capitalists
have actually united in condemning you.

In fact, the international community is unanimous in condemning
you.  More than ninety per cent of the newspapers and magazines
in India and abroad have condemned the Ayodhya episode.  The
media has also taken pains to differentiate between 'all Hindus'
and 'Hindu fanatics'.  You are in a very, very small minority.
Wake up and realize your Hitlerisque ideas of grandeur.  It is
not too late to check with a psychiatrist and get rid of your
schizophrenia and the illusory world you live in.  People like
you, unfortunately for India, have infested India and are the
root cause of all the evil that is going on, when country after
country is rejuvenating itself with new economic policies and
hope.  There ought to be a Nuremberg like trial of people like
Advani, Joshi, Deoras, Thackrey, Singhal, Dalmia, Islamic Seva
Sangh goondas, for their crimes against humanity and all the
lives lost.

A word to all the young, newcomers from India - you may be
shocked, angered and saddened by all the rabid, fundamentalists'
posts on SCI and their Carrolian 'black is white and white is
black' logic.  Just remember that you are the majority and most
of India and the world opinion is solidly behind you.  You have
nothing to be defensive about.  Be proud of being a Hindu,
Indian, secular and human.  Go ahead, express your feelings and
feel free to ridicule these fundamentalists.

And the only way to deal with people like you, Verma, is not to
reason with you, but to just ridicule you and your silliness.
This is what people like Subbarao, Kannan Subramaniam and Narayan
Raja sometimes do.  This is not to take any credit away from
Kumar, Deepak, Ajay Diwakaran, Shyamala Parameswaran, Sanjeev
Mahajan et al who still haven't given up reasoning with you
goons.

End of venting. Now lets have some more 'Hindu fanatic' oneliners.

Yusself (Virendra Verma, that is), the resident sophist Raj
Bhatnagar, the 'constipation of the brains, diarrhoea of the
mouth' guy Prabhu Ambatipudi and Ajay Shah (with apologies to the
'good' Ajay Shah in USC) are in a room when the light bulb goes
'phutt'.  How many of them are required to change the light bulb
?

Ans:  None.  Because, mentally, you all live in the dark ages,
when there were no light bulbs.

Here is another one:  When your Muslim friend gave his wedding
invitation to you, Mr.  Virendar Verma, (I know it sounds
far-fetched) why did you count the invitation ?

Ans:  Because, Vermin wanted to see if there were four of them,
because you, like the other fanatics, always thought that all the
Muslims always married four wives.

Namaste, of course. And Croc-croc-croc-cooo.

Ramesh, 
the real Hindu and secularist.


\medskip\hrule\medskip 
Open Letter to God (by Mahadevan Ramesh) - 68
Keywords: serious, humorous


                      DISCLAIMER
This is to warn you all that I did *NOT* write these
articles (wish I did, though!). Nor I am Dr. Mahadevan Ramesh. 
I'm merely reposting these articles.
Please contact Ramesh at mahadevan@stortek.com.

Rangaswamy

\medskip\hrule\medskip

\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  An Open Letter to God}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Dear Lord,

This is an open letter addressed to you - the Lord, on behalf of
Virendra Vermin, our North American expert on 'Eastern mentality'
and 'Western mentality' and other 'mentalities', our Hindu
fanatic par excellance, authority on 'culture', philology, ad
nauseum.

In his signature file, he always sez 'Tamasor ma jyotirgamaya' -
translating it as 'Lord, lead me from darkness to the light'.
Would you please, please, please grant his wish and lead him to
'light' from his present darkness, even though he enjoys being in
the dark and takes the saying 'ignorance is bliss' quite
literally ?  You know he leads a rather blissful life. 

Also, while you are it, would you also lead his fellow rabid,
Hindu fanatics like Prabhu Ambatipudi, Ajay Shah, Indu, Kritivas,
Mohan Sekhar (yes, Sekhar, you are a rabid fanatic.  Only rabid
fanatics will have rabid fanatical signature files like you do)
and the other members of this minority terror brigade ?  Because,
Lord, we the majority, normal, mainstream Hindus, fear the
minority Hindu fundamentalist gangs more than any other group in
India.

Also, Lord, while leading them to 'light', don't talk to them,
because they will engage you in trivial arguments away from the
crux of the issues and their non-Boolean logic might make you
laugh.  However, feel free to ridicule them, because they are
ridiculous.  But, be careful, because they are dangerous.

Also, Lord, pardon these shameless, remorseless, brainless,
senseless cretins who spread bigotry and communal hatred in your
name - especially when most of these goons can't tell Hindutva
from the backside of a horse.

Thanks

On behalf of majority of Hindus and Indians.

\medskip\hrule\medskip 

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  WHAT THE HINDU FANATICS }
\centerline{\bf SAY AND WHAT WE SAY}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Is it me or is it really happening ?  Finally, more and more of
the secular, middle-of-the-road folks are writing on the SCI.
The noise generated by the langot-brigade on the net seems to be
coming down a few decibels.  We all owe a big thanks to the
relentless efforts of people like Vijay Fafat and Balaji Kannan
(and Bijoy Sagar, Shiva et al) for dealing with the fanatics and
their illogic, post for post and still managing to make hilarious
posts.

Mr (or is it Ms ?)  Indu Sekhar, I enjoy your lucid arguments
with choke full of logic.  You must be truly gifted.  A quick
existential question for you.  Are you yourself or are you a
parody of yourself ?  I know you have the inalienable right to
say whatever you have to say.  The next time you are in a movie
theatre, I won't be surprised if you yell 'Fire' (or 'commie' if
you so choose) even if there is no fire.  You are a fine example
of a person using his freedoms to the fullest while trying to
deny them to your fellow-citizens.

I am duty-bound to fight bigotry.  Gosh, in this age of highly
synthesized Political Correctness, how can ordinary people like
Indu and Gokhale spew such bigotted statements and believe it is
okay ?!

I have always maintained that the only way to deal with
fanaticism is to attack it and ridicule the fundies, because
there is no point reasoning with them.  So here is a laundry list
of 'Hindutva Syllogism' and doublespeak that routinely appear on
the bboard and what we, the normal, majority Hindus say in
response.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

(1) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "Bash the Muslims.  Muslims
bombed the World Trade Center, Muslims are trouble whereever they
go, from West Asia to Bosnia to Indonesia.  Muslims caused the
fourteenth century problems, fifteenth century problems and so
forth.  Muslims are the reason for Hindu insecurity and the
reason why so many Hindus are suffering from lower back pain
these days.  Hey, a healthy Hindu fanaticism depends on Muslim
bashing."

What we say:  "We know your sneaky techniques.  You are trying to
play on the irrational Muslim-phobia that exists in some segments
of the American population.  It won't work, because people are
not naive to believe in blanket statements about 'Muslims'.  Or
for that matter about other religions.  Just read the Associated
Press news releases that are posted on this newsgroup by Bala of
A.  T and T.  They clearly distinguish between Hindu fanaticism
and all Hindus.  What is happening is not a Hindu-Muslim
religious struggle, but a simple fanaticism vs Secularism
struggle."

(2) What the Hindu fanatics say:  (Oakian historical proof
technique) "Taj Mahal is Tejo Mahalay, the Oak Ridge lab is
actually the birthplace of Sri Oak, the ancestor of Sri.  P.  N.
Oak."

What we say:  "Under this technique nothing is impossible to
prove.  The Aryans could have either migrated from the North Pole
or sat on their asses all years in their living rooms in India.
You choose what you want to be the history.  In fact, Oak should
change his name to P.  N.  Joke or PJ for short."

(3) What the fanatics say:  "commie, commie" or its variation
"COMMIE, COMMIE."

What we say:  "This is just an extension of your Muslim bashing
technique.  You are hoping to play on the fear of communism,
although you don't realize that the threat of communism is
greatly diminished - to almost nil.  The Russians are becoming
capitalists, the Chinese have stock markets and Jyoti Basu is
courting NRIs to start industries in his state.  Don't worry,
your children are safe.  Where had you been all these years ?  So
who is going to fall for your arguments on communism ?  If the
communists did not succeed in India, some fifty years ago, when
casteism, colonialism and Zamindari systems were creating an
ideal Marxist revolutionary climate, why would they be successful
now ?  What is wrong if the so-called communists ask the right
questions along with us capitalists ?  If the communists also
want to stop Hindu fanaticism, may the force be with them.
Calling Sanjeev Mahajan a commie or his mother a commie, will not
get you one convert.  McCarthy has been dead, you know.  You
might as well have called Mahajan something obscene.

Do us a favor.  Take an elementary course in Sociology.  And
while you are at it, take a course in Philosophy of Science and
read Kant, Popper and others before discussing Vedic science."

(4) What the fanatics say:  "Even Swamy Amritrajananda says that
Hindu fanaticism is great.  He is a great scholar on Gita and so
he should know everything - even about programming in C++
language.  Even the French folks want Hindutva, only they call it
'Hindutoir'.  'Murphy Brown' has endorsed Sprint company.  So we
should all switch to Sprint."  (The 'Big name endorsement'
argument)

What we normal Hindus say:  "Even if Mother Teresa, Martin Luther
King and Mahatma Gandhi all told us that secularism is bad and
Hindu fanaticism is good, we will not go "Jeez, we are wrong and
you are right.  Now we are convinced".  Sure, we will be
influenced by great thinkers but not by fanatical statements
coming out of a Swamy who knows his Gita well."

(5) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "Don't pick on Virendra Vermin.
He is old enough to be your uncle.  Pick someone your size.
Verminji has the right to say what he wants to say."

What we normal Hindus say:  "We are sure Vermin is a big boy now
and can take care of himself.  Nobody asked him to stop making
posts.  Heck, we need our daily dose of humor and be told whether
we are 'Bhartas' or 'Bharatas'.  But we reserve the right to
taunt him and make him look like a fool.  If he has the guts to
make posts and wants all the ensuing attention from the bboard
readers, he should be prepared also for the flames.  Bboard is no
place for pussyfoots.  This bboard does not guarantee automatic
adulation to Vermin's posts or anyone else's.  Also, it is one
thing to express your opinion.  But if any of you make racist,
bigotted statements, we will go after you full blast."

(6) What the fanatics say:  "Well said Langot.  I agree with you
'toto'.  Well said Dinesh, your arguments make a lot of sense to
me.  Good work Induji".  (The 'self-feeding frenzy' technique)

What the normal Hindus say:  "Actually, such mutual back-slapping
is a matter of supreme indifference to us.  In fact, it helps us
count how many of you are out there, polluting the net".

(6) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "Chapter X1 of Gita sez it is
okay to bash the Muslims and Chapter 22 of Qur'an itself admits
that the Muslims are dangerous."

What the normal Hindus say:  "Again, perhaps you are right.  But
while interpreting religious texts, usually nobody is right all
the time and one can always quote out of context.  None of these
religious text-quoting can justify fanaticism or pulling down a
mosque, which after the December 6 th Ayodhya incident, all you
fanatics have started calling a 'structure'.  You guys quickly
adapt, don't you ?"

(7) What the Hindu fanatics say: "I am sick of ... I am tired of.."

What the normal Hindus say:  "Basically, you have run out of
arguments.  The 'I am sick of ...' type of venting is usually the
last resort to make you sound reasonable.  It might work on
people that might take you seriously.  But not on a bboard.  You
are a spokesman only for a minority of the Hindus.  You don't
speak for us, the majority Hindus, who want secularism."

(8) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "Even Sikhandar Bakht's kids
have Hindu names.  Even some Muslims want the temple built in
Ayodhya."  (The 'Good Muslim-Bad Muslim' technique)

What normal Hindus say:  "You still don't get it, do you ?  We
are not talking about brownie points out here or about symbolic
gestures.  A Nazi-like movement is going on in India very
seriously and we ought to stop it.  You cannot justify your
brutal campaign with such statements about some of the Muslims.
By the way, have you really bothered to make friends with any
Muslims, personally ?  Maybe you should.  Because ignorance is
the root cause of much bigotry."

(9) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "Mahabharat is not an epic.
Ram was in Ayodhya the night of Oct 15, 4365 BR (BR refers to the
new Hindu era reference point, 'Before Rekha') and we have
historical proofs !"  (also known as 'Whitewash that history with
mythology' technique)

What the normal Hindus say:  "Fine.  Each person to his belief.
We can practice such things in privacy.  This should not disallow
other religions from practicing their religion or having a
pluralistic India with multi-ethnic culture.  The Hindu religion
is a great one, however that does not contradict the great
contributions to India of Islam, Sikhism, Jainism and so forth
and the people who practice those religions."

(10) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "Golmalkar never said it.  RSS
is never bad.  Shiv Sena has saved the country".  (The 'black is
white, white is black' technique)

What the normal Hindus say:  "You seem to have numerous
references of everything and you can always pull a quote to prove
how these fanatics and fanatical organizations are actually Nobel
peace prize quality units.  The point is most of India agrees
that VHP, ISS, RSS etc are fanatical organizations and that they
were banned for a good reason.  If you are going to sing praises
such organizations, then you are tacitly violating the ban.  You
probably think that the government should not have banned them in
the first place.  You may be right.  However repulsive it may be,
even the Ku Klux Klan, (analog of RSS, ISS, VHP and Shiv Sena in
this country) is allowed to function."

(11) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "This is all because of Rajeev
Gandhi, Indira Gandhi, Devi Lal.  Blame them.  Don't blame us.
MP government, UP government, Orissa government blah blah blah It
is the Congress government who caused the problem, because they
amended the constitution in the Shah Bano episode and that is why
we pulled down the Babri Masjid."  (The 'Micro-political
quagmire' technique)

What the normal Hindus say:  "This is your standard stalling
practice to peg some of us down to some meaningless politics
quibble, while your comrades are setting fire to a Muslim hut.
We can certainly point fingers to a lot of things of the past.
And we should learn a lesson or two from the past.  But nothing
justifies mad fundamentalist outrage.  The main problem is 'now'
and 'here'.  Let us stop Hindu fanaticism 'now', before it
consumes the country.  Don't bring the past over and over.
Discovering new etymologies for the present problems will not
solve them."

(12) What the Hindu fanatics say: "We are angry."

What the normal Hindus say:  "Tell us, who isn't ?  Everybody is
angry.  Everyone is angry in his or her own way because there is
too little money, too little sex and too many problems.  If
suddenly you find yourselves angry, it is because your passions
are whipped up and you are lead like a bunch of sheep by
self-serving bigots like Advani, Singhal and Deoras.  Sack them
and think for yourselves.  Look at yourselves.  Aren't we
minorities in this country ?  How would we like it if a Christian
fundamentalist group comes and demolishes some of our temples in
this country which are built on converted churches ?  Aren't we
supposed to be sensitive to minority issues ?"

(13) What the Hindu fanatics say:  "Listen to both sides."  ('Hey
guys, let us have symmetry' argument)

What the normal Hindus say:  "No, there are no two sides.
Bigotry, racism, fundamentalism all have only one side - the bad
side.  If you are willing to apologize for what happened in
Ayodhya and Bombay and are willing to work for a secular India,
we can talk.  I am sure you have some genuine grievances, but
nothing should make an animal of you.  You clamor for a common
Civil code.  We should be able to work such things out, even
though the Civil codes don't impact 99.99 % of the population of
India."

\medskip\hrule\medskip 
A Sambar Recipe from Mahadevan Ramesh - 70
\medskip\hrule\medskip

Note : This concludes my repostings of Ramesh Mahadevan's articles.
       I will be thankful if anyone sends me the articles I missed.

       BTW, the Sambhar recipe 'works' very well!

\medskip\hrule\medskip Rangaswamy
\medskip\hrule\medskip

> Mukund Srinivasan's Sambhar Recipe
                     
M>The following recipe comes from the Vilangaddu area (North Arcot District)
M>of Tamilnadu - courtesy of my wife (actually her grandmother). It is
M>the "Araicchu Potta" or "Pisa Hua" or "ground" version called Sambhar as
M>opposeed to the "take 2 spoons of 777 powder and call me in the morning"
M>version known as Kozhambu.

              < Recipe deleted>

>Mukund Srinivasan

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  Mahadevan Ramesh's Recipe}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Mukund, Mukund, Mukund, you have eaten my sambhar and you know
in your heart and stomach walls that it is better than anything
you have ever tasted. Don't your taste buds gently remind you of
the wonderful bouquet it permeated ? And this is all because my
IIT Kanpur is better than your IIT Madras. Let me give my recipe
and start the true sambhar war right in the earnest.

In Pittsburgh, there exist two schools of sambhar making, M. Rao
school and Nattu's (the gentlemen in question are graduate
students here) - both recipes produce wonderful end products and
their sambhars really ought to be bottled and sold. Over the
months, I have evolved my own recipe for onion sambhar,
borrowing ideas from these stalwarts. Let me share it with you
all. Move over, Mukund.

(1) Take a cup of toor dal, add about two and a half cups of
water, half a spoon of turmeric (haldi) and about a tablespoon
of oil, mix well and pressure cook for about 4 minutes; if you
don't have a pressure cooker, cook covered in low medium heat,
till the dal is cooked well. Set aside.

(2) You can use either the usual onions or small ('pearl')
onions. Small onions are available frozen in grocery stores.
Thaw them well in advance. If you can't find small onions, then
slice about six or seven usual onions into long strips. Fry the
onions in oil in medium high heat (the idea is to brown them
without letting them disintegrate) and when they are fried, add
water to cover about a third of the dutch oven. Add about a
table spoon of tamarind (imly) concentrate and about 4 Oz of
tomato paste. (Tomato paste is available in 6 Oz cans, if you
want your sambhar more tangy, you can add the full can. You can
experiment with the amount of tamarind also) Let it boil in
medium heat.
(3) Grate about 1/3 of a full coconut. If you can't grate, scoop
out about 1/3 of a full coconut and cut into tiny pieces. Take
another pan, fry about two tablespoons of bengal gram (channa)
dal, four tablespoons of black gram (udat) dal, four tablespoons
of coriander (dhania) seeds, about half a teaspoon of fenugreek
(methi) and slowly fry them in medium low heat. When fried
enough to a pleasant smelling brown, add about 6 to 10 dry red
chillies, depending on how wimpy you are. Then finally add the
coconut pieces and fry for an extra minute or two.

(4) Grind the above ingredients to a fine paste in a blender
with water and add to the boiling tamarind water. Let it boil
for a few minutes. Mash the dal (using a blender or using brute
force) and add to the boiling liquid.  Add salt to taste. Let it
simmer in slow medium heat for fifteen minutes.

(5) Here comes the fun part. Crackle mustard (rye) seeds in
butter. When the seeds crackle, throw in some curry leaves (well
washed and dried) and fry for a few seconds and add to sambhar.
You can even add some coriander leaves to the sambhar.

(6) Let your roommate wash all the dishes, especially the
blender and the cooker.
If it doesn't get consumed all in one session, this sambhar
tastes even better the next day. To realize the full potential
of this sambhar, you must force someone to make stuff like idlis
and dosas to go along. Bon appetite !

\medskip\hrule\medskip 
What is desi mentality? (by Mahadevan Ramesh) - 64
\medskip\hrule\medskip

Warning : Dr Roy, Please hit 'n' now!

\medskip\hrule\medskip

    WHAT IS DESI MENTALITY - LIFE OF DR. DESI

WARNING: Any kind of stereotyping is bad and uncivilized, we are
told. But most of us have conjured up an abstract concept called
the 'desi mentality' that seems to exist out there. While
reading the rest of this post, you must remember that 'desis',
like the designer underwear, come in all shapes, sizes, colors
and moral bents.

Mister, rather Dr. Desi, is an embodiment of 'desi mentality'.
He is everything we don't want to be, once our salad days are
over. He is a portly gentleman of an indeterminate age, between
thirty and fifty, with a face that belies his prosperity. A
sagging belly bears testimony to his success as a
professor/doctor and an almost bald pate, atop his designer
glasses, only adds dignity to his shapeless form. When he is
walking down the street, you can sense him from miles away,
because of his 'apologetic desi walk'. His actual name is Dr.
Sinha, but he could equally well have been a Dr. Thyagarajan or
Dr. Chakraborty or Dr. Anything else.  When you look at him, his
appearance seems to tell you "I have got it made, buster and you
go to hell". 

Dr. Desi makes it a point to avoid accidental encounters with
unknown desis.  He would avoid making eye contacts with them or
ignore an unsolicited 'hello' from a passing desi on the road.
'Why should I gravitate toward another Indian just because I
lived in that country twenty some years ago?' he would
rationalize. When caught in an elevator with another unheard of
desi, he would feel so uncomfortable he would sweat, would
pretend to be thinking hard about something or fix his gaze on a
bug on the elevator roof and would shoot out of the elevator car
with an incredible muzzle velocity once it comes to a stop.

He has a suburban home, two cars (one is a station wagon and the
other one is a Honda Accord). His wife, who came to this country
with a BA from a no-name arts college, (you still can't figure
out whether she is talking in hindi or english) picked up an
American degree somewhere along the line and now has a career of
her own. His kids are grown up and left home. He had hoped his
son would become a doctor. He had sent the kid, every summer, to
the 'Hindu camp'. (which was such a drag, especially the
lectures and yoga, the only redeeming feature was the
surreptitious discussions on sex once the counselor disappeared)
He had even promised to buy the kid a BMW if he got into a
medical school. But the son is pursuing English and a
blue-blooded blonde in a small liberal arts college in the next
town and Dr. Desi tells everyone that that is the best such
college in the whole country. His daughter, who religiously
learnt Bharata Natyam when she was a kid, is now a big kid and
fights with her mom every day. Must be harmonal changes. He
knows it is his duty as a dad to get them married. But how? He
looks at the Panasonic TV and VCR and the stacks of hindi movie
cassettes. Any movie that was released after 'Phool aur patthar'
is a relatively new movie for him.  Just last week he saw a
hindi movie, but he neither remembers the name nor the story
line or the actors. There are also recently procured cassettes
of Ramayana episodes.  With all his weekend family gettogethers,
his house gets chaotic and resembles the Lucknow Railway
station. But, even then, it gets a little lonesome for him once
in a while. Due to some peculiar aspect of his desi upbringing,
he hates the idea of having pets at home, almost as passionately
as he dislikes the chocolate flavor.

He thinks the new Indian students are a sorry bunch. They don't
work as hard anymore. They all smoke and drink. If he is not
careful, they might hang on to him for all kinds of favors,
maybe a soft loan, a ride to the mall. In this age and clime,
when eighty thousand bucks a year is almost like pocket change,
how do these gangs of unkempt, uncouth urchins manage to live on
a measly dole? They don't even eat macaroni everyday like he
used to when he was a student. And they spend thirty dollars to
see someone as weird as Pink Floyd.

Dr. Desi is religious, although not fastidious about it. Decades
of American life hasn't changed his eating habit one bit. He
still does not eat beef on fridays and Bajrangbaliki days. He
even does Sathyanarayana Pooja, at which time, he would proudly
wear his crisp dhoti, UP style. (For those of you who don't know
UP style dhoti tying, you wrap it around first such that LHS =
RHS and then proceed) Since the local community is not large
enough to build a temple, he has designated one room in his
basement to be the 'temple' and his buddies are already
patronizing it.  Eventually when the temple comes up, he may
have to fight pitched battles with his archenemy Dr. Naik on the
control of the temple. But that is way into the future.

Dr. and Mrs. Desi have time to go shopping on the weekends. They
always go to the K. Mart and buy all the 'three for one' and
'Blue light sale' things and stock up. Dr.  Desi's shoe size is
9. But if Size 11 is on sale, he will buy it. He does not
patronize Indian restaurants because they are no good and on the
rare occassion he goes there, he invariably ends up having a
fight with the owner and comes home with a vow to do it 'never
again'. Once every two years he has to go to India, and a few
weeks before his departure, his house would resemble the
'Service Merchandise'. 'I have so many friends that I have to
give them at least one gift each. My friend's son is a big
officer in the Central government. Just last time I gave him my
Seiko watch' he would tell his impressionable guest, not
remembering to mention that this individual arranged for an easier
customs clearance and helped him find a trustworthy jeweller who
made necklaces out of his Kruegerrand gold coins.

When the students have Independence day celebration, he
condescends to attend the 'function'. He is dressed in his best
suit and gaudiest tie. He asks if he can get a concession on the
admission ticket since he is buying three and if there is any
family rate and yes, is it tax deductible? During the
festivities he feels nostalgic about his distant ex-motherland. How
does this country run? It is going to dogs, he says with
finalty. Imagine, he continues, my father lives in a village
where there is no indoor plumbing and how can my children feel
comfortable out there. Rajiv Gandhi is doing some good, he
pronounces, but THEY won't let him do his job. Suddenly he would
find himself surrounded by ten students and he would even
remember the name of one them. Now that he is the center of
attention, he would tell them, in a quite generic fashion 'You
people should come to my place and have dinner, ANY TIME'.

At any given time, either his sister or his wife's brother is on
an extended visit, with their entire brood. On that
predetermined week in June, he would pack all ten of them in the
family station wagon, with two hundred pooris and drive off to
see the Niagara Falls for the one millionth time. His old, frail
mother-in-law has the rate-limiting steps. She would wear heavy
woolen stockings inside her sari, in scorching sun. This would
appear incongruous even to Dr. Desi, who has seen a number of
East-West fusions.

About once a year, he would throw a party for his 'American
friends'. His 'begum' would cook the entire previous day for it.
Dr. Desi is a man transformed in front of people of opposite
color. He even talks with an entirely different accent. He is more
energetic, servile, eager to please, kids around a lot and
generally does not seem to have any control over the situation
and ends up having a good time. He would define a samosa to his
curious guests as a 'fritter with spiced mincemeat and potatoe
filling'. About once a year or so, he would even invite his desi
bretheren for a party.  Again, his wife would cook for a whole
day, trying the hundredth variation on the samosa recipe,
although she would lie to her guests that she didn't spend much
time and the food is not going to be as well as she had wanted
it to turn out. Two hours into the party, Dr. Desi would be
overwhelmed, bored and would wait for his guests to leave.
Enough talk about tax shelters and real estate. (The womenfolk
are segregated into another room, talking about their respective
children or their new household purchases) When all the guests
are gone, the hosts would sit down and complain about all the
guests and how impolite some of them were.

Years come and years go. There he appears frozen in time, like
some metamorphic rock or Madhubala's beauty. Now, he leaves for
work, after having checked his security system, as he has done
for the last twenty years, not knowing if he should feel happy
or sad or whether to worry about his possible mid life crisis.
It must be the april air.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  GENERATION GAP}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Ring. Ring. RRRRING. "Haalloo"

"Hello, is Ramish Mad-Haven there please?"

"No, he has been dead for three years now, this is his ghost"

"................?"

"That's just a joke. This is me. What can I do you for today ?"

"My name is Aarty and calling from the Indian Students
Association. I see that you are a member and you have paid
the dues too ..."

"Oh, don't mention it. That was one of my weakest moments. But,
I really liked the way you ABCDs er .. second generation
Americans pulled off the coup during the last meeting and took
over the leadership. I mean it is remarkable that you would be
interested in Indian associations considering how Americanized
you are"

"Well, thanks. You see when I came here in October from Delaware
I didn't know we had such associations. It would have been a lot
of help for us kids who were straight out of high school."

"Well, you are speaking to an ex-office bearer. I had
singlehandedly done a lot of stuff for the darned thing. I had
put up new students. I wrote some parts of the constitution.
Then we passed on the torch to the next committee. You know the
organization was defunct the last couple of years. It was a
pity, but the stupid president never did a thing. I can't be
running the association year after year, you see. But I cherish
my days with the association. Oh, yes, I had organized a
city-wide Anthakshari contest. Indians from other colleges like
U. Pitt also came. Do you know there are about half a dozen
small colleges around Pittsburgh and they all have Indians ?
Boy, there were so many women. Do you know there's an all female
college in town ?  Something like Avadh.  Have you been to
Lucknow ?"

"No, my ancestors are from Delhi. What is anthakshari anyways ?
Well, actually the reason I called you is to get you interested
in some cultural activities. We are thinking of having a party
this weekend, DJ and dancing and so forth"

"But, what has that got to do with India ?"

"You are missing the point. The association is meant for all
kinds of activities. Although we kids are all Americans, we have
similar backgrounds. Our mothers wear saris and we still eat
Indian food. The association is a nice place to meet other kids."

"Wow, it is wonderful that you are going around looking for your
roots. You know something, this phenomenon of second generation
Americans actively participating in the Indian associations is
happening all over, in several universities. Some sociologist
ought to study this. There is a definite Ph. D in this."

"Yes, we are proud of our heritage. See, we also want to have a
big cultural event for Holi. Can you do any cultural thing, you
know what I mean ?"

"Let me see. I used to ooze culture. There was a time I organized
a bharatnatyam dance. That was before she quit and joined
a roller-derby team."

"Can you sing ?"

"Are you serious ? I can't even sing Ba Ba Black sheep. Have you
ever listened to Indian music ?"

"A little. My dad always listens to it. But I can't dig it. You
know the sitar stuff. I can't even tell if he is tuning the
instrument or playing music. I like hindi songs. They are kind
of neat. What's it, Lata Mongshaker ?"

"You ought to listen to more, stuff like Bappi Lahiri. You'll
really like it. What else are you going to have ?"

"We are going to have skits and ..."

"You said skits ? I do some writing too. Do you read
Soc.Culture.Indian bboard. I post my articles there all the
time. I can help you on that."

"But we want light, funny skits, you know the kind that people
will enjoy"

"Bingo ! You want funny ? You needn't look any further.
Actually, I try to write funny stuff and some people even told
me that my articles kind of amused them. I am the man you are
looking for".

"You don't understand. We have a kid called Veekas working on the
skits already"

"Let me tell you a secret Aarti, I usually don't divulge my pet
ideas to people. But I will make an exception in your case. Your
best bet will be to write a parody of a popular TV show. You can
even introduce some mock commericals, like the 'Bo knows
Kabbadi' type. You know something. I have always been interested
in dabbling in performing arts. I had even done a skit when I
was an undergrad in my hostel. But unfortunately, it was about
my warden and they asked me to leave the stage after two
minutes.  By the way, did I tell you I am going to buy a
camcorder. Right after that I plan to visit my uncle. He has two
kids who always keep doing silly things and I plan to videotape
them and send it to the America' funniest home video. Aarti, do
you know that there are eight times as many Americans with
camcorders as there are with AIDS virus. What am I talking. You
are a mere child, I mean, woman-child."

"See, Veekas already has an idea on a skit - about a guy whose
personality transforms into a computer when he is under stress.
By the way, if you have an idea for skits, feel free to write
one. The Association is for all members, irregardless of what
they are studying and it would be lovely if graduate students
can put up a skit too."

"No Aarti, graduate students don't have that itch. They are all
dorks. It will be fun to be working with young women like you."

"Why don't we discuss these in our general body meeting this
thursday. Oh yes, we need a lot of volunteers to do backstage
stuff. I see you are in double E. Do you know amplifiers and
stuff, I mean, like, setting up the mikes and things"

"Do I know amplifiers ? I mean, does Jack the Ripper know to
kill ? Sure thing, Aarti. Setting up mikes has always been my
pet hobby. Have you decided about the food ?"

"I was going to ask you about it myself. Do you know what they
have in India typically for Holi dinner ?"

"Lets see. They have Chicken Makhni, Mattar Paneer and I think
they also have Kofta curry. Say, all this talk about food has
made me quite hungry. You sound like you are a very pretty girl,
so how about lets discussing these things over lunch at the Ali
Baba's restaurant"

"I can't. I have this big Calculus test on monday. Can you make
any of these food"

"Let me see. One time I cooked about seven pots of rice for the
Indian association function. I have actually nurtured the
association. Jeez, I feel nostalgic. But I don't think I will
cook this time. If you want, I can make some nice Pepsi"

"No, that's not fair. See we undergrads don't have cooking
facilities and we are going to get the soft drinks. By the way, do
you have a car ?"

"Yes, kind of, but ..."

"Great. You are exactly who we need. You must come to our
organizational meeting. It has been nice talking to you. We need
the cooperation of people like you. I will put your name under
transportation. Now I really have to go. I have tons more people
to call. Thanks for all your help. Bye."
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  GHANTASALA POEM}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

>>From: kavuri@cb.ecn.purdue.edu (Surya N Kavuri )
>>Subject: A-Telugu-song
>>Date: 5 Apr 89 05:10:03 GMT
>>Organization: Purdue University Engineering Computer Network

>>Here is a song by Ghantasala(from his private albums).

You can only visualize what "Ghantasala" is and how it might
look like. This is actually a cuss word used in parts of
Ludhiana district, Punjab.

>> Savor it while and if you can.
Eej my pleyyar! Savoring it, just as you suggested.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

                Translation of the poem (parody)
                

>> AA rajanikara mohana bimbamu 

O, Ye bimbos Mohana and Rajni of Alcoholics Anonymous

>> nee nagumomu nu brolunate

I would like to marry you both and raise two families.

>> kolanulone nava kamala dalambulu

One of you likes Cologne, Camel lights and the other 'daal' and
blue cheese.  (Translator's note: Cologne is called Colognu in
telugu)

>> nee nayanambula brolunate

But I am addicted to the bottle, brew and have gone lunatic.

>> Echata chuchina

And shittu, I am too chicken to ask you out.

>> echata vechina

or to commit polygamy

>> nee nayanambulave

And my mom is already interviewing some girls for me in India.

>> kanipinchunadi

And...

>> Talaninda poodanda

.....the epistemological problems associated with such existential
questions with ontological ramifications dealing with high-fibre
cereals do not affect my ennui one iota...

>> dalchina rani

O, Ranis of Dalchini

>> molaka navvula toda 

Now, out of luck, what will I to do?

>> muripimpa boke 

This is too obscene to be translated; has words like 'pimp' etc.

>> Poola vanalu kuriyu moyiluvo 

It is like an NTR movie with two heroines and five snakes.

>> mogali rekulaloni sogasuvo

So I'll just make love to you both in the inner sanctum of my
mind.  
>>...............................


                    >>  Translate it for every one to enjoy
                        Yes, I did and I enjoyed it too. Thanks.
                    >>  if you can.  .
                        My telugu is a little rusty; I might have
                        lost some in translation.

                                        
                                             - Mahadevan Ramesh


 Rangaswamy

From: bedi@cae.wisc.edu (Suminderpal Bedi)
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian
Subject: Re: satwant singh and beant singh

sourav,

have you even tried information from other side?
i have tried information from both side atleast.
so can i boast i have more informatio than you.

suminderpal singh

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  GOODBYE, PITTSBURGH}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

I have lived in Pittsburgh for almost an eternity. And now it is time to
move on. In a matter of weeks, I will be relocating to the Denver/Boulder
area. (look me up folks, I will be in a village called Louisville) I guess,
this will also have to be a goodbye to SCI, unless I somehow get access to
the net. Let me look back on old Pitt. Get your handkerchiefs.

Many of you must have been to Pittsburgh. It is a beautiful place, don't you
think ? It is nestled in the mountains. Rivers crisscross through it. It is
as old fashioned as it gets, in terms of American Midwest. Most
Pittsburghers are the type (no, I cannot generalize) who would watch you
with suspicion and curiosity initially, and once the bonafides are
established, they tend to be close friends and would gladly give their
shirts off their backs to you, if you need it. In a country where migration
is a way of life, a good percentage of the local population simply stays
back in the local county.  The same pimple-face has been pumping gas for me
for the last so many years and the waitress at the neighborhood diner knows
exactly what I would order. There is a sense of permanence.

It is also a very livable city. It is crowded and human, like most Indian
cities. The public transportation is so good it rivals the Madras or Bombay
bus system. The public schools are good and the crime rate is low. They have
fine hospitals where they transplant organs wholesale.

I know some of you must be curious about the 'desi' aspects of Pittsburgh
life. You may wonder how many desis are in town. (and how many of them are
unmarried, stunning-looking 'females') Are they stratified into Maharashtra
Mandal, Bongeeya Samiti and Tamil Mandram ? Say, which are the desi
restaurants to visit and what is the deal with the temple ? The answer to
all the questions is 'maybe'. Ha ha.

Pittsburgh is a very religious city. There are churches practically at every
street corner catering to every denomination, a lot of them are
architectural beauties. There are mosques, synagogues, a very active
Gurudwara and a Hindu-Jain temple. One of the biggest Indian icon,
the Sri Venkateswara temple, (SV temple) pops up in front of you as
you drive by the only freeway in town.

More about this temple. Even if you are a skilled driver and are armed with
specific directions, the first few times you reach the SV temple are purely
stochastic arrivals. Once you are there, you find yourself at one of the
oldest and perhaps among the largest of Hindu temples in the USA. It has a
complement of extremely courteous and professional staff of priests, cooks
and office staff. You can perform years worth of religious things in one
weekend - right from shearing your head to getting a marriage performed. If
you are looking for a 'match', then you can register your horoscope in the
temple database and wait by your phone.

Locals like us have a different perspective about the temple. Besides being
a religious place, it is also like a country club where the local desis
socialize. It is not uncommon to see deals made over a power lunch of
yoghurt rice. By the way, you get sumptuous 'prasad' in the temple kitchen
for a meagre donation. And the people at the other end of the kitchen
counter, doling out the prasad, are actually professionals like you and me,
who are simply volunteering their time. The temple makes enough money in the
kitchen and in other donations that they organize dance and music recitals
for free. In the summers, they have Hindu summer camps for kids and music
courses in vocal, violin and percussion instruments with teachers brought
from India. All these are also subsidized by the temple. It is a sheer
pleasure to just sit in the parking lot and watch desis descend from their
tightly-packed vans and expensive cars with personalized license plates.
There are fat desis, thin desis, brand new desis, n th generation desis,
parents of desis, neo-desis, anglo-saxon desis, desis who come in shorts and
T shirts, desis who dress in three pieces, desis who pretend to have
forgotten what they do in temples - all spend a few religious moments to
cleanse their huge backlog of sins.

If you forgot to have a solid go at the temple kitchen, you can check out
one of the four desi restaurants in town. There is a fast food (well, not
that 'fast' really) joint right near the temple called 'Vegetarian Delight',
an euphemism for a heat-less, AC-less dhabha (shack) where dosas and idlis
are made for a huge premium. Then there is a 'Shish Mahal' which is
supposedly run by a doctor couple as a 'tax shelter'. By the way, this
restaurant had the worst rating of all desi restaurants in US, in the now
defunct, SCI restaurant rating system. The lady who runs it, divides her
time between surgery and subji-making and would readily sit down at your
table and talk your ears off, even though you had planned on a quiet evening
with your friends. The service is pathetic and if you repeatedly goad them,
you might get your food, in microscopic installments. A couple of slaves
imported from their native village in India would maraude around the tables,
keeping a keen eye on you. The son of the owners would sit by the money
pit and idly eat nachos, watching others nacholy eat idlies. In the middle
of everything, even Dominos Pizza would deliver a pizza for the son ! Avoid
this place, unless you are one of those who don't love yourself and on the
verge of manic depression.

Then there are two restaurants with high sounding names, 'Darbar' and 'Star
of India'. There is a big war going on between these two establishments.
(and you think they have a war in the Middle East) The owner of one would
go to the parking lot of the other and insert flyers in the parked cars to
lure them to his place. The other owner retaliated by replacing the
'yes-boss' type, desi waiters with local good-looking women. The first
restaurant simply slashed its prices. The customers are the clear winners. I
was even given free gulab jamuns in one, for merely saying bad things about
the other restaurant.  By the way, one of the restaurant tycoons in
Pittsburgh is an Indian, owning a clutch of popular Thai, French and Italian
restaurants. ('There is no money in running an Indian restaurant in
Pittsburgh')

A town is not worthy of desi living if it didn't have a dumpy Indian spices
store. And 'Bombay Emporium' is a veritable landmark in Pittsburgh. A
Shylock-like merchant trades in everything Indian, with a one-stop
convenience. You park your car illegally on the sidewalk and before Smokey
comes around and gives you parking tickets, you can get yourself a term life
insurance, buy an air ticket to Delhi and browse through the jungle of 220
volts appliances. You get Indian jadoos (brooms), khadais (woks) which are
so authentic you won't get them in India itself. They have every single desi
spice and associated bacteria.  Their pickles are so old you need carbon
dating to fix their approximate manufacturing date (at least you are sure
they are pickled well) and their mithais are as stale as the liquid oxygen
joke. They have a computerized inventory of all hindi videos. (some of them
pirated) Methinks only one student at Carnegie Mellon is a member of their
Video Club and all the rest of us simply try to pass off as Abinandanan and
borrow their videos. (Thus far, I have been the only one to get caught
trying to do this) The owners are still amazed at Abinandanan's propensity
to see movies, coming into the store ten times during the weekends and
looking different each time.

There is an old skeleton that works at the cash counter, the legendary
Bombay Emporium 'buddha'. He is so old-fashioned and low-tech that he still
does not trust his cash register and would add the entries mentally for
verification.  He actually winks at you when you borrow the Indian dirty
movies.

Carnegie Mellon has several Indian students, like any other place. Even though
everyone has his or her own life, we operate as a community to a good
extent. We are a really small community, the college campus hardly the size
of a usual engineering college in India. Fortunately, we don't have a caste
system of IITs vs others, metallurgists vs computer scientists and the more
blatant, Northy vs Southie divisions. People are so much into their research
and courses that they don't have time for petty ego trips. Meeting other
desis tend to be pleasant and the norm is that you try to be friendly with
your fellow citizens. You can literally walk into anyone's apartment and
will be asked to stay over for dinner.

There is a well-oiled India Association (called Mayur) at Carnegie Mellon,
which shows regular movies/newstracks and publishes a newsletter and runs a
bboard. The brains and muscle of the organization are the undergraduates,
about half of them were born in this country. It is not surprising to see
senior students such as the sixth year grad student doing menial volunteer
work, (such as cleaning up after a Mayur dinner) without griping. Everyone
knows everyone else, almost and that helps. Besides, it is our association,
see ?

And us guys from Carnegie Mellon are very active on the SCI bboard. You may
probably be curious to find out what kind of people we are in real life. (I
for one am curious about some of the posters - is Asim Mughal really a Bart
Simpsonesque brat and is Martillo really a kind and gentle person who is
merely putting on a front on the SCI to compensate for his feelings of
inadequacy ?)

Do you know that Arun Gupta is an unassuming physics Ph.D from Caltech.
(and has other disgusting achievements right from his IIT days) Sohan
Ramakrishna-Pillai, the only guy to have a hyphen for a middle name, is a
chess wiz (not 'cheese whiz' ha ha) whose car people always bang into.
Milind Kandlikar is a pacifist who went to Washington to protest the war.
Sudheer Apte, another prominent voice of secularism, ran Mayur (Indian
association) for a long time and made many positive changes. There cannot be
a cultural event in the vicinity of Pittsburgh without Prashant Rane
participating in it. He is a key(board) member of the Carnegie Mellon light
music group 'Anamika'. (Yes folks, we have a nice music group to enthrall
you with Hindi, Bengali and Tamil songs and we even have non-Indians in the
group) No, I really don't know Pravin Ratnam. (I caught you there, didn't I
?) Carnegie women such as Yashodhara Pawar and Sonali Laha have made posts
on topics ranging from environment of love to love of environment. Of
course, there is a silent majority, who uses the SCI in the read-only mode
and discuss the postings.

Finally, what is living in a place, if it were not for the associated
memories. I live in one of those beehives, partitioned into a million
apartments. My next door neighbor, till a while ago, used to be an elderly
Sikh couple - my adopted uncle and aunt. Uncle used to be a top Indian
government official, and chose to retire in Pittsburgh since his kids were
in neighboring towns. The couple was so vigorous and active that they
wouldn't miss their daily walks unless there is a weather advisory. Uncle
never once took up my offer (should I say insistence ?) to drive him to the
grocery store.  He wouldn't even take grocery rides from his own brother
living a block away. Uncle was always curious about everything, including my
research work and always had a bagful of stories. He was employed somewhere,
volunteered his time in senior citizens' projects, found time to help aunt
with cooking and was pursuing a degree (even though he already had some other
advanced degree) in Accounting, all at age seventy !  Never an idle minute.
When I expressed my amazement at his infinite energy, given that I am
already ready to retire and laze around, he pointed to an India Abroad
clipping about his uncle in Canada, who at age ninety had just enrolled in a
Ph.D program in economics in Ohio State !  (Anyone from Ohio State who knows
how he is doing ?)

Uncle never lectured to me on anything, but he did leave me tremendously
impressed and inspired. And I always thought I wasn't easy to be influenced.

Well, what more can I say ? I had a great time, personally and professionally.
It's time to move on. 

Goodbye, Pitsburg.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  GOSSIP}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Till recently, I had only half a million cousins in the USA. Last week changed
all that, with the arrival of cousins Mahesh and Ganesh from India. I am 
serious. Independent sources can confirm this. Mahesh will join U. of Penn,
Mech Engg. and Ganesh, the brother of Suresh, will join Something College of 
City University, New York for MBA. Folks, feel free to 'orient' them if you
run into them. But this post isn't about them. 

One of the biggest complaints about my SCI posts has been that they are too
'impersonal and out of touch with the mainstream'. That I don't even respond 
to posts made in response to my posts and daisy-chain them into a 'topic'. 
Maybe it is time to change all that. Here is a post with personal touches
and mostly truths, just like the previous paragraph. It is about the fellow 
Colorado SCIers and cows, a topic that was discussed on the net.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

The first time I met Rajan Parikkar was when India was getting thrashed by West
Indies in World Cup cricket, after having consumed countless beers. He is 
truly 'erudite' (I had always wanted to use this word since my GRE days !)
about music and his interests are not limited to just Hindustani classical
music, but also to Thyagaraja and Ilayaraja.  When I met him the other day,
there was a cow near us ! 

That was during the 'India Day' arranged by the Hare Krishna folks. (The local
desi population in this area hasn't yet reached a critical mass to organize
'India days') The cow was a part of making people aware of vegetarianism. They
probably rented the cow from one of the nearby farms on an hourly basis. As
you may already know, we have many, many farms near where I live. In fact, 
when we get out of work, we go straight to the farms and milk cows. These farms
not only have cows, but also have horses and even llamas. (There is even a 
llama here named Dalai) Oops, I am digressing.

That cow was an udderly massive animal, unlike its cousins in India. Two 
colonies of sparrows could easily play football on its back. People were 
allowed to 'pet' it and it was enjoying every minute of the attention, giving
nonchalant looks, as if someone else was getting petted. It looked a little
tickled at times, perhaps because some guys may have petted its erogenous 
zones by mistake. Its tail seemed to have a life of its own, swatting flies 
non-stop. I too went near and touched it gingerly. The cow gave me a cold look
through its peripheral vision. As if possessed by devil, I had this incredible
urge to tip the cow, like what Manu ('Njan') had mentioned. But the damned 
animal was firmly anchored on all its four feet. Also, I realized that if the 
cow would 'tip', then I would 'pit', i.e 'tip' in the opposite direction,
to conserve linear and other momenta. I perished the thought instantly. Since
then, I have been trying to assemble the 'Dream team of Colorado SCIers' for
the sport of 'Cow Tipping'.

With a little persuasion, Rajan agreed to join the team. "But don't tell
anyone on the Rec.Music.India.Classical" was his only precondition. The next 
person on our team is Paul Chamanoor. I met him only last week. Self, like 
many of you, simply love his posts. They have a certain logic-defying 
impishness about them. We met for lunch at one of these pseudo-European cafes.
Paul, alias Icarus, had scotch-taped his wings and could not even handle the 
sizzle of chicken fajitas. Either he was a slow
eater or a fast talker or both. By the time he was on story number 232, he was
only on the second piece of chicken. I had already stuffed my face quite well in
the meantime and flushed it down with several coffees. When he was on the next
story, in walked one of the vice presidents of our company with eleven of his 
family members and sat in one of the nearby tables, kind of inhibiting me. 
When Paul left us (to go to the church, of course) we agreed to get together 
next time, under the influence, near an unsuspecting cow.

Up the highway, an hour away, lives Kannan Subramaniam. I have known him even 
before he made a single post on the net. His first person, singular stories,
whether on the net or in first person, are always fun. If his first passion is
hiking in the mountains, his second passion is passion itself. (Also known as
'hiking with women'). Let me not delve into Woody Allenesque privacy-invading,
although it is he who started it all and told the whole world about the seven
remote controls in my entertainment system.    

He is also a P. G. Wodehouse trivial pursuee. During one of the dinners, he
discovered that someone else at the table was also a Wodehouse fan and dueled 
with him all evening with questions like "What is Jeeves' middle name ?" "How
many aunts did Psmith have ?" "Who is the Emperor of Blandings ?" They 
matched each other trivium for trivium. Till I butted in, unable to contribute
anything to the conversation and confessed to being a neo-illiterate. I
had read just one Wodehouse novel all my life. "Which one ?" asked Kannan. I 
replied "The frozen assets", at which point, Kannan's face contorted and he was
stunned. He, the biggest Wodehousian of all, had not read this Wodehouse opus.
Somebody else at the table also spoke up and said "Yes, I too have read the 
'Frozen assets'. It was a great book, I must say". Kannan went paler than the 
Raita on the table. The one book that he missed reading was read by several
Wodehouse non-fans. If we hadn't restrained him, he would have darted out to 
the nearest library the next instant in search of this book, to complete his 
Wodehouse education. Folks, he may be asking around one of you by email, if
your library has it. Don't yield to his friendly persuasions. Don't help him 
find this book. Let us slowly drive him nuts and get him all fired up to lead 
our team, against 'em cows. 

Yes. The Colorado gang is for real. (Even though I use Carnegie Mellon account)
And Veeramony Sthanumurthy, eat your heart out. And I was in Minnesota just 
this morning, at the Mall of America in Minneapolis, no less - parked at the
Indiana level in the East Parking lot. No kidding.


\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  GRANDFATHER STORIES}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

I must have been in my ninth grade then. When I got home from school one day, 
my mother was in paroxysms of joy. "Your grandparents are coming here 
tomorrow." She explained her mirth away. "This is not just a visit - this time,
finally, your dad convinced them to move with us permanently." Shucks ! What 
a shocker. Now, I had to make serious adjustments to my grandpa if I wanted to 
maintain my quality of life. How could she be so happy ?

Nevertheless, I tagged along my dad to the railway station. Grandpa emerged
finally from one of the bogies, looking all tired, his skin had wrinkled into
leather and his hair looked bleached. His wife was only a few steps behind, as
always and he had brought with him three of the most massive trunks, besides
other assorted pieces of luggage. A porter was summoned and when he dared 
haggle his porter fee, grandpa quickly stepped in.

"An extra rupee ? Do you know that the Southern Railway rules clearly state 
that you cannot charge more than 35 paise for a trunk? What is your license 
number ? I will complain about you this instant to the General Manager, 
who by the way, is a good friend of mine." 

All right ! The man hadn't lost his touch ! Of course, even idiots would have
recognized grandfather's bluff about knowing the general manager. It was
another story that my father managed to slip some extra money to the porter 
and got grandpa home. Thus began the first day of the rest of grandp's life in
our household.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

It took grandpa only days to settle down to his new ambience. Hardly a week had
gone by, he was already a terror in my friends' circle. Grandpa would sit in 
the front porch and pretend to be immersed in the newspaper. But should any
kid enter the house looking for me, he would quickly toss his cover and
pounce on his prey and start the inquisition. 

"What is your father's name ? What is your grandfather's name ? What is your 
other grandfather's name and where do they come from ?". Grandp's curiosity 
knew no bounds. Occassionally, he would be rewarded for his grilling.

"Oho, what a coincidence ! So, you are then the grandson of my dear friend
Subramaniam from that village. I studied three years of high school there. Me
and your grandfather used to play 'gulli danda' by the river every day. He had
a bulbous nose and we used to call him 'lizard'. So what is that skinny 
scoundrel doing now ?" My grandfather would ask my friend.

"He has been dead for the last ten years." My friend would reply.

"Tss Tss. Did they sell the house by the Collector's office or is someone
living there ?"

"Grandpa, will you leave him alone ? We are already quite late for the cricket
game."

"You are always spending too much time playing. Don't you kids get homework
these days? When you come home, you read trashy books by, who's that, 'Enid
Blyton' or something. Your english is so bad you say things like 'thanks an
awful lot', what awful lot, I say? You are in the ninth class and you don't 
even know what a gerund is. You should be reading Char-less Dikkkens" He would 
admonish me in his heavy South Indian accent "When I was in college, my 
Professor Rangachary would teach Shakespeare and even the English fellows would
listen to him with rapt attention. If you are going out, put on a shirt, for 
heaven's sake. You are only wearing a banian."

"That's not a banian, grandpa, its called a tee shirt."

"Whatever it is, get home before it gets dark. The town is getting dangerous
these days. All kinds of people are lurking around and kidnapping boys
like you. Don't get me and your grandmother worried."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Grandpa disapproved most things. He had a view on almost everything in life.
Listening to him was like reading a thousand Soc.Culture.Indian posts, without
touching the 'n' key. He was quite sure he had figured out the whole system 
and stumbled on the Universal truth. Yet it bothered him that nobody took him 
as seriously as he took himself. 

He quickly managed to find a host of senior citizens like him and in fact,
became something like their leader. They would congregate in our house and
freak out, only occassionally to pause for steaming hot coffees, after a 
perfunctory fuss about drinking too much coffee.

Grandpa hated Indira Gandhi's policies, Gandhian philosophy, Morarji's face and
every one of the contemporary politicians.

"What do these ministers do ? They simply want to win the elections and keep
on cheating us. Look at the price of gold today, I say." He would pronounce.
For a brief while, he even considered entering politics. But given he had no
vote bank, he channelled his energies into writing letters to the editors of
the newspapers. It was always issues like 'Today's women' or the new generation
and its new fangled notions like the 'Love marriage'. When occassionally his
letter got published, everyone in the household was treated to a twelve hour
follow-up sermon on the same topic, by a very triumphant grandfather. 

He and a buddy of his discovered homeopathy one day and enrolled in a class.
Prior to that, he made me take him to the nearest stationery store to buy a
notebook and a pen to take to the class. After personally examining every 
notebook and pen, he was still upset about the shoddy workmanship of today's 
products.

"What pens do they make these days ? Terrible little pieces. I bought my pen 
in 1934 - a blue colored beauty - I had it for forty two years. It was made in
England. You will never get such things today. Never leaked nor wore out. And 
then somebody picked it from my pocket. These days, you have ridiculous things,
what is it called, ball point pens. Your handwriting will be complety screwed 
up if you use those." 

Within weeks of enrolling in the class, my grandfather cured his first patient
- our servant maid - of a persistent cough. His fame spread to her neighborhood 
and in no time at all, her neighbors lined up in front of our house for the
'doctor' and his free medicine. Short of performing brain surgery, he was
able to handle most medical situations and I was dragged to the most obscure
corners of the town by him to locate that one shop which sold the homeopathy
medicines. At home, we couldn't even cough or sneeze in privacy, without him
giving us a dose of 'Natrum Sulph 60 X'. (One day, when he left his medicine
cabinet unlocked, I quickly sneaked in and gobbled a whole bottle of the sweet
medicine - quite a silly thing for a high school kid to do) When we faked our
coughs to get a dose of his candy medicine, he would quickly see through it 
and say "Give the child a cup of hot milk with black peppers, haldi and dry 
ginger." 

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Each time I returned home for vacations from college, my grandfather seemed 
to have gotten more sulking and grouchier. He had also grown older and weaker
almost exponentially. He had even succumbed to what he contemptuosly called
the 'Allopathic medicine'. He disapproved most normal behavior and was getting
more and more frustrated that nobody was paying any attention to his words of 
wisdom. He had become a consummate cynic. He had also become increasingly 
religious, practicing his own brand of it.

"Grandpa, we just got back from hiking in the Himalayas .."

"That is wonderful, did you go to Manasarovar and Mount Kailash ? If you rolled
around Mt. Kailash, you would have earned yourself a lot of good."

"No, grandpa, they are technically not even in India. I did go to Gaumukh,
where the river Ganges originates and I have even got a bottle of water from
the source of Ganges."

"Source of Ganges ? That is useless. Nobody gets it from there. You should
always get 'Ganga Jal' from Prayag. Others don't have the same holy properties."

When I was leaving for the USA, he was strangely cool to the whole idea. He
saw an abandonment. First his son moved to a new city and now his grandson is
moving to a new country. Nonetheless, he chose an auspicious day for me to fly
out and gave me a zillion pieces of advice. He would say,

"Getting old is a terrible thing, no matter how you want to rationalize it.
You think old age is far into the future and then one day, you realize you
have been old for a while now and you hadn't quite prepared for it. It is a
losing battle everyday. You constantly lower your expectations of people,
of life. You lower your standards, try to cope up and live with whatever
dignity you can muster. But still you realize very clearly that you are simply
marginalized, day after every tiring day. You just don't matter any more for
most purposes and I hate it when people treat me with that phony courtesy."

He would continue.

"You are young now, so go ahead and experience life. Discover the world, go to
America. Do things that I or your father could never do. Smell the flowers and 
swim in the rivers. Take a lot of data in life, do a lot of analysis. But 
don't write a final report any time soon. The day you do that, you know you 
are hopelessly old." 

I dared not look into grandpa's eyes.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

When I called home for the first time, somebody handed the phone to grandpa.

"Grandpa, how are you ?"

"Why bother asking me? I am as good as dead now. My legs ache every step I
take. I can't sleep in the nights. What time is it now, there ?"

"Oh, it is almost midnight."

"How interesting, it is already about ten in the morning. Are you doing well
in your exams ?"

"yes, grandpa."

"Listen, you have to watch out for the foreign guys. They will always 
try to corrupt your morals with booze and cigarettes. Their women will
try to seduce attractive young men like you and then dump you afterward. You 
shouldn't forget our culture and tradition. Do you get time to do any Poojas ?"

"Sometimes I do grandpa, but.." I was lying, just like my grandfather used to.

"What but ? All these things are dying - just like me. Have you met Ramaswamy
yet ?

"Never heard of him."

"He is my sister's grandson. He is there in America. He married a girl from
Madurai district. The Madurai people are extremely smart people. They will eat
you alive and let go a belch after that. If you ever see him on the road
there, avoid him."

"Okay grandpa."
 
\medskip\hrule\medskip

Another call from home, a couple of years later.

"We are very worried about your grandpa. Yesterday, he just wandered outside
and we were looking for him all over the place. Luckily, some kind gentleman
saw him walking around aimlessly and got him home. Now we are keeping the 
front gate always locked. He has become terribly absent minded. He does not 
even remember to take baths or to take food .."

"I think what he is suffering from is called Alzheimer's disease."

"No, no. He doesn't have any diseases or anything. He is simply getting older
and a little senile. His temper tantrums are unbearable. Many times, he simply
does not even respond when we ask him things. And he talks to himself all the
time. All the adages about 'second childhood' are very true."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

And a few months later, he passed away and I could not even go to his funeral.





\medskip\hrule\medskip

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  GETTING THERE IS HALF THE }
\centerline{\bf FUN -  A POST ON TRAVEL}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Dear God of Air Travel,

How come it is always an ordeal at the airports ?  How come it is
only in this country that different Airlines have their own TV
monitors and there is no centralized information monitor ?

Just when I struggle with my two bags and a newspaper and do the
Statue of Liberty stuff with my ticket to the agent at the door,
the first class critters had already jumped the line and engage
in a small chit-chat with the woman at the door, completely
oblivious of the fact that I was delicately maintaining my static
equilibrium.  Why ?

As I enter the plane, weaving through the narrowest passageway
between your seats - even the Red Sea would part a little wider -
still clutching my bags and by now crumpled newspaper, the first
class critters are already being wined and dined by the Airplane
Angels, blocking my path.

By the time I sit down in my seat, the first class critters have
already gulped their wines and are tossing their wine glasses
back into the economy class.  We ought to bring back communism,
at least just to bring about a classless society in plane travel
and abolish the first class in planes.

Why do you announce that it is a 'non-stop' flight to Denver and
then 'continuing on to St.  Louis, Columbus, Newark' and why not
just speak the truth and say that it is a flight to Newark with
several stops ?  And what do you mean 'preboarding' ?  Isn't
'preboarding' also 'boarding' ?

How come, nothing interesting ever happens in any of my flights
even though I fly like a maniac ?  You don't book any celebrity
or interesting women in the next seat.  When I am flying, do
women request for 'Nowhere near Ramesh', like 'No smoking' as a
preference ? How come I am always seated next to King Kong when
I fly to India on those long flights ?

Also, how come, whoever is sitting next to me manages to produce
industrial quantities of urine during a two hour flight and
forces me to un-seatbelt every ten minutes so that he or she can
go to the bathroom ?

And you never give me food.  When you are just about to serve me,
you park the stupid cart in the aisle and disappear for hours, to
take care of someone else more important.

Even when you finally come back to your cart, you don't hand me a
pack of food, but instead you push the cart up and down the aisle
three times, just to tease me.

The Vedic flights were better.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

One can write post after post about train travel.  No matter
whether you travel in India or the superfast TGV in Europe or
Amtrak in this country, certain things are common to trains - the
ease with which you strike up conversation with the others, for
example.  And just before the train enters any major town, it
invariably passes through some of the shadiest, filthiest
outskirts, filled with polluting factories and junkyards.  I
wonder why this is so.

At any rate, when we were young, one of our summertime rituals
was to visit Uncle Venkat down South in India.  About a mile down
where he lived, there was a railway station.  Me and my cousin
would walk up there everyday after lunch and just hang around.
The bigger express and mail trains would completely ignore the
station, whistle loudly, double up their speeds and zip through
the station and disappear into a cloud of dust, leaving us quite
stunned.

The most interesting aspect of this thunderous 'Express train
run' was the exchange of 'keys' between the train and the station
- a concept that may not be practised any more in India.  The
'key' used to be a metallic sphere, tied to what looked like a
tennis racket.  As the train buzzed through the station, the
engine driver would toss the old 'key' from the previous station
and in one swift move, would grab the new 'key' from a station
porter, who would stand perilously close to the edge of the
platform, defying death and hand it to the driver, somehow
withstanding the full fury and tremor of the train.  It used to
fascinate young kids like us.

Although this station was like a mole in the armpit of the Indian
railways, there was a 'Goods shed' at one end of the station and
many goods (freight) trains would stop by to load and unload.
The 'marshalling' of the goods train was a lot of fun.  We used
to explore the parked goods train, especially the caboose (called
the guard's van in India), the vacuum brakes and so forth.

We used to beg and plead with the engine drivers of the goods
trains to let us ride in the engine, as they did the 'shunting'.
And one day all our prayers were answered when a kind driver let
us climb on.  It was most thrilling !  For something that ushered
the industrial revolution, the steam engine is an absolutely
low-tech thing.  There is no pressing a button and something
happening.  In fact, there were two halves to a steam engine and
they were not even rigidly tied together into one piece and the
engine squirmed as it ran along.  The drivers hardly even had a
dignified seat to sit on and they looked grey and black with all
the soot and dirt.  They would perpetually shovel coal into the
fire, between puffing their bidis.  There was a simple light bulb
illuminating the entire cockpit.

"I used to haul the express trains with this very engine"
reminisced the engine driver.  He had tied his dirty black
handkerchief on his forehead.  "But I could not take the tension
any more as I got older.  That was before the big WP Class
engines came along and started hauling the express trains.  Heck,
this beautiful lady of an engine has even won awards for being
the prettiest engine in the entire division."

I was dying to blow the engine whistle and was somewhat
disappointed when the driver told me that all I had to do was
just pull on a string.  It was a wimpy, spineless, sore-throated
sound - almost like a ventriloquist, throwing his voice far away.
Disbelievingly, I pulled the string one more time to make sure.
This time I pulled on the string a little longer and the whistle
lasted a trifle longer, at which point the engine driver, kind
hearted he certainly was, pulled me aside and asked me not to
overdo it.

I never rode in another engine, ever - perhaps never too innocent
afterwards to fall for such simple pleasures in life.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

If you lived in some northern cities of India, you always
traveled by 'tempo', that black beast with three wheels, carrying
an enormous load of human cargo.  All tempo drivers, as a rule,
are religious folks, decking up their dashboards with color
pictures of Santoshi Maa or Hanuman or at least a divine warning
that 'whoever focussed a malicious eye on this tempo, his face
will turn black'.

An eternity can be defined as the time period between the time
you sit in a tempo and when the tempo actually starts moving.
Even if the tempo is more than full, the driver just ignores your
pleas and threats to start the tempo, and yells out to get more
passengers.  Sometimes, he does a 'foul start', and revs up the
engine, giving false signals to some potential passengers that he
is just about to leave.  But that's only a ruse.  Some graduate
students at IIT Kanpur had written their entire Ph.  D theses
while waiting for the tempos to start.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

And two eternity is the time period between time the tempo gets
stuck in front of a railway crossing gate, waiting for the train
and when it finally gets going.  It is waiting at these railway
level crossing gates that I sometimes get the feeling that we are
one of the most stupid nations in the world on some counts,
because we have no sense of orderliness or waiting for one's
turn.

The vehicles waiting for the gates to open are an impatient lot.
All rules are broken and they all converge every which way around
the railway gate.  It is almost like the start of a major war,
with two sides digging in on the two sides of the gate.  And when
the dumb gate finally opens, it is all hell breaking lose.
Honking, near misses, recklessness and vehicles simply diffusing
through each other following laws of quantum tunneling.  The
entire traffic could have easily passed the gate in less than
half the time if everyone waited patiently behind each other.
But then, this is India.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

At any rate, there was the time when a certain Srikant (no last
name please !)  came brand new to this country from India.  And
he was making a rental car reservation and the phone conversation
went roughly like this:

Cute phone voice: "Sir, would you like a compact car ?"

Srikant: "Oh, sure, a compact car would be fine."

C. P. V: "How about a Ford Tempo sir ?"

Srikant: "No, no. I don't want a tempo."

C. P. V: "But sir, you said any compact size is okay".

Srikant: "Yes, true. But I can't drive any three wheelers"

and so forth, till someone had to butt in and explain how a Ford
Tempo has four wheels and nothing like a desi tempo.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Also, has it happened to you that your passport expired all of a
sudden and you had completely forgotten about renewing it ?  Then
you panicked around, made a bboard post to find out the phone
numbers of Indian Consulates etc.  To avoid such unpleasant
surprises, why can't they tie up our passports with a credit card
company or something, so that the credit card folks automatically
connect our passports with our credit cards and let them expire
at the same time, so they can be renewed simultneoulsy ?
Bboarders, write to your local Indian consulates.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

One of my greatest accomplishments, and I include this even in my
resume, is having 'chaloed' a bullock cart in my native village,
way, way back.

Even though my grandfather's bullocks all looked the same, they
all had a name each.  There was a Ramu and there was a Gopu.  And
they even had their own individual personalities.  On that
fateful day, the gentlest of bullocks was attached to the cart
and I was hoisted gingerly onto the edge of the seat - ready to
go on my maiden journey, like a world conqueror.

"Where do I keep my legs ?" I remember asking.

"On the clutch, dummy" came the reply.  So, I had to dangle my
legs between the bullock's rear-end.  What a user-unfriendly
design !  Whatever happened to the new bullock cart they were
designing at the Indian Institute of Management, Bangalore ?

The official driver of the cart was an old, grouchy man.  He was
on my grandfather's payroll purely for humanitarian reasons and
for having eaten our 'salt' all those days.  My grandfather did
not really have to use the bullock cart much.

The Groucho was not at all happy to be my driving instructor.  He
sat behind me and grudgingly told me "Okay, let us quickly get it
done with.  Lets go."

Driving a bullock cart is very simple.  Actually even though you
are in the driver's seat, you are completely at the mercy of the
bullock.  Making turns is easy.  You simply pull the reins in the
direction you want to turn.  And if you pull really hard on the
reins, the bullock comes to a dead stop.  This is how you stop
the vehicle.  The toughest part is actually to coax the damned
animal to be enthusiastic about the whole trip and keep moving.
I was too much of an animal lover to whip it.  And I knew very
little of the 'bullockese' sounds and anyways, the bull didn't
understand my accent.  After every ten steps, it would simply
refuse to budge any more, unless I prodded it.

After what seemed like eons, I had barely covered half a mile and
we were at the Main street of the village.  The entire village
had a good laugh at a 'villager wannabe' at the helm, inching up
the Main street.  The original driver, crept way back into the
cart and was hiding his face in shame and muttering unflattering
things about me.  Then the damn thing happened.

A town bus was coming in the opposite direction and a sea of
humanity was crisscrossing our path.  Amidst all this, the
bullock just stopped cold, right in the middle of the road,
causing a minor traffic jam !  Any amount of my prodding, the
bull didn't seem to care.  It just would not move.  It was on
strike.  The bus driver in front of me was honking furiously at
me to get going.  The old-man-driver behind me had gone
completely mad at me.

I begged with the bullock and even tried to push it ahead with my
bare hands.  The animal didn't even register my imploring.  Then,
all of a sudden just when everyone's attention was drawn to us,
it lifted its tail and in one endless do loop, (or shall I say,
'do poop' ?)  it deposited lump after lump of its you know what,
right on the Main street.  The freshly laid chips kinda looked
like Taco Bell's taco salad (quoting a friend).  Then, satisfied,
the bull gave the entire Village Square that 'one-up' look,
before ever so gently marching on.

The next minute, the real driver mumbled something like "Enough
is enough.  You can't even do simple things like driving a
bullock cart.  You will grow up to be a most incompetent fellow,
bringing shame on your illustrious grandfather" and forcibly took
over the control.  I protested that it wasn't my fault, as I
retired into the cockles of the bullock cart.

Also, from that day forth, 'bullshitting' was no longer just a
theoretical expression for me.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  DISCOVERING AMERICA }
\centerline{\bf - ONE MORE POST ON TRAVEL}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Many of us desis become incurable wanderlusts once we set foot in
this country.  We call up our old wingmates and classmates, pack
ourselves like sardines in an old car and drive across two time
zones.  On the way, we take in two or three metropolises, a
couple of national parks and come back with a fresh harvest of T
shirts.  When we stop by for a photo session at the Great Smokies
or some such, we run into a symmetric bunch of desis in a
symmetric car; however, four out of five of us ignores four out
of five of them.  The fifth one says hello to the fifth one of
the other group and somehow the faith in desi brotherhood is
restored.  In fact, there are far more desis around the 'Old
Faithful' geyser (in Yellowstone) on a fourth of July weekend
than there ever are in any India Association meetings around
here.

Wandering in America is a truly great experience.  This is really
a beautiful country.  However, there is a subtle, but nonetheless
a tremendous effort going on to bulldoze the geography and
homogenize the whole country.  If you are left standing in the
suburbs, you don't know whether you are in Seattle or Miami or
Phoenix.  Well, almost.  Unlike India, where a Bombay is
different from Madras is different from Calcutta.

There is no escape from the KMarts and McDonalds.  And
practically every town has a dump that is converted into a
Spaghetti Factory.  You hear of a local ice cream stand that is
so popular that people come from all over the universe to have
ice creams.  And in a matter of months it will be franchised into
other towns.  Heck, even the Indian stores in University Avenue
(Berkeley) look like the ones in Devon Street in Chicago or the
ones in Jackson Heights.  The 'sameness' is endemic.

I have been to every one of the fifty states in this country.
(Next I am going after all the zip codes - just kidding) Let me
see if I had been to any exotic places in the USA, where not too
many desis have bravely set foot before.  And where no Potel
exists yet.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Hawaii is perhaps the biggest tourist trap and rip-off I have
ever been to.  Especially the touristy spots like the famous
Waikiki beach.  Strange people are constantly urging you to see
something or buy something or eat something - just part with your
money, please.  Somebody was even trying to sell me something
which looked like a used tattoo.  The Waikiki beach itself is
nothing more than an endless stretch of fat human bodies,
probably even more crowded than some of the desperate refugee
camps.

"You can put on a uniform and ask for a 'beach tax' of two bucks
each and they would willingly pay up" explained the famous SCIer
Narayan Raja who lives in Hawaii these days.  (Much thanks to him
and his fiancee and Anurag Bist for showing me a good time) They
took me to their exclusive hangouts, outside of the main tourist
sections.  The bluest beach, wettest spot, windiest pass - you
name it.  There were even tidbits about how banyan trees made
their way to Hawaii from India, how desi 'mongoose' completely
eliminated snakes from Hawaii.  I am sure there must be a story
about how Jai Mahraj made it to Hawaii as well.

People from all kinds of exotic Polynesian lands such as Samoa,
Fiji, IIT Madras and Tahiti were all there, speaking their own
brand of pidgin english - almost like the Singapore English.
They are proud of their seafaring techniques and how they
chartered almost a third of the world without much modern
navigational tools.  They are so big and huge I felt very nervous
in front of them.

Did you know that the southernmost point in all the fifty states
is in Hawaii ?  A nondescrept place called Ka Lae (the South
Point) in the big island Hawaii, a mere forty or so miles south
of the Volcanoes National Park.  I had to drive in pouring rain,
take a detour off the main road, down an unmetalled gravel road
for the last ten miles, with barely enough clearance for half a
car.  On the way, I passed some very noisy, very impressive array
of windmills.  The southernmost tip itself is just a rough,
rocky, surprisingly cold seaface.

There was an intriguing coffee shop north of Ka Lae, (obviously
situated at the 'southernmost community' in the USA) with an
impressive collection of old curios.  There was even a Bonzai
garden at the back.  A very mysterious, old, Oriental man ran the
place.  Narayan Raja has a story about this coffee shop that I
hope one day he will post on the bboard.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Exactly ten days after I was at the southernmost point in the
USA, I was at the northernmost point in the USA to earn some more
bragging rights.  The northernmost point is a place called Point
Barrow, just a few miles north of the Eskimo town called Barrow
in Alaska.  The Arctic Ocean was frozen like hell, but the place
was warmer than the southernmost point.  (It got very cold, soon
afterward)

Barrow was a depressing place, to say the least.  One would have
thought an Eskimo village would look very cute and picturesque.
Instead, there was dirt, mud and garbage everywhere, especially
in front of most houses.  The houses looked strange, because they
were all built on stilts because of permanent frost underground.
Sorry, no igloos and most of the Eskimos have become modern
enough to drive just snowmobiles instead of their sleighs.

In fact, this modernization has not been too easy for the local
people.  (The local Eskimos, call themselves Inupiat Indians and
have many oriental features.  I told them I was an Indian too,
from the 'Desi' tribe - just kidding) With traditional fishing
and hunting substituted by year around supermarkets (milk is just
six dollars a gallon !)  many of them don't have much work to do.
Some of them moved around like sleepwalkers.  Though it wasn't
really a tourist spot, many natives were quite friendly, and a
good one third of the people were non-natives.  Drinking used to
be such a problem, now there is prohibition and I was even shown
the 'De-tox' center as if it was a tourist spot.  There is no
Police department - only a department of Public Safety.  There
were absolutely no trees, being way inside the Arctic Circle.
(okay, there were some in the airport terminal, which itself was
nothing more than a shed)

It freaked me out to see the sun shining brightly at twelve
midnight and to realize that the daylight lasts for eighty two
days in summer.  Some children were even playing around midnight.
And there were midnight softball games.  The town had
disproportionally large school buildings.  (Anyone graduating
from High School in Barrow gets a free air ticket to Europe and
elsewhere in Alaska, you get a free air ticket to any place of
your choice in the state.  I had half a mind to write my high
school equivalency test there, except that I was afraid I would
flunk it.)

For a place that far from civilization, the town was blessed with
nice restaurants.  Apparently there is very little to do in
winters except to eat.  The 'Arctic Pizza' for example, offered
fine Mexican, Italian and American food, served on fine china.
They even had a large screen TV.  After my huge lunch, the chef
walked out to meet me and guess what, he was from Pakistan !  Of
course, nothing surprises me anymore.  It goes without saying
that I played on the South Asian connection and mooched a great
dinner out of him and his wife.  Or was it a lunch ?!  With sun
shining round the clock, you don't even know which meal you are
eating, unless you looked at your watch.

Save your money, because you must, should and ought to go to
Alaska at least once in your lifetime.  Kannan SubramaniaN, our
well-known SCIer was my company during most of my Alaska trip and
yes, we are still friends ! Lets hope he writes some more.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Believe me folks, North Dakota actually exists, especially the
western portion of the state !  The North Dakota bboarders, such
as Chandra who posts mainly on India Digest, would probably throw
flames at me for this.

Prior to the trip, we looked hard to locate some interesting
tourist spots in North Dakota.  One of us discovered a Roosevelt
National park on the map and off we went.  We didn't realize that
the roads leading to the park (strange use of the word 'park',
since we didn't see any trees there) would be ramrod straight for
hundreds of miles.  Occassionally, every hundred or so miles,
there were tiny, tiny blobs of villages, some with population of
just eight or ten people.  We walked into a diner in one of those
villages.  They had blocked off half the restaurant because a
school reunion or something was going on.  As we stepped in, the
reunion folks suddenly stopped their revelling, turned around and
stared at us for a full two minutes.  Perhaps they had never seen
anyone so different and so brown in all their lives !

Somewhere along the line, we saw a board at a desolate spot,
which proclaimed that it was the geographic center of the USA.
We ignored it and drove along.  Hell, if there are no T shirt
shops or wax museums around it, it is no tourist spot.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Tuscaloosa, Alabama is one of my favorite small towns.  If you
flew in to get there, you would ride the smallest of airplanes -
the sort of thing that even flaps its wings.  It is a hellava
ride and the instructions inside the plane are in another
language called the Southern accent.  I think, this town has the
smallest airport I have seen in this country.  Till recently,
they didn't even have an X-ray machine and had to hand-inspect
your under garments right in front of the whole town.  (Once I
even ran into a Senator while waiting for a plane, who quickly
realized that I wasn't a voter and spared me his pitch - but I am
digressing)

This is a one horse town, even more one horsy than Clemson,
characterized by horrible rains and football fever.  And yes, our
own energetic and quick witted bboarder Balaji Kannan is also a
guy gone Tuscaloose.  It was fun meeting him.

After getting bored out there, unable and unwilling to yell
'Crimson Tide' all the time, I was taken on a private tour of the
headquarters of a paper company called Gulf State Papers.  So
what was the big deal going around a Corporate headquarters ?
Unlike many other such dumpy office buildings, this was also
simultaneously a consummate art gallery with many priceless
paintings and sculpture, all around the various offices !  Even
the computer desks, office furniture etc were 'arty' and nobody
had a messy desk !  There were peacocks and other exotic birds
simply wandering around the complex.  (reminded me of BITS
Pilani) It might interest you to know that the Gulf State Paper
made its zillions of profits by being the inventor of the
(folding) brown paper grocery bags that is so common nowadays.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Here is the list of 'Best of' and 'Worst of':

Most beautiful cities - San Diego and St.  Petersburg.  In the
whole of North America, the undisputed winner is Vancouver.

Fun places to hang around - Key West, Downtown Chicago (yes !),
San Francisco, Monterey (California), Las Vegas and Boulder
(Colorado).

Must see - Acadia National Park (Maine), Yellowstone (Wyoming),
Arches National Park, Zion National Park (Both in Utah), Alaska.

Eminently avoidable - Elvis Presley mansion in Memphis, Hare
Krishna temple in West Virginia, Mount Rushmore in S.  Dakota, a
variety of Parrot jungles and Monkey jungles in Florida, the
entire city of Los Angeles, Liberty Bell (Philadelphia).

For a different kind of experience:  Navajo American Indian
nation near Window Rock (New Mexico) or any other similar place.

Since one of the touristy thing to do is to climb tall buildings
and tall structures and look down, here is my complete guide to
tall thingummies.

Big rip-off tall structures - Space needle (Seattle), 

Okay-once-in-a-lifetime - CN tower of Toronto, Sears Tower, World
Trade Center.

Longest lines to get in - Washington monument, Statue of Liberty
and the dumb Arch in St.  Louis.

Wear pants and not shorts if you must go:  Renaissance Center
(Detroit)

Of course, the mother of all tall structures in the world is the
Eiffel Tower.  It is easily the most boring tall thing I have
climbed.  (The Qutb Minar, in those days when you could still
climb it, was only slightly less boring) There is this story
about this famous writer who always dined in a restaurant
situated inside the Eiffel Tower.  The writer was asked how come
he patronized the restaurant so much, given that it wasn't a
particularly great place to eat.  Pat came the reply.  "Because
this is the only place in the entire city where I don't see the
damn thing".

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  UNCLE IN THE SKY}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

My uncle, Mr. Venkataraman (known simply as Venky to some of you
bboard folks) and aunt Parvati just landed up at Boston for the
very first time from India. They have come to visit their son
(the 'Boston Brahmin', ha ha).  They were also going to travel
around in this land of milk, honey and to my uncle's chagrin, a
lot of meat. In just two short weeks afterward, they visited me
in Pittsburgh - they wanted to see the Pittsburgh Venkateswara
temple before they kicked off their tour. Actually they did go
to the White Mountains the previous weekend. 'There was nothing
there. Only trees' my uncle dismissed it "The car ride was the
best part". My uncle is an extremely thin gentleman, with a long
face and yards of nose.  And looking at him, you won't believe
he sired six children.  He is a sort of an existentialist. Every
incident, big and small, affected him deeply. His life is one
long journey from crisis to crisis. Several of his days have
been ruined because his daily newspaper was delivered half an
hour late. The first thing he did upon stumbling into my
apartment was to peek into my fridge, to make sure I didn't keep
any furry animals or their meat inside.
"Ramesh, you look just the same, like you were six years ago. I
don't even think you have had a haircut since then. Parvati,
look. Ramesh has already made some food. He is going to heat up
yesterday's leftovers in the microtava and give it to us. Ha ha"

"No uncle, I won't dream of doing that to you. That's not
yesterday's leftovers. It is more like leftovers from three or
four days ago. By the way, how was your flight ?"

"Don't ask me. It was an ordeal. It was very delayed even at
Bombay. All our relatives had come to send us off"
"I can understand that. They must be feeling thrilled about not
seeing you for another four months."

"Even Chotu was there from Hyderabad". Chotu, for those of you
who don't know my family, is my Uncle's (and my father's) kid
brother who is about fifty years old and weighs over two hundred
pounds. One could only speculate that he was perhaps small at
some point in his life. "Ramesh, You won't believe what happened
during the flight"

"Wait, let me guess, they tried to hijack your plane.."
"Ha haa, Parvati, Come over here quick, Ramesh is cracking those
funny jokes like he used to."

"Okay, let me guess again, they hijacked the plane, but refused
to take you as a hostage, because they knew you are a solid bore
and they didn't want to die a horrible death listening to you"

"As a matter of fact, there were so many security checks and
body searches that it was a relief to board the plane. The
moment I sat in my seat, I fell asleep. There was this dull
aircraft noise. I suddenly woke up and looked at your aunt and
she was wide awake. I said 'woman, grab some sleep. I'm telling
you. Or you will fall ill or something and cause problems to
your daughter in law'. She said she tried but couldn't sleep.
'Parvati, what do you want me to do, sing you a lullaby. Close
your eyes and count sheep'"

"You should have bought her a couple of beers. That would have
knocked her flat."

"You are a fool. Try growing up. Another half an hour later I
got up again and there she was staring at the first class area,
like an owl. Your aunt just could not sleep. She just wasn't
used to sleeping sitting up. I can sleep anywhere, any time,
even hanging upside down like a koala bear"

"Uncle, when you do that, do you wear a dhoti or pants ?"

"Shut up and listen. Finally, I decided to get up and was awake
for an hour and I was desparate for a coffee. I could even kill
for a cup of coffee.  At last, they brought the coffee and
breakfast.  But it wasn't our type of coffee. They brought the
cream and sugar separately. You know, I never drink coffee
without milk. I opened one of the creams, spilled half of it,
who knows how to open those packs, poured it and the coffee
looked dark still. I looked in my tray and found another cream,
opened it and poured it and it was still dark. I turned toward
your aunt and said 'Parvati, you hadn't slept a wink last night
or was it today morning, damn this time change, anyway, you look
pathetic. In fact, you look so horrible that had I seen you like
this some decades ago, I would not have married you. I know
coffee is your opium. But if you drink this non-South Indian
coffee your eyes are going to get stuck in a wide open position
and you will feel even more miserable.  So let me have your
creams'. I added one of her creams to my coffee. It was still
black. Then I added another one and it was still black"

"Then what happened ?" I interrupted, unable to control myself.

"What could I do ? I had to drink it. My stomach was all upset.
By the by, (A little translation - 'By the by' is a typically
South Indian expression and every time I hear it, I go into
paroxysms of joy) what coffee do you drink ?"

"The kind that has caffeine."

"I meant the brand, you idiot. I think you have gone completely
bonkers. I ought to tell your father about this. Well anyway,
last weekend I was clipping coupons from the newspaper and I
found two coupons for the Maxwell Home coffee and I can give you
one and you can save 60 cents"

I was deeply moved by his gesture. "Uncle, you said something
interesting happened in your flight. Why don't you come to it"

"Wait. Not so soon. Then I told your aunt, 'Parvati, the
bathrooms are free now. Why don't you go and wash up. Once
inside the bathroom, it may feel a little queasy, especially if
you suddenly realize that you are miles above the ground. But be
calm and take your time. I needn't tell you, because anyway you
take hours to come out of bathrooms. Remember we are landing at
London in another 4 hours 42 minutes. Be back before then. She
went out, my poor wife and then after ten minutes she came right
back and I asked her 'Parvati what happened.' She said 'You may
get angry, but I forgot to bring my bindi (kumkum) and now I
cannot have the dot on my forehead'. I said 'Are you serious ?
You were preparing for this trip for two months and you forgot
such basic things.  Search your handbag carefully'. She said she
gave it a thorough search.

'You women always have the plastic stick-on dots. What about
those ?' and she said she just ran out of them last month. Then
we searched our hand luggage carefully, the Sambar powder pack
fell off on the gentleman on the next seat and he was sneezing
uncontrollably. To add to the confusion, someone behind us kept
saying 'bless you bless you'. Then I said 'Can't you mix
haldi(turmeric) and something and get something quick and dirty
and apply it on your forehead?'. She said 'Yes, but of all the
masalas, I did not bring haldi'. I said 'How about the kumkum
Prasad we got at the temple just before we left. We did a
special pooja for our trip to be a success'.  'Yes, but we have
put them in the suitcase.  Remember you asked me to put the
kumkum and the sacred ash in the suitcase because you didn't
want the customs people to think we are trying to smuggle some
controlled substance'.  I said 'Now what are we going to do ?
You always do dumb things like this. I hope you remembered to
pack my striped underwears.  As such you are looking very scary
without any sleep. Your eyes are red and bulging, you look like
movie actor Rajendranath. Now without your dot, you are going to
scare your grandchildren out of the airport. That's okay.  You
don't have to have a dot.  Most women in the world don't. Look
at that fifty year old cutie pie two rows from here. She doesn't
have a dot.  You can always use your lipstick or something.
Where can I go and look for bindi in midair ?"

Then I turned around and I noticed another couple, just like us,
I went near them and overheard them. They too were talking in
tamil. So, I introduced myself and asked the woman for her
bindi. That woman thought I was weird.  I said "No no no. It is
not for me. It is for my missus. I ain't no Kamalapati Tripathi.
Ha Ha. That man applies so much of it on his forehead that he
looks like somebody just shot him between his eyebrows." But our
problem was solved. In fact, I got to know them very well. I
have their address and phone number. He used to work for the
PWD. They are not any strangers. They have relatives in our
village.  Maybe even, distantly related to us. They are going to
Montreal to visit their son and told me a million times to visit
them and I intend to.  By the by, they said they would be
visiting Pittsburgh and I gave them your number and told them it
is okay to stay with you."

"So, uncle, this is what happened in your flight. I am surprised
you even came out of it in one piece..." Of course, the sarcasm
was lost on my uncle.

"Wait, I haven't even come to the most important thing. Then
they brought lunch. It was some North Indian thing. You know I
don't like that cuisine.  But what can I do. I was going to eat
it. Food is such a problem if you step outside our beloved Tamil
Nadu. I told your aunt 'Parvati, you won't like this food. It
has garlic. I looked at the various items on the tray.  There
was even mint chutney, although it wasn't in mint condition. Ha
ha. The vegetable looked intriguing, something like our radish.
I put my fork into it and pulled it out and when I was about to
stuff into my mouth Parvati said 'Wait, my soulmate, it doesn't
look like any vegetable. Maybe they got you meat by mistake'. By
now, I was shaking like a leaf. What a mistake.  Yes, your aunt
was correct.  I called the airhostess and even the gentleman
sitting next to us, the same guy who got the sambar powder in
his eyes, also told me it was chicken.  Ramesh, I came this
close to eating chicken. I was so lucky that your aunt, even
when she was groggy and sleepy and hadn't had her coffee, still
saved me at the nick of time and then..."
"Interesting. But, now you really have to hurry up uncle. You
still have the London - Boston segment to cover and  we don't
have all day. Remember, we still have a temple to visit.  Come
to the punchline and let us hear the end of your story"

"Golly! Lord Venkateswara ! Ain't I no tellin' you ? THAT was
the story. I thought you were listening to me. As usual, you
were in your own dream world and didn't pay attention to your
own uncle. Now I'll have to go over the details again. Lets see,
were you with me when I told you about the coffee......"

PS: By the by, only half the above conversation actually took
place (most of my uncle's part) If I really told him everything
I wanted to tell him, I would be dead meat by now.  Nephewicide
runs in my family.
\medskip\hrule\medskip

\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  VERSES}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

The S.C.I is getting very poetic these days, what with all these
translations of erotic sanskrit poems. So, one sure to way get
readers' attention is to post your bboard messages in the form
of verses. Here are some samples.
\begin{verbatim}
FINDING A MISSING PERSON

Dear Rajiv Gupta

These days, what are you upta ?
I haven't seen you since age three
I used to beat you to a pulp behind that tree
You went to the Little Flower school
Where you played the fool
So you ended up in IIT Cawnpore
Me, in the back waters of Coimbatore
Readers, he is hiding in some univ here
And for a case of beer
Would you track down the poor bugger
And get me his cute sister's phone number ?

             TEST MESSAGE

This is a test message
Oh, desi folks, this is only a test message
Your blood pressure will hit a new high
You will send me a flame and one to SCI
You will list the netiquette
Someone else will call you a bigot
It is this chain reaction I am testing my buddies
'Cause, with net posting, I am completely at ease.

          TO ALL THE ALUMNI PAST AND FUTURE

To all the alumni of the MIT
(The one in South Bihar, not the fake one in this country
Our famous Muzaffarpur Institute of Technolozhy)
Let us form association, to others I owe apolozhy
Let us remember good old days, they were groovies
Aren't you missing the 'Kuans' and the Shatrughan movies
The time when we actually had a final eggjam
And when philter phags first came to our gram.
So alumni, respond without fail
Both the three of you send me mail.

GANDHIAN APPROACH - A POEM A LA MURTHY GANDHIKOTA

Gandhi, you forgotten soul of destiny
Your principles are gone, if any
Most IIT bred, graduate students here
Are not your worthy sons, for sure
They eat meat; they drink;
You are finished like the tyranosarous rex.
The only Gandhian principle they adhere to
Is abstinence, your approach to sex.

Vivacious, virtuous, virginal, vitriol
Vorkaholic, virulent, vibing, vampire
Violet, violent, vital, virtual
Vilifying, vying, varying, vanishing.

    AN EROTIC ANCIENT SANSKRIT POEM
Your breasts are like full-grown mangoes.
On a land inhabited by parrots
Why are you so shy, my moon-face ?
Is it the cool air or your usual tease ?
Or is it the 'soma' drink, you mountain rain ?
Oh, why is this expression of mild pain ?
Is this starry night hurting you, tell your lover
Wouldn't you answer me, my delicate flower ?

Buzz off, you crocodile face
I am not the girl you have in mind
I am her chaparoning auntie, are you blind ?
Stop this alcoholic indulgence
And stop doing research in Artificial Intelligence

        CRICKET TRIVIAL PURSUEE
I know the scores of scores of matches
The 1966 tests between India and the Windies
The vocabulary of all test commentators
The results of Assam vs Bihar Ranji game
I am going to organize cricket clubs here
And educate the Yanks about its glory
And import the willow bats here
I am compiling the list of three greatest batsmen
When I am done with it,
I will compile a list of hundred great leg spinners
I collected Fruitee cricket cards
And two boxes of newspaper clippings
I'll write a comparative essay on all stadia
My education will be complete
My information consummate
Should anyone in the netland know
The names of all the Sala Amarnaths ?

             LIST OF BABY NAMES
We just got one of 'em cute things with ultra-smooth bottoms
A bundle of high energy
Well he doesn't look very human now
In a while, we won't be able to sleep at nights
Or visit friends without making excuses
Every two days he will fall ill and we run to the doctors
Our friends will be tired of our baby stories
He will be shorter and dumber than Reddy's kid
And will fight with me every day pretty soon.
He might fail in school and marry a midget
Shoot cocaine or impregnate women
Worse still, he may be a copy of me
And Jeez, my son will be an abominable ABCD
So suggest a name that would fit our darned little son
(And 'Ramesh' is anyways out of the question)

              A GREEN CARD QUESTION
Say, what's the deal with this Green card ?
I want to hold it too.
Why are they making it pink ?
Would that still be okay in India ?
I am a new arrival, but don't mind getting into these things
Because in my case
I tried offering a dowry
I also tried fudging my horoscope
(But the punditji never heard of the neptune)
I am handsomer than perhaps only Jagjivan Ram
And so I like to know more about this Green Card thing
I'm told that this is my only hope for a marriage.

          UNTITILED
There is this irritating young fellow
Whose name rhymes with Armadillo
Clitoris he loves; Islam he hates
Anything logical he negates
And, his brains helped invent the Jello

      NON VEG-VEG-ANCHOVIEGETARIAN DEBATE
Folks can be divided into two categories
Vegetarians and non-vegetarians.
Vegetarians themselves into two groups
Pure vegetarians and eggetarians
Pure vegetarians can be split into two categories
Those who take garlic and those who don't
Those who don't eat garlic can be divided into two groups
Those who eat roots(potatoes and onions) and those who don't
Those who don't, fall into two categories
Those who only eat fresh food and those who eat frozen too.
Those who eat fresh food form two categories
Those who'd never eat in other people's home and those who do
Those who don't eat in other peoples' fall into two groups
My grandfather and my cow.
\end{verbatim}

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  SCHOOL DAYS}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

It has been years since I last went to the Principal's office.
And here I am, again !  Face to face with the imperious lady of a
principal.  The entire school always called her 'Lakshmi Miss'.
The very name induced fear and awe in all the children.  That
didn't seem to have changed much.  I could see children walk by
the hallway, passing her office and I knew that every one of
those kids skipped a heartbeat when they saw her imposing figure,
sitting in the Principal chair.  God, Are elementary school
children THIS small ?!  I kept wondering to myself.  I am sure,
me and my classmates were much bigger when we were in Grade
Seven.

Lakshmi Miss looked almost identical to what she looked like when
I was a student.  Perhaps a larger patch of grey hair and extra
count of wrinkles.  But somehow, teachers never seem to age.  She
hasn't lost her poise or demeanor one bit.  She had the same
booming, commanding voice.  It was always a monolog or a sermon
with her and despite having graduated from the school eons ago
and sitting across her as near equal, I didn't have the nerve to
interrupt her.

"Ramesh, I am so glad you remembered your old 'Alma mater'.  I am
so proud of all my children.  When you say you are working in
America, I am so happy.  That should be a nice example for all
the present youngsters to emulate ..."

I looked out.  A huge concrete building was occupying what used
to be our cricket ground.  Many kids were straining themselves as
they criss-crossed the tight corridors in the new building.
Where do they play now ?

"Oh, yes, that is our new Science building.  Remember, it used to
be a playground.  There is so much 'demand' for our school - we
have a nice name in the entire city - we needed extra classrooms
......"

God, how can anyone forget our playground ?  How could we allow
it to be destroyed ?  I remember the many, many cricket matches
there.  It was always a ritual to quickly run home, grab the
snacks and tea and quickly run back to the school playground and
occupy the vantage playing areas - before the others came and
grabbed it.  Sometimes, very serious fights have been fought over
the territorial rights and who got there first.

I remember how I even got introduced to the game.  Raju, my best
friend in school and partner in everything I did, came by my
house.  Some exciting test series was going on between India and
some foreign country.  There was electricity in the air.  We just
started horsing around with makeshift cricket gear.  We perched
some tree stumps for wickets with stones, right on the street.
Some visiting cousins and Raju made up the team and even my
father joined us.

It was a memorable moment for my dad when he found out that I
batted left handed.  "Why, even Ajit Wadekar and Gary Sobers are
left handed" he encouraged me, as he had visions of a test
cricketer in his own family.  Of course, it was a tremendous
disappointment for him later, that I turned out to be just
another engineer, with nearly zero skills in cricket.

"I will bowl you 'googly' next" he told us kids "Chandrasekhar
always bowls it.  A 'Googly' is when you try to bowl a leg break
with an off-break action - or is it the other way around ?"

He contorted his body, ran from nearly five houses away, and in
one violent spell, deposited one of the wildest pitches I had
ever seen.

"Somehow I am not getting it today" he told us.  Whether I
figured out a 'googly' or not, I figured out that my dad was a
pretty lousy bowler.

A few days later, when Raju and I discovered a bunch of my
classmates were forming our colony cricket club, we asked them to
let us join too.  I told them I knew to bowl 'googly'.  "It is
leg-break with an off-break action" I explained to them.  When
they asked me demonstrate it to them, my pitch was extremely wild
too.  "Hmm.  I am not getting it today, for some reasons" I
explained to them.  Some of them were skeptical about my skills.
But in a few days, I became an indispensable member of our team.
Because, my dad bought me a brand new cricket bat and soon this
became the best darned equipment our club ever possessed.  As
long as I let them use my bat, I was included in most of the
matches.  Raju, of course was a natural cricketer, as many others
and quickly became the team captain.

It was not just turf struggle on the playground.  But
occassionally, when we had 'matches' with another team, we had to
negotiate the rules.  'Last man batting allowed' we would argue
and set limits to 'boundaries'.  If the other team was powerful,
we would even try to ask for 'one bump' catches and leg before
wickets.  Some matches ended abruptly when the ball landed in the
blackhole, also known as a very mean, kid-hating neighbors, who
for some reasons built their sprawling mansion, right adjacent to
the school.  It was then time to pass on the collection plate and
ask mom for money to buy a new ball.

Some other matches had to be 'ended' with brute force, especially
when defeat was imminent.  I was always an ideal troublemaker,
who could start a fight under some pretext or the other.
Usually, I would go in as an 'umpire' and not give 'out', unless
all three wickets fell down.  That would completely stop a match
and save Raju, the team captain, from the embarrassment of
'signing' his name to admit defeat.  Between my value as a
troublemaker and the owner of a great 'bat', I was able to thwart
the challenge of newer, more talented kids who were joining our
team.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
The bell rang.  Sounded rather weak and inconspicous.  In a
jiffy, a half a million kids sprang out of every cubby hole in
school and the noise level went up and in a few minutes, another
bell rang and the whole thing abated just as quickly.  I looked
through the other window in the Principal's office, toward the
water fountain.  Whoever designed the school must have modeled it
after some prisons.  The Principal's office was like a watch
tower, with a vantage view to almost anything.

"You know, Ramesh, the school has now become an all-girl's
school.  Not that we could not handle you boys, but ..."  Lakshmi
Miss rattled on.

I remember it !  In fact, at that very water fountain.  That's
where I first saw her.  It was months later that I even learnt
her name was Shobhana.  She wasn't in my class.  But she was
probably the most beautiful seventh grader that ever lived.  I
remember keeping a vigil at the water fountain from my classroom
during lunch hours, every day.  She always came around the same
time.  I don't know how it all started.  But after a while, she
even glanced back at me and locked eye contacts with me for a
brief second.  She too knew it and had feelings for me !  That
moment, my heart would pound harder and I would reach a
transcendental state.  I even wrote my very first love letter,
but never had the guts to give it to her.  I still hadn't even
spoken a word to her.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

"There is a very active Alumni Association in Madras itself.  You
should contact the secretary ..."  my Principal kept on.

I remember the last time I was unceremoniously hauled into her
office and made to beg for her mercy.  I still blame Raju for all
that.  I think it started out with our playing a cricket match
with the Housing Board kids.  I was supposed to go fourth down or
something in the batting order and as we kept losing wickets in
quick succession, Raju never let me bat, even though it was
almost eight down then.  "When are you going to let me bat ?"  I
demanded to know.  "You see Ramesh, this one time, why don't you
NOT be in the team.  We need all the runs we can get.  Let us
play some of the other kids.  You can always play in the next
game ...."  I didn't care to let him finish.  I remember being
absolutely mad, going straight to the batting crease, yanking the
bat from the batsman, knocking the wickets down and rushing
straight home, leaving the match in utter disruption.

The enormity of my action didn't hit me till the next day, when I
refused to talk to Raju and the other classmates.  They tried to
taunt me, but I just kept my distance.  It happened around lunch
time.  When I was furtively looking at the water fountain.  When
Shobhana arrived and my day was made, the entire class erupted
from behind me.  "Shobhana is Ramesh's darling girl" mocked
someone.  "Hero Ramesh is waiting for the heroine" followed by a
variety of vulgar insults and epithets to deride what I
considered to be a divine love.  Raju was leading the chorus.  I
pounced on him and pummelled him.  My secret 'Love letter' was
immediately discovered by another kid.  And before I realized it,
me and Raju and a bunch of others were in the Principal's office,
shaking like leaves.

"Shame on you kids" shrieked Lakshmi Miss "Here I am, instilling
strict discipline like some Christian Missionary School and here
you are fighting like street kids.  And you are writing 'love
letters', sir ?  And you are not even old enough to tie your own
shoe laces.  Your parents will have to come and extricate you on
this.  Look at me.  How many times have I resisted marriage and
emotional temptations, just so that my motto in life - dedication
to kids' education - is achieved.  Kids these days are nothing
but a pack of trouble.  You are on probation."

My parents promised Lakshmi Miss that I will never display such
ghastly behavior as long as I studied in that school.  And gave
me hell once I went home.  Raju and I never spoke again.  We
formalized our 'enemy' status by crossing each others' index
fingers or something.  Occassionally, the others would keep his
book on my desk and watch us twitch and turn in shame.  Or when
we accidentally touched each other, the class would burst into a
crescendo and remind us of our enemy status.  For the next year,
I moved to another school.  Raju did play cricket for Madras
district eventually.  And I have no idea where Shobhana is or if
she ever knew how much trouble I got into over her.

And of course, Lakshmi Miss probably did not remember any of this.

"Old students like yourself can donate money in many ways"
Lakshmi Miss kept talking "The best way is to get the names of
the other alumni in America and then maybe donate money toward
another building or ....."

\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  WHAT IS DESI MENTALITY }
\centerline{\bf - LIFE OF DR. DESI}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

WARNING: Any kind of stereotyping is bad and uncivilized, we are
told. But most of us have conjured up an abstract concept called
the 'desi mentality' that seems to exist out there. While
reading the rest of this post, you must remember that 'desis',
like the designer underwear, come in all shapes, sizes, colors
and moral bents.

Mister, rather Dr. Desi, is an embodiment of 'desi mentality'.
He is everything we don't want to be, once our salad days are
over. He is a portly gentleman of an indeterminate age, between
thirty and fifty, with a face that belies his prosperity. A
sagging belly bears testimony to his success as a
professor/doctor and an almost bald pate, atop his designer
glasses, only adds dignity to his shapeless form. When he is
walking down the street, you can sense him from miles away,
because of his 'apologetic desi walk'. His actual name is Dr.
Sinha, but he could equally well have been a Dr. Thyagarajan or
Dr. Chakraborty or Dr. Anything else.  When you look at him, his
appearance seems to tell you "I have got it made, buster and you
go to hell". 

Dr. Desi makes it a point to avoid accidental encounters with
unknown desis.  He would avoid making eye contacts with them or
ignore an unsolicited 'hello' from a passing desi on the road.
'Why should I gravitate toward another Indian just because I
lived in that country twenty some years ago?' he would
rationalize. When caught in an elevator with another unheard of
desi, he would feel so uncomfortable he would sweat, would
pretend to be thinking hard about something or fix his gaze on a
bug on the elevator roof and would shoot out of the elevator car
with an incredible muzzle velocity once it comes to a stop.

He has a suburban home, two cars (one is a station wagon and the
other one is a Honda Accord). His wife, who came to this country
with a BA from a no-name arts college, (you still can't figure
out whether she is talking in hindi or english) picked up an
American degree somewhere along the line and now has a career of
her own. His kids are grown up and left home. He had hoped his
son would become a doctor. He had sent the kid, every summer, to
the 'Hindu camp'. (which was such a drag, especially the
lectures and yoga, the only redeeming feature was the
surreptitious discussions on sex once the counselor disappeared)
He had even promised to buy the kid a BMW if he got into a
medical school. But the son is pursuing English and a
blue-blooded blonde in a small liberal arts college in the next
town and Dr. Desi tells everyone that that is the best such
college in the whole country. His daughter, who religiously
learnt Bharata Natyam when she was a kid, is now a big kid and
fights with her mom every day. Must be harmonal changes. He
knows it is his duty as a dad to get them married. But how? He
looks at the Panasonic TV and VCR and the stacks of hindi movie
cassettes. Any movie that was released after 'Phool aur patthar'
is a relatively new movie for him.  Just last week he saw a
hindi movie, but he neither remembers the name nor the story
line or the actors. There are also recently procured cassettes
of Ramayana episodes.  With all his weekend family gettogethers,
his house gets chaotic and resembles the Lucknow Railway
station. But, even then, it gets a little lonesome for him once
in a while. Due to some peculiar aspect of his desi upbringing,
he hates the idea of having pets at home, almost as passionately
as he dislikes the chocolate flavor.

He thinks the new Indian students are a sorry bunch. They don't
work as hard anymore. They all smoke and drink. If he is not
careful, they might hang on to him for all kinds of favors,
maybe a soft loan, a ride to the mall. In this age and clime,
when eighty thousand bucks a year is almost like pocket change,
how do these gangs of unkempt, uncouth urchins manage to live on
a measly dole? They don't even eat macaroni everyday like he
used to when he was a student. And they spend thirty dollars to
see someone as weird as Pink Floyd.

Dr. Desi is religious, although not fastidious about it. Decades
of American life hasn't changed his eating habit one bit. He
still does not eat beef on fridays and Bajrangbaliki days. He
even does Sathyanarayana Pooja, at which time, he would proudly
wear his crisp dhoti, UP style. (For those of you who don't know
UP style dhoti tying, you wrap it around first such that LHS =
RHS and then proceed) Since the local community is not large
enough to build a temple, he has designated one room in his
basement to be the 'temple' and his buddies are already
patronizing it.  Eventually when the temple comes up, he may
have to fight pitched battles with his archenemy Dr. Naik on the
control of the temple. But that is way into the future.

Dr. and Mrs. Desi have time to go shopping on the weekends. They
always go to the K. Mart and buy all the 'three for one' and
'Blue light sale' things and stock up. Dr.  Desi's shoe size is
9. But if Size 11 is on sale, he will buy it. He does not
patronize Indian restaurants because they are no good and on the
rare occassion he goes there, he invariably ends up having a
fight with the owner and comes home with a vow to do it 'never
again'. Once every two years he has to go to India, and a few
weeks before his departure, his house would resemble the
'Service Merchandise'. 'I have so many friends that I have to
give them at least one gift each. My friend's son is a big
officer in the Central government. Just last time I gave him my
Seiko watch' he would tell his impressionable guest, not
remembering to mention that this individual arranged for an easier
customs clearance and helped him find a trustworthy jeweller who
made necklaces out of his Kruegerrand gold coins.

When the students have Independence day celebration, he
condescends to attend the 'function'. He is dressed in his best
suit and gaudiest tie. He asks if he can get a concession on the
admission ticket since he is buying three and if there is any
family rate and yes, is it tax deductible? During the
festivities he feels nostalgic about his distant ex-motherland. How
does this country run? It is going to dogs, he says with
finalty. Imagine, he continues, my father lives in a village
where there is no indoor plumbing and how can my children feel
comfortable out there. Rajiv Gandhi is doing some good, he
pronounces, but THEY won't let him do his job. Suddenly he would
find himself surrounded by ten students and he would even
remember the name of one them. Now that he is the center of
attention, he would tell them, in a quite generic fashion 'You
people should come to my place and have dinner, ANY TIME'.

At any given time, either his sister or his wife's brother is on
an extended visit, with their entire brood. On that
predetermined week in June, he would pack all ten of them in the
family station wagon, with two hundred pooris and drive off to
see the Niagara Falls for the one millionth time. His old, frail
mother-in-law has the rate-limiting steps. She would wear heavy
woolen stockings inside her sari, in scorching sun. This would
appear incongruous even to Dr. Desi, who has seen a number of
East-West fusions.

About once a year, he would throw a party for his 'American
friends'. His 'begum' would cook the entire previous day for it.
Dr. Desi is a man transformed in front of people of opposite
color. He even talks with an entirely different accent. He is more
energetic, servile, eager to please, kids around a lot and
generally does not seem to have any control over the situation
and ends up having a good time. He would define a samosa to his
curious guests as a 'fritter with spiced mincemeat and potatoe
filling'. About once a year or so, he would even invite his desi
bretheren for a party.  Again, his wife would cook for a whole
day, trying the hundredth variation on the samosa recipe,
although she would lie to her guests that she didn't spend much
time and the food is not going to be as well as she had wanted
it to turn out. Two hours into the party, Dr. Desi would be
overwhelmed, bored and would wait for his guests to leave.
Enough talk about tax shelters and real estate. (The womenfolk
are segregated into another room, talking about their respective
children or their new household purchases) When all the guests
are gone, the hosts would sit down and complain about all the
guests and how impolite some of them were.

Years come and years go. There he appears frozen in time, like
some metamorphic rock or Madhubala's beauty. Now, he leaves for
work, after having checked his security system, as he has done
for the last twenty years, not knowing if he should feel happy
or sad or whether to worry about his possible mid life crisis.
It must be the april air.

\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  WHY INDIAN GRANDMOTHERS }
\centerline{\bf ARE BORING}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Ajay Palvayanteeswaran's mother could not believe what she just heard. 
Just to instil a dose of reality in her, the 'Q' word was repeated once more.
It resonated endlessly across the living room.

"Yes, madam, I QUIT", the servant maid said with determination.

Why would Muniyamma - the faithful servant maid for several generations, the
harbinger of neighborhood gossip, her proxy in her fights with her mother
in law, Ajay Palvayanteeswaran's physics teacher - why would she quit all of
a sudden ? 

"This is it, madam" the servant maid replied with tears in her eyes "I 
never thought that my last day in your house, after decades of service, would
end so abruptly. But I cannot fight with that old woman, your mother in law,
Grandma Palvayanteeswaran, for one more minute. Hear, hear, old lady. I lost 
the war. The better old woman won. I am going to concede defeat by handing 
over this 'jaadu' (broom) to the next in command."

Ajay's mother was shattered. She glared at the grandmother in disgust. The
old woman was calmly gobbling a stack of betal leaves in triumph. Sure
she was a tough fighter. For her age, she is absolutely healthy, with no 
sugar complaints or abnormal blood pressure. Her eyesight is so strong she
could fly planes and her hearing is so perfect she was regularly borrowed
by other neighborhood families as a decoy for eavesdropping. In fact, if she 
ever died, she would be the first human being in a long time to have died 
simply of natural causes and the first one to have perished because she
did not publish. The only time she ever went to a doctor, for overeating 
during Ajay Palvayanteeswaran's Hostel Day, she wore her best Banares silk 
saree for the X-rays. Look at her. Disgusting.

Perhaps the servant maid, Muniyamma, gave up too easily in this Olympics of
Household fights. She lacked that certain something in her will to fight. 
Perhaps she didn't give her one hundred and ten percent. That woman probably 
didn't do what a woman had to do.
 
"Yes, madam" the servant maid said with finalty "I have had it up to here.
Either I go or that old woman has to go."

Wait a minute ! That's an idea ! Ajay's mother started thinking. Heck, why 
not ? Let the Grandmother go ! Anyways she wasn't doing anything of use. 
If anything, she is becoming increasingly pugnacious. And these days, 
servant maids are not easy to find. If it is a choice between Muniyamma and 
the grandma, there is no question who is going. Goodbye grandma. And let 
there be peace in the household. 

"Yes, why not send her away ?" Ajay's mother told Ajay's father. "I
don't mean out into the streets. But to America ! She has always been 
wanting to visit your youngest brother in New Jersey. It is a good thing
Ajay is here for the holidays. When he returns to the USA next week, 
she can go with him." 

Ajay's father consulted the entire clan of Ajay's uncles, Vice Uncles, 
Executive Vice Uncle, Uncle in charge of Harassment, Uncle without 
portfolio, Jai Maharaj and assorted other aunts. They all 'ayed' the decision.
The grandmother, for her part, was thrilled she was going to the land of 
Lincoln, Nike shoes and two for one pizzas.  There was a song on her pursy lips.
"Like a virgin" she sang softly in her two day old American accent, as she 
packed her suitcases with yards and yards of silk sarees. Why, even the
servant maid was gracious, washed grandma's dentures sparkling clean and bade
her a tearful farewell. 

\medskip\hrule\medskip

"Hello, Mr. Ajay Palvayanteeswaran. Welcome to Singapore Airlines. Do you have
any carry-on luggage for this flight, Sir ?"

"No, Just my grandmother."

"Will she fit underneath the seat in front of you or in one of our overhead 
compartments ?"

"Let me see. No, I don't think so."

"In which case, Sir, I am afraid you will have to check her in."

"Well, I can always fold her up or hang her up in the closet."

"No, that won't be a good idea. She may get shifted during the flight and you
will have to be careful when opening the overhead compartment and not hurt
yourself."

"Arre, Munna, woh chokri kyaa keh rahi hai ?" whined the grandmother, as the 
employee rubberbanded a tag on the grandma and put her on the conveyor.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

It was a tearful reunion in New Jersey, with the youngest grandchildren simply
amazed and moved to see Grandma.

"Mom, can I take her and show her to my friends" asked one of them "She is 
kind of cute. The coming Halloween, can I have the same costume she is wearing
now ?"

"That is not just a costume honey, it is called a saree. Also, what she has
in her hand is not a ski pole. It is called a walking stick." 

Ajay's New Jersey uncle is a modern man. But still he has a Vedic car. 
All he has to do is, to say 'Tamasorma jyotirga maya' and the headlights
would come on. With so many people living at his place now, the engineer
that he is, the uncle converted his dishwashing machine into a 'Dal' making 
machine, to feed all the mouths. One simply has to put 'haldi'
into the detergent compartment and just turn the knob. "It came out perfectly"
said the grandmother approvingly "Next time on, don't keep it in Heavy Wash 
cycle for this long."

The grandmother immersed herself in the American culture. One day, she made
cabbage subji for her family, chopping two big fat heads and when finally the
subji was done, she was horrified to see the quantity shrank to just two
tablespoons. Somebody explained to her that she had mistakenly subjified
lettuce instead of cabbage. Another time she spent a whole day, removing tea
leaves from all these teabags from a whole box of those bags and storing the
leaves in a tin. "Who would have thought of packaging them in such small 
pouches" she wondered. Yet another time, she learnt to operate the microwave 
oven and set it for 99.99 minutes and realized her folly only when the TV 
melted into a puddle of pixels. She became such an all American that she 
bought Lottery tickets, called in Larry King show and because she was 
permanently stooped, she was even made a home plate umpire in baseball games.

"Dear Bahu" she wrote to her daughter in law in India "I am doing fine here.
Guess what ? Yesterday I made the Couch Potato Subji. The 'baingans' here are 
so large that just two baingans are enough to feed Munna, Pappu, Chotu, Pinky 
and the kids. It is funny that they call the baingans 'eggplants' in this 
country. Wonder if in retaliation we should call eggs in India as 'Plantless
baingan'.  The local desis are very friendly. Just last week, we had the
all-New Jersey Anthakshari contest. I was the only one to know a song that
begins in 'ta', remember 'Tom tomatar tom tomatar tom tomatar tom ?' Tell
Muniyamma that I still hate her and if she badly wants to fight with me,
she can always call me on saturdays via Allnet phone for cheap connections."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

As days rolled into weeks rolled into economic cycles, grandmother was
getting bored. She wanted to be a productive member of the society. So
she was enrolled in the Master's program in Computer Science in the 
Streetcorner University in New Jersey, where all her other fellow classmates
were all newly-married, newly arrived desi wives. With floppies hanging from
her pallu and a C ++ book in hand, she looked like some kind of an ancient
Geek goddess. After all, it is un-Indian not to write software and grandma
didn't want to commit this high crime.

"Laptops arrived very early in our household" she would explain to her
bewildered classmates. "My children are so huge they would place the computer
on one lap and the laser printer on the other lap and punch away."

Ajay taught her Unix and its exotic commands. Grandma resisted it. Till one
day she peered into the screen and asked, curiously "Arre, Munna, yeh
Soc.Culture.Indian kyaa hoti hai ?" and one thing led to another and before
long she even made regular bboard posts. Viz.,

Dear Editors of Soc.Culture.Indian,

I am appalled by all these 'Why are Indian women boring' posts. I don't think
I am boring at all. In fact, the widower next door, 'Spanky' Joe has asked me
out so many times in the last week alone. Alas, I am very worried about date
rapes and such. 

Thanks for providing this opportunity. Just to protect my identity, sometimes
I use pseudonyms and post under aliases like George Chacko or Vijay Fafat or
Mahadevan Ramesh ......
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  WORST OF AJIT'S PHATTAS }
\centerline{\bf - PLAY IN ONE ACT}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

WARNING: If Narayan Raja and Hemendra Godbole can do it, so can
I ! What follows is a compendium of some of the most contrived,
most punchless phattas of all time. What do you expect ? This
ain't no rec.humor.funny. The post is in ajitish (an Indo-Aryan
language which is part hindi, part english and part grunt) and a
sort of a translation is provided at the end.


SCENE

Ajit's den. A variety of people such as the hero and the heroine
and assorted associates of the good people are tied to various
objects. Ajit and his balding, foreign looking henchmen are
making final preparations.

AJIT: "Raabert, isko Electric Chair mein bandh do, aur apna Cray
computer ko 'aan' kar ke Superconducting cable se nooclear
bijlee chalaado, aur ..."

RAABERT: "Rukho boss, yeh to already tickeled to death...."

AJIT: "Aur woh saala, doosra sonafabitch bhi hai. Usko rassi se
baandh kar apna loyen aur leyopard (lion and leopard) ke pinjra
mein daal do. Un jaanvaron ko bhi high fiber diet mil jayega.
Apna loyen bhi dandyloyen hai."

"Nahin, Raabert, on second thought, isko Middle Eastern
restaurant le chalo. Magar Falafil sandwich math khilao.
'Humous' khilao aur khane ke baath post-humous ho jayega."

"Ab to Hero saabka mauka hai. Raabert, time bomb le ao. Apna
Hero saabko time bomb ke saath bandh do. Timer ko teek das bajhe
set kar do. nahin nahin. Yeh to saala sub cheez hamesha late
karta hai. Iska mauth bhi late hone do. Timer ko panch minute
late rakh do. Arre, Raabert, Raabert, bevkoof, silly fellow,
time bomb ko yahan peh math rakho, yeh to 'no-smoking' area hai.
Ha haa ha. Time bomb 'tic tic tic tic' karke bajega.  Aur iska
dil 'tup tup tup' karke dhatakega. Tum agar paas me khade hoge
to tereko 'tic tup tic tup tic tup' suanaai dega"

RAABERT: "Magar Baaaass, woh to quartz digital ghadi hai. Tic
tic tic nahin karegi. Battery se chalti hai".

AJIT: "Arre, pagla, yeh to 'assault and battery' thodi hai. Jaake
cuckoo ghadi leke aao. Bomb ke saath cuckoo bhi mar jayega aur
yeh ulloo bhi mar jaayega. Two birds in one stone."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

AJIT: "Mona daarrling, tum nahane jao. Michael tum bhi saath
jao. Aur mere King Cobra ko lekar uske daanth ki safai bhi kar
do."

"Mona daaling, tum Tony ke saath math jao. Agar jaogi to tum,
MonaTony ho jaogi. Lisa ke saath jao aur MonaLisa ban jao. Lisa
daaarrling. Come here baby. Abhey Micheal, idhar aa jao. In
babiyon ko lekar apne estate bungalow pahuncho."

"Ha ha ha, Heroine Roopa baby. Verry beautiful ho. Sharabhi
aankhen, gulabi chehra, tezaabi jeans. Ha ha. Ab tujhe bachaane
ke liye tera pyaara hero nahin aayega.  Baby, dekhne ko bilkul
'Barbie Doll' lag rahi ho. Tujhe \^\%\$\\\#\*\& karke cabbage patch doll
bana doonga"

HEROINE: "Chod do mujhe, kuthe, kamine....."

AJIT: "Ha ha, Miss Roopa dear, naaraaz math ho. Nacho. UMMM,
nacho, abhi NACHO"

HEROINE: "Disco ya Bharatnatyam ya Doritos brand corn nachos ?"

AJIT: "Verry hoshiar baby, ha ha, Raaabert, isko Great Wall of
China le jaakar phansi mein laga do, great 'wall hanging' ban
jayegi"

"Arre, yeh budiya kaun hai. Hellooo meri beautiful senior
citizen, how are you my pyarri golden girl, daarrling"

OLD WOMAN: "Chi, Besharam, mere paas math aao. Hey Ram, mujhe
bachao. Mera beta Inspector Vijay tum sub ko ek ek karke...."

AJIT: "Is ex-Miss India ko Middle East lekar maar daalo. Marne
ke baath bhi will not rest in peace. Nahin to Hemendra Godbole
ka crossword puzzle ka anagram clue de do, uska 'real fun' se
'funeral' ho jayega."

"Arre Raaabert, woh kaun hai, bandhi hui hai. Dekhne me suchmuch
Britain ki Maharani lag rahi hai. Oy, kaun ho tum. Kya naam hai
tumhara. Jawab nahin degi. Muh mein kya hai ?"

RAABERT: "Baaaasss, woh tu hero ka ghoda, Billoo, baass"

AJIT: "Shut up Raabert, main sub jhanta hoon. Magar I wanted to
get it straight out of the horse's mouth. Ha ha haa. Yeh dekho
  'dishooom' 'disshhooom'  bechara Billoo mar gaya.
Raabert, Yeh hai the actual horse's 'mauth'."

"Michael maal laaye ho ? Raabert helicopter tayyaar hai? Peter,
tera Principle laaye ho ? Chotu chai tayyaar hai ? Ek cup chai le
aao, with cream and brown sugar."

RAABERT: "Baass, tragedy ho gaya, apna helicopter mein to teen
blade mein to ek missing. Sirf do blades hain. Rotor mein motor
nahin hai. Chaaron taraf police hai. Ab kya karen baass"

AJIT: "Arre, crrrybaby Raabert, Pant ke neeche sari pahne ho
kya, Udhar dekho, ped ke neeche mera naya Stealth Bomber kada
hai. Usme jayenge. Abhey Mike, taarmac mein Bigmac math kha.
Raabert, police apne radar gun se plane ka peecha karegi.
Tum bhi apna radar tayyaar kar lo. Turbo charge karke radar se
tez chalao. Police ka radar rays ozone layer mein abosrb hokar
kumzor ho jaayega. Aur hum bhi mid-air mein refuel karke turant
London pahunch jaayenge"

"Yeh dekho, hero Vijay aur heroine Roopa, poor bastards. Mauth
ki intezaar kar rahen hai. Raabert, Inko dekh kar ek cheez
yaad aa raha hai. Mard ki zindagi bilkul chuhe ki zindagi jaise
hai. Chuhe ki duniya mein bhi Mickey Mouse hota hai aur Minnie
Mouse bhi hoti hai. Mickey aur Minnie ke beech mein muhabbat
hai, pyaar hai, gaana hai, naach hai. Aur ek din Ajit naam ki
billi aa jaati hai aur khel katham. Magar Raaaabert, mard aur
mouse mein ek pharak hai"

RAABERT: "Woh kyaa hai baaaasss ?"

AJIT: "Kuch mardon ko 'Mousiji' hoti hai, magar mouse ko
kabhi 'mardji' nahin hoti."

OLD WOMAN: "Rukho, Ajit, tum Inspector Vijay ke bhai ho. Kai
saal pahle Kumbh mela mein tum kho gaye the. Tum aur tumhara bhai
Vijay, tum donom triplets ho."

AJIT: "Yeh, bhudiya kya bolti hai? Tereko kaisa maloom hai ?"

OLD WOMAN: "Main Vijay ki Ma nahin hoon. Maine kabhi shaadhi
nahin ki. Such mein, main tumhari padosi thi. Gabbar ke aadmine
tumhare maa baap ko maar daala. Aur uske baath main tum aur
Vijay ko paal rahi thi"

AJIT: "Yeh kaisa maaloom pada ki main Ajit hoon"

OLD WOMAN: "Tum bachpan se hi phatte maar rahe the. Jab tum
cchote the, tum mujhe pyaar se 'Lattu champion' bhulaya karte
the. kyoonki mai subse badi 'spinster' thi......."

At this point the air is riddled with cries of 'Bhaiya'.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

END END END END (Read on only if you need the translation)

Translation: (I don't believe I am actually doing this!!)
\medskip\hrule\medskip
AJIT: Robert, tie him in the electric chair and turn on the Cray computer
and send in the nuclear current through the superconducting
cable ..

RAABERT: Stop boss, he is already tickeled to death

AJIT: Tie up the other sonafabitch with ropes and throw him in
the lion-leopard cage, the animals will get some high fiber
diet. My lion is a dandylion

No, Raabert, on second thoughts take him to a Middle Eastern
restaurant and don't buy him Falafil sandwich, but get him
'Humous'. After eating it, he will become post-humous.

Now it is the hero's turn. Tie him to a time-bomb. Set the timer
to 10.00, no no. The hero is always late in doing things. Let
his death come late too. Set the timer to 10.05. Raabert you
idiot, don't set the time bomb here. This is a no-smoking area.
The time bomb will go 'tic tic tic'. The hero's heart will go
'tup tup tup' in fear and if you stand next to him, you will
hear 'tic tup tic tup'.

RAABERT: But boss, this is a quartz digital clock. This won't go
'tic tic tic'. This runs on a battery.

AJIT: You idiot. This is no assault and battery. Get me the
cuckoo clock. When the bomb goes off, the cuckoo will explode
and the owl (referring to the hero) will also die. Two birds in
one stone.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

AJIT: Mona daarling. Go have a bath. Michael you go along as
well. Also, take my King Cobra and brush its teeth.
(Translator's note: This dialog is meant to bring out the
psychotic nature of the villain)

Mona darling, don't go with Tony, because you will become
MonaTony. Go with Lisa and become Mona Lisa. Lisa come here
baby. Michael, take these babies to our estate bungalow.

Ha ha. Heroine Roopa baby, you are very beautiful. Liquory eyes,
rosy cheeks, acid washed jeans. Your hero will not come now to
rescue you. You look like a Barbie doll. I will %$@\#\# and then
make you into a cabbage patch doll.

HEROINE: Leave me, dog, lowlife

AJIT: Miss Roopa dear, don't get upset. dance, umm dance, DANCE

HEROINE: Disco or Bharata natyam or Dorito's brand Nacho chips.
(Translator's note: There is a very hilarious multilingual pun
here for those people who know hindi and english and with a
fondness for multilingual puns)

AJIT: very clever baby. Raabert, take her to the Great Wall of
China and hang her there. That will make a great 'wall-hanging'.

Who is this old woman. My beautiful senior citizen, how are you
my golden girl love ?

OLD WOMAN: Chi, shameless fellow. Don't come near me. My son
Inspector Vijay will come and will smash each one of you.

AJIT: Take this ex-Miss India and kill her in the Middle East.
Even after her death she won't rest in peace. Or give her
Hemendra Godbole's crossword puzzle anagram clue. She will go
from real fun to 'funeral'.

Raabert. Who is this other person who is tied up. She looks like
the Queen of England. Who are you ? What is your name ? What is
in your mouth"

RAABERT: Boss, that is our hero's horse Billoo,

AJIT: I knew that Raabert, but I wanted to get it out of the
horse's mouth. (Dishoom, dishoooom. Ajit shoots the horse) Poor
Billoo is dead. This is the real horse's mouth (which means
death in hindi)

Michael did you bring the goods. Raabert is the helicopter
ready. Peter did you bring your Principle. Small one, is the tea
ready. Small one, bring a cup of tea with cream and brown sugar.

RAABERT: Boss, tragedy has occurred. One of the blades in our
helicopter is missing. The motor in the rotor is also gone. and
Police is all over the place.

AJIT: Crybaby Raabert, are you wearing a sari under your pants.
Look under the tree, my new stealth bomber is standing out
there. Mike, don't eat BigMac on tarmac. Raabert get your radar
gun. Police will chase us with their radar gun. But try to fly
faster. Police's radar rays will get absorbed by ozone and we
will refuel in midair and reach London.

Look at the poor hero and the heroine. Awaiting their death.
Looking at them I am reminded of how similar a man's life is to
a mouse's. Even in the world of a mouse, there is a Mickey Mouse
and there is a Minnie Mouse. There is love between them and
songs. Till one day when a cat called Ajit comes and ends their
game. But there is one major difference between a man's life and
a mouse's life"

RAABERT: What is it boss ?

AJIT: Some men have Mousiji (a kind of an aunt - mother's
sister) (Untranslatable)

OLD WOMAN: Ajit, you and hero Vijay are brothers. You got lost
in a kumbh mela. You both are triplets.

AJIT: How do you know ?

OLD WOMAN: I used to be your neighbor. Actually I am not Vijay's
mother. I am not even married. When Gabbar's people killed your
parents, I looked after you.

AJIT: How do you know it was me ?

OLD WOMAN: You used to make these PJs even when you were young.
You used to call me 'top champion' (top, as in a child's toy)
and that was because I was a spinster"

(The brothers unite)


\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  MUCH MUCH MUCH MORE OF }
\centerline{\bf THIS AND THAT}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

EVEN THOUGH I am a total goofball and have no known academic achievement,
I was inducted into the Executive Committee of a mega project at a major
university, (no names please !) just because my corporation dishes out 
money toward the project every year. That was one of those 'life-changing' 
events for me, because all these big, bad professors have started 
dancing in circles around me, like a bunch of Mujras, just to get a 
piece of the sponsorship money. Before I realized it, the Dean, Vice 
President and the Provost (just what the hell does a University Provost 
do ?) took me out for lunch at one of the luxurious, inner sanctums 
of the university and treated me to a lot of weak jokes and
inane anecdotes about the university. One of them even told me "We always 
like students from India. You all have a solid foundation in mathematics."
or some such, just to ingratiate me. It all sounded eerily unreal, sort of
like poetic justice, because I have always been terrorized by professors,
until very recently. In case any of you go on to become project sponsors, 
here are some useful tips.

Remember, it is like a tug-of-war between the professors, who are trying to 
impress the committee - and you, trying not to get impressed. First thing you
ought to do during project presentations is to go to the very front desk, 
spread all your stuff across two chairs, empty your brief case and spread 
the contents on the desk. Ignore the speaker and his project presentations 
as much as possible. Always keep doodling something on your notepad and 
only occassionally should you look at the speaker in his eyes. Just when 
a new professor is called on to present his part of the project, leave the 
room to re-fill your coffee cup, just to unnerve the professor.

Always address the professors by their first names, even if they had won two
or three Nobel prizes. If you don't know their first names, just call them
Dave.

When the professor claims that the 'Mechano-fudge coefficient increases with
temperature', you should interrupt him and mutter "Hmm. Interesting that it
is increasing." If on the other hand, the professor mentions that it decreases
with temperature, you should simply say "Hmm. Interesting that it is 
decreasing." In either case, the professor should get the idea that you somehow
know these results already and that they are trivial.

Watch out for the professor who talks excitedly and jumps arouund as if 
he is on burning coal. He would claim that he has made a lot of 
technological breakthroughs and has several 'exciting' results. "These
results are hot off the oven" he would claim, trying to imply that his lab 
is the hotbed of all research activity in the world, "As we speak, Wei Chen 
and Srini are measuring the Mechano-fudge coefficient on the latest samples 
in the lab."

At the end of any presentation, you can psych them by asking how come they did 
not do something. "Why didn't you measure the Mechano-fudge coefficient as a 
function of the phase of the moon ?" you can always ask them. To which, they 
might twist and turn or have stock answers such as "Jane is the only one 
who does these measurements. Now she is on maternity leave."

Let me tell you folks, it is a lot of fun to be on the supply side of 
the money-line.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

EVEN THOUGH I don't personally own a dhoti, I think I can write a 
thesis on dhotis. In fact, a comparitive ethnic study of 'dhoti-tying' 
habits across the various states of India is much needed. By the way, 
the New York Times, in its infinite wisdom, has once referred to dhoti 
as 'an oversized diaper'. 

For example, the Kerala folks, I am told, tie a dhoti asymmetrically, with
the knot on the left hand side, (Verdad ?) whereas the Uttar Pradesh
style is simply starting it such that LHS = RHS and then wrapping around
symmetrically. In Rajasthan, the trick is to reduce the bulk to a neat,
streamlined form. While you are in Tamil Nadu, you would tie it around
like a barrel, in the 'lungi' format. There ought to be a law in India 
banning these lungi people, who fold their lungis at thigh level in a 
'half mast,' from kick starting their bicycle and riding them. It can be 
very obscene.

The Bengalis, by the way, are the only ones who hang onto their dhoti
ends in one hand. This is probably because they are still trying to figure
out where to stick the ends of their dhotis. It is not uncommon to see 
them walk around in Calcutta, clutching their dhotis. However, in these
modern times, when getting in and out of subways and tram cars are so tough,
guys who are 'short-handed' because one of their hands is already occupied
with the dhoti, are particularly at a disadvantage. For example, when the
train or the bus jostles, oftentimes, the dhoti end and the owner get
momentarily separated. But thank god for Newton's laws, the dhoti ends always
come back to the hands, except that the guys discover that they are holding
the wrong man's dhotis and not their own. The Bengalis of course are much
more civil and gentle than most other folks in India and so under such
situations, they would simply ask the others "Excuse me, may I have mine
back, please". (This 'holding onto the end' is also observed among some
Punjabi women and their 'Pallus', but then, that is another Ph. D topic)

Also, one of the most serious problems facing Indian men, to the point of
affecting their general well-being, is the 'nada' (strap) of a pyjama getting
sucked into the pyjamas. This is an acute epidemic across the globe and 
has to be halted right away. I have half a dozen pyjamas with the strap
disappearing on one side. No matter how much brute force one applies, there is 
no way to yank out the sucked-in strap. My mom suggested that I buy a safety 
pin and thread the strap in again. But then, in these high-tech times, who has
even heard of a safety pin ? You can try to cheat the pyjama by tying a knot
out of the strap all the time, leaving no free end. But then, there is 
always the danger of your not being able to unravel the knot, especially 
when you need to go to the bathroom urgently. Also, strange as it may seem, 
the moment you put the knotted pyjama in the washer, the pyjama strap 
Houdinis itself and the black hole opens up and gobbles up one end of the 
strap. Is there any end to this malady or is this a grand conspiracy by 
all the tailors across India to generate guaranteed employment for 
themselves ?

\medskip\hrule\medskip

EVEN THOUGH these are highly unfunny, here are some very poor jokes.

Q: What is the name of a desi-owned chain departmental store ?
A: Desi Penney.

Q: What is the name of a desi-owned fast food chain ?
A: Dosa Hut (Pittsburgh actually has a restaurant by this name)

Q: What is the favorite American city of desis ?
A: Desi Moines, Iowa.

Q: What is the favorite motel chain of the desis ?
A: RamaDas Hotel and Inns.

Q: What is the favorite sporting team of the Sangh Parivar and the Hindutva
types ? (No, not Cleveland Indians or Cincinnati Bengals)
A: Los Angeles 'Rams'. 

Q: What is desi's favorite river ?
A: Of course, it is Ganga, stupid.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

EVEN THOUGH many of the desis who come to this country are cream of the
crop, topping their IITs and so forth and apply themselves to the most
challenging Ph. D problems, they are also equally likely to spend a lot
of time and energy on wasteful, lowly projects like enrolling in CD clubs, 
book clubs and otherwise involving in various trivial scams. There is not
a single All-India topper who is not enrolled in one such club, because when
it comes to Compact Disks, it is not the quality, but the quantity is what
counts. Desis and scams are intertwined.

For example, during one of his visits, my uncle called me up and told me
that he was a Numismatist. I told him I was so sorry to hear it and wished
him good luck on getting better soon. Instantly my uncle called me an idiot
and explained to me that a numismatist collected coins, for whatever reasons. 
He told me that he was going to send a hundred dollars to a place in 
New Orleans for some rare nineteenth century coins. When he got them by mail, 
they were all suspiciously marked 1899 ! Another time, he had to fake 
'medical reasons' in order to extend his Air India ticket back to India 
and stay for a few extra months and the doctor ripped him off for more 
dollars than my uncle ripped off Air India. (of course, I was thrilled ! You 
don't know my uncle.) 

Desis are not always at the receiving end of a scam. Frequently, they dish
it out to them. One of my friends traveled to India by Lufthansa and sent
copies of his tickets to three local airlines and got frequent flier mileage
credit on all of them ! Then there is this guy, who buys tents and sleeping
bags at a fancy store, takes them out on a camping trip and promptly returns
them for credit after he gets back !

\medskip\hrule\medskip

continuing along the same vein,

TIME TABLE FOR A FRESHLY ARRIVED DESI GRADUATE STUDENT

6 Sept 1993 - Arrive in this country.

7 Sept 1993 - Get all information about credit cards and how to apply for them.
Send Emails to all and sundry.

8 Sept 1993 - Apply for the first credit card. 

9 Sept 1993 - Discover Soc.Culture.Indian.

10 Sept 1993 - Join the CD club.

11 Sept 1993 - Rejected for first credit card.

12 Sept 1993 - Receive junk mail announcing that 'You have won the Grand 
Prize in a Sweepstake.' Be thrilled for half a day and phone up the scam 
company.

13 Sept 1993 - Watch first American football game on TV. Make a comment that 
soccer is much better.

14 Sept 1993 - Go to Ohio State University on a visit to see friends.

15 Sept 1993 - Make a post on Soc.Culture.Indian.

16 Sept 1993 - Make father, brother, roommates as members of CD club.

17 Sept 1993 - Buy Nike Air Jordan shoes and Levy 501s.

18 Sept 1993 - Find an American football team to support and be a fan of 
that team like crazy as if you have known the team since you were born.

19 Sept 1993 - Locate all wingmates and classmates and compile a mailing 
list of all old classmates.

20 Sept 1993 - Be the first in the batch to attend a Jethro Tull concert. The 
Tull group now plays exclusively for the IIT guys, because they are the only 
remaining fans of Tull.

21 Sept 1993 - Be disgusted with Soc.Culture.Indian. Discover that Kuram 
T Narayana offends everyone, no matter which ethnic group you belong to.

22 Sept 1993 - End 'piling on' with seniors and make that first pot
of dal and rice.

30 Sept 1993 - Receive first paycheck and buy VCR and watch hindi movies.

1 Oct 1993 - Receive first phone bill for three hundred dollars.

1 Dec 1993 - Be the first one in the batch to go to get a driver's licence 
and go to Florida. 

23 Dec 1993 - Enroll in Dancing class, swimming class and aerobics class.

24 Dec 1993 - Be the first one to shed 'rookie' status by getting a real 
credit card, (other than an American Express card) buying a car, organizing 
a football party, visiting Delaware and actually starting a project toward 
Masters or a Ph. D.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
Acknowledgements: This post is generated out of idle conversations with
Kannan Subramanian, Chidambaram, Sunil, Swagatha and R. Sundaram
and has several of their comments.
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject

\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  DR. DESI STRIKES BACK}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

Dear Netters,

Some days ago, there was a vitriolic character assassination of
me in this very net. All kinds of stereotyping was done and was
attributed to me, as if everyone else is leading a perfect life.
Those who live in glass apartments should make sure their glass
is bullet-proof. This careless analysis was probably done by a
sociopath who is still in his 'oral stage' if you subscribe to
psychoanalysis or who is still trying to compensate for his
inadequacies if you are a fan of Adler or if you believe in Carl
Gustav Jung...Anyways, offense is the best form of defense, says
the coach of L. A.  Clippers and so here I go.

What about you, my esteemed student friends? Let me choose Mr.
Ajay Palvayanteeswaran as an example. Unlike you, I want to
protect his identity and so let me use his given name, 'Machan'.
He belongs to a special species that is hardly going extinct. He
is from that prestigious college in the quintessentially southy
city of Madras and technically a part of the dhoti subculture.
In his college, rhesus monkeys, deer and doe-eyed does roam
around freely and cohabitate with the students. But, just to be
fair to him, he could equally well be from that institute in
Bombay (the 'Mistake by the Lake') or the one in Delhi (the
'Mistake by the Dhaba') or the two others in some vague villages
somewhere in India. What do they call them these days, Bharatiya
Takhniqui Sanstan?
Machan, although you are from the boondocks of your state, you
desparately want to give up your southiehood and want to be
someone you are not. You don't realize that you can join the
order of universal brotherhood without being ashamed of your
roots. You no longer do 'southy things' and you wouldn't be
caught dead talking in tamil or telugu. And you are no Lord
Chesterfield when it comes to english language skills. When you
talk in english, your baud rate is so high that you don't
communicate meaningfully even with the pizza delivary person.
You lived in some kind of Disneyland, completely untouched by
such great minds as Freud, Nietszhe, Mozart, Gandhi or Jorge
Borges or any goings on in India. The only literature you read
while in college was the GRE guidebook. You don't know anything
about Marx, be it Groucho or Karl. You cannot give a five minute
lecture on Indian music or literature or history. You try to
emulate American teenagers and glue your ears to top 40 songs.
All you want in life is a good job and wife, material comforts
and nothing more. At least, I am hanging on to some principles
tenaciously, to the point of looking ridiculous. In twenty
years, when you become a Dr. Desi or a Pope, you will not know
who you are.

And Machan, I am married and you are not. You are doomed to
celibacy for almost the duration of your Ph. D, which could be,
say anywhere between two years and oh, lets see, eternity. We
will have two recessions and three recoveries by then. Elizabeth
Taylor would have had her eighth husband.  Protons would decay.
(And we may still be watching the Cosby Show) But, you are
perennially hopeful. You go to the various 'parties' and try
various approaches to 'pick up a girl'. First you try to
simulate the 'naive technique' and tell the girl "I have never
danced before, can you teach me?".  And when you dance, you are
like an orang utang in heat and step on her feet all the time.
Pretty soon, you are confined to the wall, gulping a beer like
some gold fish. On other occassions, you try the aggressive "Hi
babe, can I buy you breakfast" routine and get sidelined by the
presence of some hulk.  You soft focus your sights on the local
Indian women students, but you are jinxed, because they get
married precisely two months after you set your eyes on them, to
someone whose salary is large enough to finance a covert war
somewhere.

Just last year when you arrived, you were so full of pep and
ego. But this year, having been in the melting pot for a year,
you are more chastised and realize that you are not held in awe
like perhaps you were in your old college in India. You still
send entries to the Publishers Clearing house Sweepstakes and
try to be the tenth caller to win a free cassette of "Pugnacious
Sweating Tendencies" or some such rock group. You join the RCA
club and apply for twenty credit cards.

I have bought shares in AT \& T, not because it is the right
choice, but because you are a chronic telephonoholic. You have
to talk to all your wingmates, classmates and primates every
week. You will have to tell Sidey from Jamuna that PJ from Ganga
has got his driving license. When they show up in your town, you
will go to a topless bar and drool over it, and wish that the
exotic dancer include some bharat natyam 'mudras' in her
repartoire. Not a weekend passes without a huge pot luck dinner
plus movies and childish games like 'Anthakshari' and 'Charade'.


You will buy a two hundred dollar car for five hundred bucks and
it is always falling apart. Every one of you has an uncle in New
Jersey (actually not a real uncle, but the cousin of your
neighbor in India) and ten of YOU will get into the car and
drive off, without any sleep or food and with only one driver to
do all the driving. You describe the trip in dehumanizing terms
like "I am going there for good food".

The point is, we can go on and on. I may find whatever you do
silly and in turn, you might laugh at me even if I scratch my
back. Instead, let us be positive and sensitive. Let us not
accuse each other of being in need of psychotherapy. Let us live
in peace and brotherhood.

signed
Dr. Desi
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  DRIVING AJAY CRAZY}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

"In a town of population 2500, a funeral procession is going on
and a blind man wants to cross the road, who should yield" asked
Ajay Palvayanteeswaran, flipping through the pages of
Pennsylvania Driver's license manual.

As it happened, I had gotten my license many moons ago and no
real driver remembers any of these minor aspects of driving
anyway. "So you are learning to drive, eh?" I managed to ask
him, since he gave me a lot of hints. "No" he emphasized "I have
driven in India. I just need some practice and then I will go
for my road test"

I tried to kill his enterprise. I told him he was too short to
be sitting in the driver's seat. He wasn't going to be deterred.
In fact he honored me by choosing my car as the official car of
his endeavor.

In a matter of days, the first hurdle, the written test was
taken or in his case 'given'. ("Bhayon haath ka khel") He only
made one mistake, he proudly told me and he even called up his
long distance buddies and casually told them that he was on the
verge of getting his license and of course, he only made one
mistake in the written test. It was cool. "Daddyji aur mummy ko
math batha dena. They will be worried unnecessarily"

On an auspicious sunday morning, we reached the deserted parking
lot of a mall. Ajay got behind the wheels for the first time,
tightened the seat belt around him. "Your seatbelt is a little
weird, I have never seen seat belts like this in the cars I had
driven" he told me, to emphasize the point that he was a veteran
of several driving episodes. He then adjusted the mirror and
yes, tuned the radio to his favorite station. A few foul starts
later, he zoomed to a start and we went into an orbit around the
earth. It took me only a few minutes to realize that his Indian
driving experience amounted to nothing.

"Watch out, Ajay, you are only two angstroms away from that car"
"nahin nahin, there is enough space".  "Ajay why are you cutting
through the solid lines" "nahin, there is no one around."
"Maybe they all know you are going to be driving.  Why are you
going on the left side of the road" "nahin nahin I just wanted
to make sure I am far away from the parked cars" "Ajay why are
you doing dumb thing number 243 ?" "nahin nahin, this is the
best thing anybody could do under these circumstances". He was
an unteachable.  (Arrh, arrh)

And then he insisted we 'hit' real roads. "Please don't use such
language" I feebly pleaded. But hit we did in a big way. There
were those wild turns defying centripetal force. His mistaking
the gas pedal for the brake and once I was tricked by him into a
wild roller coaster ride on the freeway through two counties
after which my Kundalini was completely awakened. Plus I had to
endure his radio station and Paula Abdul songs and my car was
bumping around to the, well, music, with him pounding on the
steering and pumping the gas to the pulsating rhythm. He was a
terror on the road and perhaps god was playing pacman, with Ajay
at the helm. By now I had developed an immunity to obscenities,
honks and finger-pointings by unfriendly fellow motorists. AAA
even officially listed him as a road hazaard.

That was only the beginning. He was what can be described as a
cardiac kid, although he projected an attitude of utter
coolness. Another evening, I saw almost half of Pittsburgh go by
my car window in a fast-forward mode and I even saw the familiar
Carnegie Mellon.

I said "Ajay, if you go at this speed and don't yield to those
pedestrians, you are going to get that desi lady".

Ajay retorted "That's not a lady, that is Geetha".

He honked furiously as Geetha was approached. Geetha didn't even
bother to look in our direction, as she was running for her life
faster than Road Runner.(She even said 'beep beep'). Ajay wasn't
going to give up getting Geetha's attention. So he did the
unexpected. Boom ! He made a death-defying U turn and screeched
to a halt in front of Geetha.  "See, I have to talk to her about
something.  Acha, would you tell the cars behind me to pass me
and drive on and that I am actually stopped ?"

        \medskip\hrule\medskip 

Another day. With only half a hand on the steering and no legs
on any pedals he said, "Ramesh, have you heard this one ? You
remember the Buffalo Bills team had a running back called
Riddick ? Now they don't have him any more and so the team looks
Riddickless. Ha Ha. How do you measure the efficiency of a
Panditji ? With an 'Om'meter, of course. Ha ha" My car was
laughing uncontrollably. The darned suspensions. "Did you hear
this one ? D.  H.  Lawrence wrote an erotic novel about a
Bengali and it is called Lady Chatterjee's lover. Ha ha. And how
about this one, the doctors removed so much of Reagan's colon
that what he has left now is just a semicolon. Ha Ha.  And by
the way, this is no joke, we are going the wrong way on a one
way street."

Yet another day. "Damn ! This guy is too slow" he would comment
about the driver in front. "Come on dude, let us move. I don't
have all day" "But, Ajay, you DO have all day, your adviser is
on a sabbatical anyways". Pretty soon, his driving became a
social event involving every desi in town and everybody thought
of novel excuses to avoid being drafted to take him on driving
missions.  ("Today is Mahavir Jayanthi. I can't come") "Do you
know Ajay is trying to get his license" one desi would ask the
other bewildered one.  "Yes, I know.  That is why I work from
home these days. Don't want to walk to school and take chances".

As of today, he has already made about five attempts at the
driving road test and he managed to flunk the test on all
occassions, making the wildest mistakes. His initial enthusiasm
has given way to a new mood of pessimism that perhaps he will
never get his license in this state. Every driving examiner
knows him by now. He told me that the driving examiners in
Pittsburgh are racists and that they give a hard time to desis
in particular. "I talked to all my friends and I think
Pittsburgh is unusually tough in giving driving licenses" he
concluded. I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. His
cool has also vanished. And anyway, it is not necessary to get a
license now, since he wasn't planning to buy a car. Besides, he
has a lot of studying to do these days. He doesn't even talk
about his driving to anyone.  He no longer comes up with lines
like "It was so tough driving in Chicago".  Someone even
suggested him that he takes up simpler things in life like
skydiving or acrobatics.

The Berlin wall has come down; Rajiv Gandhi has yielded his
office to Mr. Singh; Apartheid might go and hell might freeze
over. But Mr. Palvayanteeswaran will be still without a
license, unless something drastic is done. He is desparate. If
you want to help him, send me mail, because a 'treat' is riding
on it for me.
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject
    
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  ENGLISH COMPOSITION - PART 1}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

In one of my earlier posts I had written,



A clarification. It was I who was inebriate - Rajan Parrikar is a teetotaller
and was as sane as he always comes across in his expert posts on music. 

English language can be so ambiguous and loose. Here is what I picked up in
France - a tour brochure about Le Grand Canon du Verdon, touted as the Grand
Canyon of France. The brochure is ostensibly in English. I have abstracted it
a little for brevity.

                            The Great Canyon of Verdon

The Great Canyon of Verdon !

It is difficult to imagine at one time all this was ocean. Everything is
turned up-side down. From this altitude 1000 one discovers the 'plateau of
fossils' and belvedere of Point Sublime, also the bottom of the canyon
altitude 600.

In 1905, Martel, the hydrographer observed that the torrent continues to
burrow the fissures, the gigantic faults of the upper jurassic. At the present
time, the dams regularize the torrent. Martel thought of going down the river 
in a dinghy he capsized a hundred times and broke up two of them. 

To do the 'bottom' is nowadays a venture. The route is very varied showing by 
turns a moonlike desert green oasis in small lost valleys. The villages
sticking to the mountains look stern and proud, well tuned to this nature
without trickery.

It is recommended to drive the whole circuit on the two banks it takes three
or four hours or a day for those coming from the Cote d'Azur and going back.

A long stop is recommended at the entrance of the Great Canyon. (parkings,
telescope, information) this spot being specially arranged for the tourist -
indeed a road goes up to the general panorama of Rougon, while other goes down
to the inside of the gorges, facilitating the entrance by the path which
prolongs the road. ..This new alpine cliff road goes up till 1350 m lowering
vertically the Verdon far down at 540 m.

A belvedere bridge had to be constructed to obtain a 10 km short entrance to
Auigiunes from this high point at the outcoming of the canyon, but only an
endless deviation by the junction has been. Nearby big Lake Ste Croix provides
drinking water in four departments. We are now describing the road left bank 
in order to complete the drive on the road right bank. The complete circuit 
of the two banks can be done in the two directions because the cliff roads are 
open in two ways. Drivers who are in a hurry can, follow at least one bank it
won't delay them much. 

Easy trip in the Great Canyon from Point Sublime to Tripon, 2 km by car and as
much on foot, to go and come back. Take a stick and a torch at the inn then go
down by car along road going to "the Bottom". After the end parking (no keeper)
begins the down path at the bridge. The narrowness of the couloir obliges one
to take a tunnel. (3m diameter and flat) At 100 m inside, two openings give a 
view upon the gap, then the tunnel goes on in a curb and one has 'to light the
lamp'. From the window stairs and then a security ladder, give access to an
extraordinary chaotic shore where one sees in detail one of the greatest 
excavations burrowed out by thousand years of wear by the torrent.

Now one goes back to the tunnel and the remaining 300 m. after that another 
100 m. The last end, the path goes through a slope, along a third tunnel and 
comes to a small headland on the left.

One goes back by the same way. Now the sun allows one again to take snap shots,
different from the way forth. One has to take 2 hours in order to appreciate
this trip very typical and easy. (8 km roads and 14 km paths in 6 to 8 hours
normal going) 

One has to drive on 8 km on the cliff way till La Maline where one leaves the
car; unless one of the group who does not walk, brings her back to Point
Sublime in order to wait there that his friends come back in the evening.
Better not to take to the right downstream where one sees the bridge of
Estellie as this is for the trip by the bottom. It is agreeable to rest or
take a cold bath. It will be nice to bathe, even if it is only the feet, it
refreshes better than drinking the water of the Verdon. Thirty meters below 
there is a 500m restful going. It is here the quart part of the trip. The 
canyon changes of orientation from east west it becomes North South 
streamupwards.

Be careful a templing path leads rapidly to the stream, but it is only for
anglers because without outcome. One can take a map if the schedule has been
respected. The trip is tiring. Reduced weight in equipment, good soles, not
too much to eat but drinks. One can hear shocks and curse unconscious people
who throw stones from the cliff road.

In case of floods, one has to come back from here by the same way out of water
to get out of the canyon or better by the Vidal path, vertiginous, concealed
from the non connaisseurs. If one wants to continue the descent, (despite the
floods) one has to remember ! You may be stuck by a releasing of 20 cubic 
meters per sec. Whew ! If the lake is full up, its water comes up till here 
and one has to swim, to use the ropes and climb on the right bank. 

But this trip in nature is something unforgettable it will revive you. 

Martel writes "We are at the bottom of a real well. Our arms outstretched
touch nearly the walls which tower in the sun 400m higher in the sun. Below it
is almost night in the prison. ...One ought to proceed 20 times through this
canyon if one dares to say to have seen it. Here exists a real unique wonder
in Europe. Indeed I have not changed my mind after having seen the Great
Canyon of the Colorado more gigantic but less narrow and above all less green."
  
\medskip\hrule\medskip

PS: Actually this is a very beautiful place. I spent three days there. And
now, here is a verse that I wrote in French. Somebody else can make fun of it.

           Ilayaraja

J'ai fait une faute orthographique
Mais ce n'est pas une faute musique
Au lieu de ecrivant Ilayaraja du la musique
J'ai ecris Il y a raja du la musique.

\medskip\hrule\medskip
\vfill\eject

\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  EVOLUTION}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}


(Phone conversation between Ajay Palvayanteeswaran and PJ over
the years)

\medskip\hrule\medskip
A few days after freshly arriving in the USA.

"Machi, PJ, guess who ?"

"You sonavabitch Palvy, bugger, \#\$\%\$ \&\%\^\#, finally, all our
dreams have come true. America aa gayen. My flight was superb.
The airhostesses were 'maal', yaar."

"I stayed in New Jersey with my uncle. It was great, but it was
also boring.  These guys have been in this country for twenty
\%\^\$\#ing years and god, they have just substituted one empty life
in India for another one here. They are so boring and stuck up I
couldn't even stand them. They only talk about 'Macaroni and
Cheese' recipes and 'No load mutual funds' and god, we went to a
park and my uncle insisted on playing soccer. He was so
pathetic, he couldn't kick a Goodyear blimp, even if it were two
feet in front of him. He doesn't even know about Sridevi movies.
All he does is make money."

"I have already put a test message in this thing called SCI and
have asked for everyone's phone number and address."

"I think I am going to compile the alumni list. You know this
bugger Srini, he is in Carnegie Mellon for a Ph.D ...."

"All of us freshies are piling on with this one senior guy,
remember Short Bala? Machi, he makes fundu grub."

\medskip\hrule\medskip
Three months later.

"Abhey saale, Pallu \$\#\$\@ this is PJ, wake up, you moron. It is
already 2.00 PM"

"\&\$\\\#\@\ \*\&\^ What is going on ? PJ you \#\@\$\%"

"I just got back from shopping. Got a pair of sexy Nikes. And
some 501s. Great stuff. The KMart had them on sale."

"Machi, I am still looking for a good VCR. Nothing less than
Panasonic. I want to see Sridevi in my own living room. Last
night went to the sleazy bar, 'Shotgun Willie' with cute
barmaids. They were wearing only handkerchiefs for dress. How is
your love life ?"

"Kyaa yaar. Nothing is happening here. I took this female out
last week ..."

"You sonavagun ... "

"But then, she was about forty and started talking about Jesus
Christ after two minutes..."

"Don't tell anyone, but I am learning to dance, Fox trot, Cha
Cha."

"That's what you learn in school eh? The courses are so easy
man, and the other guys don't have our IIT training Machi. We
can ace it in sleep."

"Acha, here everyone has caught the football fever. At least
football is okay.  I don't know how anyone can watch baseball.
It is so boring compared to cricket.  and my friend PC always
cribs about it. He says that all these baseball players are
nothing compared to the cricketers and they make million
dollars, that too for just hitting full tosses."

"Machi, hot news, Srini is dating this hot dame.."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

One year later

"Ajay, can't believe it is already one \&\%\$\# year Machi. This
place is infested with new desis"

"Here too. These guys expect us to take care of them. What are
we, babysitters? I am staying clear of these guys. I don't want
to be pained by taking them shopping."

"Some of them are so rude. This one guy always comes to my place
everyday. He is from some college in Khomeinabad. Can't believe
they have colleges in those places."

"How was your trip to your uncle's place in New Jersey. Did you
see Srini in Pittsburgh ? Is that bugger still crazy ?"

"Of course. Machi, I am going home next summer, did you check
SCI about the travel agents. Heard ki there is a deadly deal in
some airlines. Do you know the deal on F1 visas in Bombay ?"

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Two years later

"Machi, Ranga from Ganga is in San Jose and he is already making
forty K. I don't think I am going to stay here and do a Ph.D. I
want to get a job and my green card before the immigration gets
tighter."

"Me too, yaar. Ph.Ds are only for bottomers of the class, except
of course people like Srini."

"I am already looking into cars. I think I will go for an
Accord, four door. How about you ?"

"This bugger Bala has a damn good CRX. But he is making about
fifty K. He just told them that if they don't give him that
money, he will leave them . Only he knows their computer
software."

"Yes, Machi, we should get out of here. Already another mother
load of desi students have arrived this year. You remember
Bala's brother Srini, he is here too...."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Four years later

"Machi, this third preference is not moving at all and I had to
go to Monterey to get my H visa. They not only gave us our
visas, but showed us a desi movie while we were waiting for the
visa and gave us jaljeera. How is your labor coming along ?"

"The lawyer says it will get tough for desis. In Cincinnati, the
INS has only two guys working on this. Acha, did you go for your
medical already ?"

"No yaar. But I want to change jobs, visit Denmark, get married,
sponsor my parents and my passport and I-94 have already
expired. I have to post on SCI about my simple problem and see
what they have to say."

"Machchchchi, you are getting married, eh ? Who is the lucky
babe ?"

"Actually her name is Malini, full name Malini Ammal. I used to
know her when she was three and I was in IIT. My parents and her
parents have been friends for two centuries. Uncle owns half of
Bangalore."

"You lucky sonavagun. I am also getting married to a girl called
Savita. I saw her in Delhi - the meeting was arranged by my
parents - when I went home last.  The moment I saw her, I knew
that she was the right person for me. I asked her only one
question. 'Do you want to marry me, come to the US, spend my
thousands of dollars.' She thought for a second and said yes.
You know she has lived all her life in various countries and
doesn't know any tamil."

"Wow, what a catch you have. I guess then you will have to
donate all your lungis to Red Cross."

"This bugger Srini called me up last week. He has just passed
his qualifiers"

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Six years later

"You are talking about house prices in Silicon Valley. Take my
town, Gurgaonville, New Jersey, the prices are phenomenal. It is
more than a hundred bucks for a square foot. And they say the
Real Estate is depressed."

"Wow. We bought a Tudor style house, with an unfinished
basement. We have a nice school district. By the way, how many
points did you get for your loan ?"

"I will send you all those by email. We managed to lock into a
thirty year deal. We have a nice yard and planted seventeen
trees, two New England pine and two Colorado spruce. They look
great. Next year we are going to put a swimming pool .."

"But you don't know to swim ..."

"That's why we are going to keep it only three feet deep,
slightly deeper than my tummy. Our Pooja room looks great. The
drapes cost us two thousand bucks, at the K-Mart. My colleague's
brother in law works there and so we got a five percent
commission. God, the price of doorknobs has hit the roof, you
won't believe." 

"Wow. That is interesting. Savita always wanted to have a little
vegetable patch and grow her own tinda and louky. I think that
will be lovely. What kind of mulch do you put in your garden ?"

"We are trying to have ours a purely organic garden. In fact, we
have imported three buffalos from India for fertilizer. Malini
Ammal wants stackable washer and dryer, but I want a
side-by-side and everyday we end up arguing. Next week, we are
going to weed our garden, it is so exciting I can't wait."

"Yeah, this thing takes so much time, I don't have time to go to
the Indian store and get Sridevi movies. What is the story with
this Srini bugger, is he still doing his Ph.D ?"

"Yes, now I hear he is living with a gori and has put his thesis
on hold."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Eight years later

"How are your mutual funds doing ? By the way, I'll be joining
Softwaretech Systems next week"

"Wow, won't that be your eighth job in five years. Is it a good
job ?"

"Great man, actually I even thought of going back to India and
setting up a business with my uncle. But when you listen to the
horror stories in India, it is impossible. Even now, at the
right opportunity, I am ready to go back. Only my wife is
against the idea. She doesn't want to live near her in-laws."

"My wife's entire extended family is here with their kids. God,
it is just total confusion. I took them to the Disney World last
week and they added us as a special attraction and sold
tickets."

"Acha, do you know how you would sponsor your father in law ?"

"Very carefully ! I have the details from SCI. I will send it to
you. By the way, I got elected to the Greater Gurgaonville India
Association presidency. I guess having all my relatives voting
for me helped. We even invited the local councilman. But he had
other engagements. He was in a court hearing for racketeering
and extortion." 

"Acha, is this bugger Srini still doing his Ph.D ? When is he
going to graduate ?"

"He called me last week. He has just switched advisers and now
heavily into Dhrupad music. He is going with a Filipino woman."

"PJ, hang on a minute, my little son Munna is hanging upside
down, trying to get my attention. I think he wants to talk on
the phone. Why don't you say hello to him.. Munna.."

Munna: "Hello unccccall..."

PJ: "God, it is so boring talking to the dad and now the brat.
Bratto, did you know your dad was such a goofball in IIT, it was
a minor miracle that he even 'passed out' with his manhood in
tact. Munna, dear, do you want to talk to Pappu. Here, Pappu,
Munna wants to talk to you on the phone. Double up."

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Fifteen years later

"I haven't been following the SCI recently. But there are these
guys, Vijay Shah, I think and what is his name Alok
Vijaysomething, nice posts they put, remarkable clarity of
thought. I think it is about time the Hindus stood for their
rights."

"Yes, even here, we have started a new chapter of VHP. We have
Kids' Hindu fun summer camp. I am in charge of the Mundaka
Upanishad and Pepsi."

"Yes, our culture is so old and VHP is the only savior of India.
Don't mistake me. I have nothing against the Muslims. My uncle's
friend's next door neighbor in India was a Muslim. They can
still live protected under a Hindu India."

"Like we are living in this country. Any news about Srini's Ph.D
?"

\medskip\hrule\medskip

Twenty Years later

"Hai, Ajay, I happened to read SCI - I don't read that crap
usually. These guys always fight and argue. But I saw your son
Munna's posting, lambasting all these 'Fresh off the Boat'
desis. He was superb."

"Some of these new desi grad students are plain dumb. They call
our kids ABCD, but they are the ones who are confused. My Munna
flipped so many McDonald's hamburgers and he knows the value of
money and the other moral values. These FOBs get a free ride and
keep on cribbing. Cribboos, that's what they are."

"Yes, Munna has a point. It is so sickening to go to India and
see all these educated guys not standing in line, or drooling
over some char-anna ki heroines like Sridevi. What have the
educated done to India? Obviously, a smart teenage kid, like
Munna will ask tough questions. Imagine, you can't even get good
drinking water there in India. We had to carry bottled water
from here."

"I told Munna, kiddo, go ahead date whoever you want - I am not
like the other desi immigrants. I instil the Indian spirit with
the American beer.  Unfortunately, Munna hasn't found any dates
yet. Looks like the poor bastard is cursed with an arranged
marriage. Actually he likes the idea. I told you, Munna likes
the best of both cultures. Do you know of any girls ?"

"Its a pity Srini is still doing his Ph.D and still single. If
he were married, and fathered a girl, at least one of our kids
would have been hitched.  Gotta go, I need to paint my house. I
have been neglecting it for a while."

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Twenty years and one day later

"Hi, this is Manohar Palvayanteeswaran ...."

"Hi, Munna, old buddy, this is Pappu, Papitesh. How are you
doing, pal, at the Coastal Mesa Verde College."

"Great, dude, how about yourself in Front Range Community
College ? This place is great for Wall Street type jobs. And the
broads are great. There is this chick in my Business
Intimidation 102 class, she is a stunner. How are your parents
?"

"They are doing great. I saw your parents too. They had come
over the weekend before I left. We even went on a picnic. But
you know how boring these Indian picnics can be. The women got
under one tree and talked about 'Macaroni Kichadi' and the guys
talked about 'No Load Mutual Funds'. They even tried to play
soccer. Jeez, man, they were pathetic."

"Really, I went to an Indian party myself last week. My local
host organized it. You should remember him, Uncle Srini, you
know what, he is still doing his Ph.D"

"Like, man, still doing his Ph.D, man, that is way out in the
left field. I am outta here in three years......"

\vfill\eject
\centerline{\bf  \ACOUNT\ \ \  FATHERHOOD}
\centerline{  by Mahadevan Ramesh}

It was the most severe storm to have hit Madras in years. It
rained incessantly for a whole day. Even my dad came back from
his office early.  There was no electricity and we had to huddle
around kerosine lamps in great fear.I was a small lad then and I
felt even more small and powerless.  I did not believe we would
come out of it alive. Then amidst the sound of thunder, we heard
the phone ring, sending chills through my little spine.
My mother answered it.  "It is our right side neighbor. That
lady's husband hasn't come back from work yet and she is very
worried" my mother told my father. Geez, could he be dead,
struck by lightning or something.

"Ask her not to worry" said my dad. Then he proceeded to make a
series of phone calls and inferred that the man was last seen
heading toward his colleague's house, who had no phone
connection. He perhaps decided to spend the night there instead
venturing out to his place. He asked auntie to come over and
stay with us that night, instead of being alone. I was really
impressed by the way my dad got things done. I began to have a
new respect for the man and was quite proud to have him for a
father.

The next day, it cleared out in a hurry, almost as if the storm
never took place. We took an inventory of the rampage left
behind by the storm. It wasn't as bad as we had expected. My
neighbor returned the next morning, much to everyone's relief.

A huge tree had fallen down in my neighbor's backyard. It had
narrowly missed falling on the house and damaging it and an inch
this way, it would have levelled their well. 'An act of god, Mr.
Mahadevan' my neighbor told my dad. My dad spent most of the day
at his yard and personally supervised the removal of the tree. A
local lumber merchant and his workers moved the tree ever so
carefully, branch by branch and started hauling it away. If my
dad were not around, my neighbor would have probably been lost.
I was present there all the time, watching the activities and
waiting for my dad to give me those little commands. For some
reason, I felt important and personally involved.  And I was
thrilled with my superdad who seemed to know exactly what to do
under these circumstances. Although it took another three days
to move the tree completely, the most dangereous branches had
been cleared.  And not only that, my dad had negotiated three
hundred rupees for the tree from the lumber merchant.

We got home, a little exhausted. My father returned to his
favorite easy chair, finally getting a chance to read his
newspaper, drinking his umpteenth cup of coffee.

"Dad, I have been thinking. If that dumb tree can fetch three
hundred rupees, don't you think we ought to sell all our trees
in our yard and make some bucks ?"

To which my dad gave me a lengthy lecture on the uses of trees
in general and then showed me a big photograph on the front page
of the newspaper.  "Look, yesterday's storm was so severe it
actually washed up a huge ship ashore on our beach. And now, if
you kids would get ready soon, I will take you to the beach."

We got ready in a trice and went to the beach half-running. We
lived within walking distance of the beach. There was a massive
crowd on the sands and the ship could be seen even when we were
on the road. It was the hugest monstrosity I had ever seen that
was standing in water. It was stuck hopelessly against the
sands. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and the closer
I got to the ship, it got even bigger and less comprehensibler.
My younger sister was too scared to get any closer to it. There
were all kinds of fixtures and ungeometrical structure to the
ship. There were little people standing on the it. The word
'Steamatis' was written on the side in huge letters and I
thought it was a neat name for a ship. I had a million questions
to ask my dad about the ship and he answered each one of them to
my satisfaction, almost as if he anticipated what I was going to
ask.

"Do you know, son, that I had actually been inside a ship"

"No, you did not. You are just kidding us"

"Really, I have a cousin in Malaya and he went back by sea on
one of his trips and I visited his ship. That was a few years
ago. The ship was huge. They had tennis courts and swimming
pools, big living quarters and so forth, right on board"

"How can they have tennis courts. Won't the ball go into the sea"

"No, the courts are away from the edge. Besides, ships are huge"

"What if you had a champion player who hits a powerful shot and
then the ball goes into water"

"Well, then I guess they will have to use another ball. By the
way, tennis chanmpions don't try to hit the ball out of the
court."

This was so exciting. My dad had actually been on a ship! Here
was a man who had always been at cross purposes with my pursuit
of my little hedonistic pleasures, the rulemaking wet blanket.
The man who controlled a mountain of money and made irrational
fiscal policies and wouldn't even throw his pocket change in our
direction to see movies and things. Suddenly, there is more to
him than what I had seen of him, all my young life. I grabbed
his hand.
For days afterward I was in a dream world going around the globe
in a huge ship. We went to the beach almost every other day. My
house was a stranded ship, the bathroom was the engine room and
my dad was its captain.  Occassionally reality hit me in the
form of math assignments, which involved thinking about hardships!

"What young man, still dreaming about that ship and not
concentrating on your homework" My dad asked me, as he read the
newspaper, sipping his usual coffee. How does he know what I am
thinking. I grinned sheepishly.
"Yes dad. I figured that it makes sense to have a swimming pool
in a ship, because you can always fill it up with water from the
sea."

"Wrong you are. Because they use fresh water in swimming pools"
my dad replied.  "By the way, if you behave yourself and not
fight with your sister any more, I will teach you swimming this
summer"

"What ?? You ?? Do you know to swim ? Mom, dad says he knows to
swim" I couldn't believe my dad. Is there a limit to what this
man knows ? Months following that I was in my best behavior.
There was even a unilateral ceasefire with my sister and one
eventful day I even let her wear my slippers when she could not
find her own. Also, I watched over my baby brother without
complaining. Of course, I never did a good job of it and I could
never stop him in time from banging his head  on things. But it
gave me ample opportunity to daydream.

It turned out that we never did learn to swim. Something or the
other cropped up. But it wasn't high on the list of priorities
in the kids' circle.    It was cricket. Typically, my father
tutored me on the cricketing fundamentals. He was downright
wrong about a few things. But, all in all, he was good and I had
the best knowledge of the myriad of cricketing rules and the
other kids always consulted me on controversial umpiring
decisions. Some time later, he took me to my first test match
and my stock went up even more among my buddies.

Looking back, now I realize that my dad had simply seized the
initiative with this ship business and nipped my rebellious
ways, before they even developed. He got me into his folds and
programmed me in his fashion. The power of positive
reinforcement ! The ship itself sat on the beach like an
eyesore. Our visits to look at it became more and more
infrequent, although I always made it a point to look at it
every time I went to the beach. They tried to tow it back into
the sea, but they couldn't and had to abandon it. One day, some
politico said the government would convert it into a restaurant.
But after a few days, the political wind blew in the other
direction and the idea was canned. One time when I went to the
beach, a part of it was gone !  My friend told me it was being
sold as scrap.

Years later, I saw 'Amarcord' and there was a scene about a ship
going awry in a storm, quite similar to my ship episode and I
was suddenly reminded of the 'Steamatis'. And it was some more
years before I actually sailed in one with my car, from
Vancouver to Victoria. I even a bought a picture postcard in the
ferry and sent it home. I was tempted to allude to the stranded
ship.  But at that time it seemed too sentimental and silly.
Besides, there is only so much space on a post card.

Once, when I was thoroughly drunk, I mentioned this ship
incident to a friend of mine, who was also drunk. He told me it
was a classical Freudian situation and called the ship a typical
phallic symbol. The way it kept recurring in my thoughts, even
if occassionally, only proved his theory, he said.

\medskip\hrule\medskip

When I went home the last time, I happened to go to the beach
with my dad.  Now we no longer live near the beach and getting
to the beach was like an expedition. Over the years my dad had
lost a lot of his abundant vigor and I had to slow down to keep
pace with him. Of late, he has been opening up to me and the
neutrality of the setting only helped the situation. We had come
a full circle - from the early days of unquestioned obedience to
fierce rebellions to back to a healthy respect for each other.
We have had a few man to man talks too. But both of us actually
felt very awkward about it.  When he started telling me about
his finances, I wasn't even interested. He started talking.

"At first I thought retirement would be a good relief from the
hectic office work. But it wasn't so. I was getting bored. So I
and Swamy uncle wanted start this consultancy business. That's
when I had my heart attack.. "

Yes. I remembered his heart attack. They did not phone me up,
when it happened, because they did not want to alarm me. Nothing
like long distance worry, I was told later. I got the news weeks
later in an aerogramme, after he got back from the hospital. My
dad continued.
"No, don't worry about it. I am taking good care of myself. I
used to drink so much of coffee that it used to flow in my
veins. Now I don't drink any coffee. I watch my diet very
carefully. Your mother, credit should go to her, watches me like
a hawk and makes sure I take all my pills. Even my sugar is
normal"

I laughed. "Dad, It is interesting. You are not even rich, but
you have rich man's conditions like blood pressure and diabates.
You ought to feel flattered"

"Well, I try not to think about my medical condition. I feel
good and strong and that's all matters. Now, sitting half a
world away, you don't keep worrying about it. Your blood
pressure machine and blood glucose testing strips are working
fine and I go for check ups so often that I've even become
friends with the doctor"

A little kid tried to sell us some peanuts as 'time pass' and
before I could even respond, my father motioned him to leave. It
was getting dark fast.  There was a mini snack industry
flourishing on the beach, a neat row of push carts, each exuding
its own aroma, vendors beckoning their customers by ringing a
little bell and shouting little jingles. Their kerosine lamps
formed a straight line that almost ended at the water, almost at
the very spot where the ship was stranded some decades ago. Or
was it ? Could it be a few hundred yards up north ? I wasn't
sure. My dad spoke again.

"Son, I don't know if you remember this or not. You were all
very small then. There was once a big storm in Madras and a ship
got washed ashore right near that spot. I used to bring you and
your sister to the beach almost every few days to show you the
ship"

Wow ! Was the man getting the same set of stimuli that I was
getting or was he simply reading my mind, like he always used to
? Maybe the ship affected him as much as it affected me. I
wanted to blurt out and tell him, yes, I was thinking about the
same thing too.  But I controlled my impulse. I wanted to let
him take the credit for remembering the incident. I played by
his rules and feigned surprise.

"Oh, yes, dad. Of course, Geez, how do you remember these things
? It was such a long time ago" I exclaimed.

He had the most glorious grin on his face and his dentures were
glimmering in the dim light. He was just being the old dad,
impressing his little boy with things that only he could know
and remember. Very suddenly, we had both regressed to a distant
past when dads were dads and sons were just kids.
\medskip\hrule\medskip
\centerline{\bf End of part II}
\end{document}
