The Help

I finished reading The Help recently. I watched the movie very shortly after it came out some time last year, and I found it (of course) really inspirational and moving. The courage displayed by Skeeter made me think about the lack of courage I've seemed to show for a while now. Anyway, I marked down a few of my favorite passages from the book. They're not the very best writing in the world or anything, but they were the most relatable passages to me:

"...I'll never be able to tell Mother I want to be a writer. She'll only turn it into yet another thing that separates me from the married girls....And now she's gripping the rail, waiting to see if I'll do what fat Fanny Peatrow did to save herself. My own mother is looking at me as if I completely baffle her mind with my looks, my height, my hair."
"'It's all about putting yourself in a man-meeting situation where you can--'
'Mama,' I say, just wanting to end this conversation, 'would it really be so terrible if I never met a husband?'
Mother clutches her bare arms as if made cold by the thought. 'Don't. Don't say that, Eugenia.'"
"I shudder with the same left-behind feeling I've had since I graduated from college, three months ago. I've been dropped of in a place I do not belong anymore."

"I flick on the radio, desperate for noise to fill my ears. 'It's My Party' is playing and I search for something else. I'm starting to hate the whiny teenage songs about love and nothing. In a moment of aligned wavelengths, I pick up Memphis WKPO and out comes a man's voice, drunk-sounding, singing fast and bluesy. At a dead end street, I ease into the Tote-Sum store parking lot and listen to the song. It is better than anything I've ever heard.

...you'll sink like a stone

For the times they are a-changin'.

A voice in a can tells me his name is Bob Dylan, but as the next song starts, the signal fades. I lean back in my seat, stare out at the dark windows of the store. I feel a rush of inexplicable relief. I feel like I've just heard something from the future."

Writing about the truth takes a lot of strength. It involves going out on a limb and not knowing what life will meet you on the other side of that publication. But Skeeter Phelan, fictional character though she is, was willing to take that risk. The courage of that takes my breath away, and makes me wonder what risks I'm willing to take in order to write the truth.

Things that are bound to make me cry

Taking a leaf out of my new hero Mindy Kaling's book (quite literally), I've decided to list things that inevitably make me cry:

• Watching the movie Up for any 3-6 minute interval. The chubby little boy scout will talk about his absent father, or the adorable, sad old man will remember his deceased wife, or the extremely eager-to-please Dug will show just how much he just wants to be loved, and game over. Doesn't take long for the tears to spill.
• Listening to "Stop This Train" by John Mayer. It's a song about parents getting older and kids becoming adults and life's inexorable march. How can I not cry?
• Thinking about my sister's wedding too much. It makes me too happy/sad. On the real.
• Hearing 3-5 songs by Ingrid Michaelson within a short period of time. Eventually, one of the lines will tug at one of my many, pliable heartstrings, and I'll compare myself to the protagonist in the song ("I don't believe in anything but myself" and so on) and I'm crying while I'm driving. It's always very cathartic.
• Reading good writing.
• Any and every episode of Grey's Anatomy. I'm not even joking.
• Seeing my mom cry (just like Mindy Kaling, except I don't have an amusing anecdote about watching The Help with my mother to illustrate this. In fact, I have just the opposite. Within the first 10 minutes of our watching Up together, I was crying and my mom was looking at me funny wondering why I was such an emotional wreck. She's tough, which is why seeing her cry sets me off uncontrollably.)
• Homeless people. It's so very sad.
• Any time my parents or sister express emotion towards me. We're one of those freakish not-very-expressive families, so any time anything is expressed, my emotions go haywire.
• Belting out Sara Bareilles's Gravity. "Here I am, and I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be" gets me every time.
• Foundations by Kate Nash, Slow Dancing in a Burning Room by John Mayer, and other similarly spot-on breakup songs. Guh.

How is it that Mindy Kaling's list of things that make her cry is so much funnier than mine? I suspect it's all in the execution...maybe....

Thanksgiving

I love that the one holiday that is truly American is Thanksgiving. What a lovely concept encapsulated in just one word: giving thanks.

Let me be honest about something: I don't love the holidays the way most people do. I'm in that somewhat pitiful minority of the population that dreads the holidays because they inevitably bring with them filial strife. There is nothing intrinsically festive about the Christmas season for my family, and trying to bring a holiday spirit into the house during that time sometimes feels a bit forced, even futile. Layers of issues emerge during this time, not least of them the difficulty of being an immigrant family. So I always tiptoe around the holidays, because I never know what they will bring. One day the family could get along wonderfully. The next we could frown at one another terribly.

Let me be honest about another thing: it's been a tough year. I've cried a lot, questioned a lot of things I've taken for granted all my life, and had really high ups and really deep downs.

And yet.

I still want to give thanks. So here goes:

I'm thankful for my friends, who have proven their incredible worth to such a degree that I cannot begin to express my gratitude. I'm thankful for the family that could only cause me so much heartache because they have given me so much love. I'm thankful for college and all that it has taught me. I'm thankful for the words that help me make sense of this world. I'm thankful for the music that has so often been my loyal companion. I'm thankful for critical thinking. I'm thankful for being a medical student, difficult as the road may get. I'm thankful that despite legions of unhappiness, I am still surrounded by joy that can't be kept down. I'm thankful. And I'm glad there's a holiday that reminds me to take a moment, or a day, or a week, to give thanks for all that is good in my life, because there is so much. What are you thankful for today?

The Good, the Bad, the Ugly

The Best: I met Amy Tan tonight! I love her books, though I haven't touched one in ages, and I didn't even get to hear her read because I had to leave early, but meeting her was such an honor, and I got her to sign my yellowed paperback copy of The Joy Luck Club and take a picture with my sister and me. All in all a pretty great Monday night.

The Great:

1. I went to a reading last Tuesday evening by my wonderful former creative writing professor, Emily Fox Gordon (www.emilyfoxgordon.com). She is one of the most intelligent authors I've ever read--in my adult life, other than when reading, say Moby-Dick or Midnight's Children, never have I had to look up words so many times while reading a book. Emily's cadences are nearly always spot-on, and I am so proud to have been taught by her. She struggled with trying to write fiction for many many years before realizing that personal essay was the genre for her (and, I think, the genre for me--this is the class I took with her), but she had to write two memoirs and one novel (the last a triumph for her, because she never thought she could write fiction) before FINALLY getting to publish a collection of her personal essays entitled Book of Days. I bought this book at her reading and had her sign it, and she signed it "To Chaya, one of my very favorites," which made me feel really special. I'm hoping to have lunch or coffee with her some time in the near future. That reading came at the perfect time: between my first medical school exams. It reminded me that there's a whole other amazing and happy side to me and my life that isn't sciencesciencescience, and I had nearly forgotten about that aspect. So it was just. Great.

2. I've realized that I can count on my best friends to see through my facades and know exactly, exactly when I need them and to be there when I need them, and that is comforting in a way I cannot even express. I don't know what I'd do without the wonderful people I have in my life.

The Good:

1. I've made soup twice since moving into my apartment, and both times, the soup has come out great. Really, great. This is absolutely wonderful, partly because I love soup, but also because I've always, always wanted to be a wonderful recipe-less cook like my mother, and I'm finally starting to edge towards the possibility of that. I've eaten tons of sub-standard Indian food (prepared by myself) for the past few years as I've tried to find my cooking rhythm, and I'm finally starting to get that magical intuition that all Indian mothers seem to have. And my newfound cooking savvy seems to extend to pastas and soups as well! This is wonderful news.

2. I'm one block into medical school, and I've not only made it so far, but enjoyed it. I'm a little loath to begin studying again now that a new block has begun, but I'm hoping that my enthusiasm will grow slowly but surely.

3. The new Sara Bareilles album is filling me with great joy. How wonderful when an artist one loves proves her worth with a second album that is quite possibly better than the last.

The Bad:

1. It's 9:10 PM and I've only reviewed one of the four lectures I had today. And I wanted to go to bed early tonight as getting up early (after four days of vacation) was particularly difficult this morning.

2. Crazy as it sounds, medical school is the simplest, most manageable thing in my life right now. On the one hand, this makes medical school not so bad. On the other hand, it shows how much of a struggle many other things are being right now.

The Ugly:

1. I'm trying to write a piece for my medical school's literary magazine, and I'm running into problems from the outset. I haven't written anything worth anyone else's revisions in an incredibly long time, and I really want to make this piece great, because I know there's substance there. I just feel like the lolcat in that lolcatz picture, the one that's sprawled across a keyboard with the caption "Writer's block. I haz it."

2. I just want so badly to be substantive, real. I feel that I'm not really either.

Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

I just finished Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman, which was kindly given to me by a friend who interned at Penguin this past semester.

A short summary: main character Cecelia Rose Honeycutt has looked after her psychotic mother for most of her twelve-year-old life while her father has been traveling for work--and also to get away from his family's problems. When her mother passes away in an accident, young CeeCee is whisked off to live in Savannah, Georgia with her great-aunt. Over her first summer there, she meets a host of eccentric and loving women who help her begin to heal all the wounds inflicted upon her by cruel circumstance.

The book is a love song to the South (and also a bit of a downer about the North, which I'm sure would rub a few people the wrong way) and a testament to the power of female companionship. It was a bit disconcerting, too, in that though it is an adult's book, it is written completely from the twelve-year-old main character's perspective, which means that sometimes the reader understands things the protagonist does not, and also that the writing seems a bit elementary at times, when really it's just reflecting the protagonist's point of view.

I was touched by the author's brutally honest descriptions of CeeCee's mother's antics, and of the pain that CeeCee feels because of them. A few quotable quotes:

"And now here I was...thinking about how much easier everything would be if my mother was locked up in a sanatorium. I sometimes even wished she were dead. It was terrible to think such a thing, but I just couldn't help it. I'm not saying I wanted to skip through life in a rosy blur from one Disney experience to the next--all I longed for was to know one whole happy day." (22)

"As I knocked on her door, begging her to let me in, I realized I had just taken my father's place: there I was, standing outside her locked bedroom door, frustrated and helpless and just plain tired. Tired of it all." (76)

"I wondered if I'd ever be so lucky to have a girlfriend I'd grow old with, a girlfriend who knew my secrets, my fears, my hopes--and loved me anyway." (111-112)

"I felt selfish and small as I watched my aunt from the kitchen window. She had given me so much, so freely, yet I was unable to do something as simple as sit at her side." (115)

"'But I guess some folks is willin' to pay anything for hope.'" (145)

"'Ain't no sun in the kitchen without your face lookin' up at me.'" (142)

"'Don't go wastin' all them bright tomorrows you ain't even seen by hangin' on to what happened yesterday. Let go, child. Just breathe out and let go.'" (290)

"'It's how we survive the hurts in life that brings us strength and gives us our beauty.'" (302)

Also, I'm not going to lie: with the book consisting of such a female-dominated world, I felt as if homoeroticism was the huge elephant in the room the whole time I was reading. Everyone's husband was dead or divorced with or absent in some other way, but there were just so many women. I almost felt like it was a slight cop-out on the part of the author. I'm not saying she needed some sort of graphic scene of homoeroticism, but she could have hinted at it subtly the way other things were hinted at in the novel. I do applaud her portrayal of free female sexuality, though.

Beloved

It took me weeks to finish reading Toni Morrison's Beloved. I began reading it right as I was leaving India, and only finished it up last week. Chalk the slow pace up to its being a bit impenetrable at times. The book was very good overall, but if I were to try to piece together the plot meticulously, I'd still be baffled. Since I've chosen instead to focus on the themes presented in the novel and the moments of breathtaking writing in it, I'm mostly just happy I finished it. As I am wont to do with nearly everything I read, I dog-eared the pages containing lines that made me swoon as I read. Unfortunately, since I never underline or highlight said lines, I have to search for them on the dog-eared pages after I read the book and blog about it. So the following are (hopefully) my absolute favorite quotations from this book:

"...but even when she said it she was thinking how much her eyes enjoyed looking in his face." (46)

"She shook her head from side to side, resigned to her rebellious brain. Why was there nothing it refused? No misery, no regret, no hateful picture too rotten to accept? Like a greedy child it snatched everything. Just once, could it say, No thank you? I just ate and can't hold another bite?...But her brain was not interested in the future. Loaded with the past and hungry for more, it left her no room to imagine, let alone plan for, the next day." (70)

"He sat down beside her. Sethe looked at him. In that unlit daylight his face, bronzed and reduced to its bones, smoothed her heart down." (71) I lovelove the cadences created by the first two short sentences, and then the concept of a face smoothing someone's heart down, the same way I love the concept of eyes enjoying looking at a face. The idea that beauty can be comprehended severally by your senses and not just in a lump experience by your brain.

"Sethe rubbed and rubbed, pressing the work cloth and the stony curves that made up his knee. She hoped it calmed him as it did her. Like kneading bread...Working dough. Working, working dough. Nothing better than that to start the day's serious work of beating back the past." (73) This excerpt ended a chapter. An ending like that--it just makes me go "mm."

"...she wanted Paul D. No matter what he told and knew, she wanted him in her life....Trust and rememory, yes, the way she believed it could be when he cradled her before the cooking stove. The weight and angle of him; the true-to-life beard hair on him; arched back, educated hands. His waiting eyes and awful human power. The mind of him that knew her own. Her story was bearable because it was his as well--to tell, to refine and tell again. The things neither knew about the other--the things neither had word-shapes for--well, it would come in time..." (99) What a fantastic description of the things one can love about a man, and the way lovers can begin to occupy spaces in one another's lives.

"I'll plant carrots just so she can see them, and turnips. Have you ever seen one, baby? A prettier thing God never made. White and purple with a tender tail and a hard head. Feels good when you hold it in your hand and smells like the creek when it floods, bitter but happy." (201) Who else could write so evocatively about a turnip, for goodness' sake! This excerpt makes me want to hold one, see one, smell one, so much.

"There are too many things to feel about this woman. His head hurts. Suddenly he remembers Sixo trying to describe what he felt about the Thirty-Mile Woman. 'She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It's good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.'" (272-273) I so desperately want to be described this way one day, as a woman about whom there is too much to feel, a woman who can gather a man's (or anyone's, for that matter) pieces and give them back in the right order. Mm.

"He wants to put his story next to hers." (273) Again, an amazing way to conceptualize (ugh this is not the right term; where is all my language gone?) love and marriage--putting your stories together.

NOTE: Boldface and italics were added by me, and were not in the original text.

Chetan Bhagat [By Which I Mean His Books]

So a large portion of my time in India has been spent reading. As I [sort of] mentioned in a previous entry, I used to read ravenously during any and all school vacations all the way through high school. Then, some time after I began college, my thirst for books began to wane. I'm not sure what caused the change; perhaps, tired of reading and analyzing so many novels for my classes, I preferred to veg out in front of the television during my free time. Or maybe I decided that a college-age English major decided to read more literature and less chick lit, and I just couldn't muster the same kind of reading fervor that The Princess Diaries series elicits in me for books like Emma. I'm not saying classic literature can't be great to read, but it definitely slows my reading pace. (Case in point: I read Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children, definitely the most literary of the books I brought to India, for the first two weeks of my trip here. In contrast, I read three of Chetan Bhagat's novels in five days this past week.)

Anyway, all of this was to say that one of the best parts of my trip so far has been the rekindling of my obsession with books. I owe a fair amount of this rekindling to the works of Chetan Bhagat, author of four novels, the titles of all of which I only just realized begin with a number:

1. 5 Point Someone
2. One Night @ the Call Center
3. The 3 Mistakes of My Life
4. 2 States

It seems that all of his books have inspired Bollywood movies, though the only one I was aware of was 5 Point Someone, upon which the recently released blockbuster 3 Idiots, starring the ever-charming Aamir Khan, was based. I had actually heard of this novel two years ago, the last time I visited India, but didn't read it until just now. For a quick rundown:

• 5 Point Someone is about 3 male protagonists and their time at the Indian Institute of Technology in Delhi, AKA IIT Delhi, pretty much the most prestigious engineering college in this country. The guys screw up in every which way. One of them falls in love, one tries to commit suicide, they struggle with familial pressure and academic pressure, and somehow manage to forge an incredibly strong friendship, all while drinking and smoking weed quite a bit. The book is funny, dark, and at times rather incisive. In fact, these three descriptors can be applied to all of Bhagat's novels.
• One Night @ the Call Center is about, well, one night at a call center, this one in Gurgaon, a borough, I believe, of Delhi. 3 men and 3 women working together see themselves and their lives sort of unravel over the course of one night's events, and emerge on the other side of the darkness--with the help of a mysterious call from God--with renewed senses of themselves, their hopes and dreams, and assurance of the paths they must take in order to reach their goals. This book was pretty inspirational, and also dark, funny, and incisive. The only part I didn't like about it was the rather blunt and sweeping characterization of Americans as stupid, paranoid, and smug. Nationalism and patriotism are all well and good, but I don't think they need to be pursued by demonizing or putting down other nations.
• The 3 Mistakes of My Life is the most unlike the others of Bhagat's novels, because it is set in the old part of Ahmedabad, Gujarat, and is about three boys who are not very financially privileged, unlike the main characters in all the other novels. Also setting this one apart was the examination of religion, politics, and cricket (the sport), and how the three affect daily life in India. Bhagat was definitely trying to push a certain agenda in the novel, making his villain part of a religious political party and his first-person protagonist disinterested in politics, but as I didn't disagree with the views he advanced, I wasn't bothered. I may have liked this one the best of Bhagat's novels.
• 2 States is subtitled "The Story of My Marriage," and it's basically just that: Bhagat is Punjabi, and his wife Anusha, whom he met at the Indian Institute of Management in Ahmedabad (IIM-A), is Tamil Iyer (incidentally, just like me). The protagonist of 2 States is a male Punjabi student at IIM-A who falls in love with a Tamil Iyer girl. The bulk of the book details their struggles to gain their families' approvals before getting married. This was the first of Bhagat's books that I read, and I found it funny and fresh. It was especially humorous to see my own culture from the vantage point of someone outside of it but trying to find a way in.

Bhagat's books definitely have some grammatical moments that I take issue with, but I think it might just be a matter of different kinds of grammar being acceptable in India than those that are considered correct in the US. I really like that Bhagat seems to be trying to do something with his novels. He's not just telling stories; he's saying things about India, about the schooling system, the linguistic pride that divides the country, the dangerous mix of politics and religion, the disenchantment of the youth, and the hopes of his still-infant nation. He's the best-selling English language novelist in Indian history, and I feel this distinction is definitely well-earned. A few more things about Bhagat's books:

1. All of his protagonists are having sex with their girlfriends. Are most young people in India sexually active before marriage? The idea inspires both horror (ew are my cousins doing that? [Somehow I doubt it]) and surprise. Growing up in the States, I, like most other children of Indian immigrants, have been exposed to a sort of fossilized version of Indian culture, courtesy of my parents. In my mind, Indian people never have premarital sex. But I mean, some of them must; otherwise Bhagat wouldn't put it in each of his books.
2. All of Bhagat's protagonists are first-person male. This is rather refreshing, because I most often read books with female protagonists. Much of the comedy in his books comes from his protagonists' candid descriptions of heterosexual boys' reactions to girls and their physical attractiveness. Also, the male point of view allows for some level of incisiveness that may be lost with a female protagonist. For instance, in One Night @ the Call Center, the protagonist [rather insightfully] notes that "only women think there is a reason to thank people if they listen to them."

Not much else to report on the topic of Bhagat's novels, except that they're definitely worth a read. All four managed to make me tear up at times, which is saying something, because though I'm kind of a crier, I hardly ever respond to books, a trait that sometimes makes me wonder if I'm an emotional rhinoceros. I wonder if, in keeping with the numerical theme, Bhagat's next novel's title will begin with Four...

Diglossia

Disclaimer: I totally am not a linguist and don't really know anything about diglossia (or the Tamil language) on a scholarly level. I'm just venting a little here.

I wish I could write an exciting entry about all of the cool things I've been doing here in Chennai, but I've honestly not done that much cool stuff. More than anything, I'm sort of wrapping myself into the fabric of my extended family's shared life here. I eat lunch with my grandma, tiffin with Akhil, and dinner with the rest of the family. I'm reading quite ravenously (books by Chetan Bhagat, author of Five Point Someone, upon which 3 Idiots was based, for now; I'll write an entry about his novels once I finish the last one I have by him), surfing the internet, and learning a sloka (prayer) in Tamil from my grandma. Which brings me, actually to the title of this entry: diglossia.

Diglossia is defined as "a situation where a given language community uses two languages or dialects," "the use of two varieties of a language by members of a society for distinct functions or by distinct groups or classes of people," and "the existence of two official languages in a society." And it's one of the characteristics of Tamil, my mother tongue (a phrase I believe only South Asian people seem to use...). What diglossia does to my world is mess it up. While Indian Americans whose mother tongue is Hindi can [with some effort] understand Hindi song lyrics, and Hindi poetry, can read a Hindi newspaper or watch a Hindi newscast and understand what he or she is reading or hearing, I can't do the same with Tamil.

Of course, I'm simplifying this a little: you'd have to be pretty proficient at Hindi to really understand a newscast or newspaper or poetry in the language, and I can definitely pick up words here and there in Tamil film songs if I try hard enough. But really: because I've never studied Tamil, only learned it through speaking to my family, I'm largely unaware of the true forms of most of the words I speak in this language. For example: if I were to say "it's raining" in Tamil, I would say "mazhai peyyarthu." But if I were to write it (or if the same phrase were to appear in a song, say), it would actually be "mazhai peygirathu." [And don't even get me started on transliterating Tamil; something as lovely as "moonlight caught in a bowl" looks a little ridiculous when you have to spell it out as "vennillaa velicham kinnaththil vizhinthu"] In short, the spoken form of my native language is kind of like AIM talk: abbreviations and shortenings galore. This would all be fine and dandy, if only I had been aware of this some time before I was around twenty years old. But I wasn't. So I went through a fair chunk of my life bemoaning the fact that I just didn't get Tamil. I could understand Hindi film song lyrics, for crying out loud, but lyrics in my own language, the first one I ever spoke, went over my head. What's wrong with that picture, right?

Thankfully, finding out about diglossia served to relieve me of my slight inferiority complex/identity crisis. It also, though, makes me feel a little cheated. Wouldn't life be so much easier if I were a native Hindi speaker and didn't have to work so darn hard to decipher my own language? I feel a bit like I'm being cheated of some sort of linguistic birthright. I mean, Tamil has a proud literary tradition: It not only predates Sanskrit, but has outlived it as a spoken language. But I find myself on the outside of much of its beauty, simply because I never formally learned it. I was hoping to learn Tamil in earnest (from my grandmother, a retired schoolteacher; she taught music in school, but she definitely knows Tamil well enough to teach it) during my time here, but I kind of lost interest somehow or other. Maybe I should do what I can in my last seven days. When all you're doing is reading novels and playing on your iPod Touch and bumming around, I'm sure you could squeeze lots of learning into the time that would have been whiled away otherwise.

To that end, I'm going to go chill with my grandma now.

Born Confused

The title of this entry is a reference to the book, by Tanuja Desai Hidier, of the same name, and not a descriptor of me. If anything, I think I was born utterly confident of myself and my place in the world (the expression on my face in various baby pictures attests to this). It's now that the confusion has begun to settle in.

I borrowed this book, along with two others, from a friend shortly before leaving for India, and brought all three with me to read while I'm here. So far, I've read three books in toto: Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin [itself borrowed, funnily enough, from the aforementioned friend] and 2 States by Chetan Bhagat. I thoroughly enjoyed all three, though the first was definitely the most literary, if you will, of the bunch. The other two were good stories, and I read both in two days flat. They're the sort of books people in India would call good time-pass: not exactly life-changing, but entertaining, and not a bad way to spend a few hours of your life. Especially when I was reading 2 States, and now while reading Born Confused, I found/ind myself looking up from the pages of the books groggily, having forgotten that I'm still in India, or that the day has progressed around me while my nose was stuck in a book. I can hardly remember the last time I used to feel this way.

During my elementary, middle, and high school summers, my sister and I would go to the library every two weeks (or whenever our books were due) like clockwork, to return the read ones, renew the unread, and select a fresh new pile of books to delve into. Somehow, that ritual became more and more diluted as I entered college and neared its completion, so that the two-week stretch I still have in Chennai, with little else to do but read books during all my free time, feels almost like a foreign concept to me. But I'm beginning to remember and love the way I used to feel about books, when they were just stories to dive into and not literary masterworks to analyze, as I began to see them in college.

All of that, though, was a preface to the real topic of this entry, which is Born Confused. I've known of this book's existence for quite some time, first becoming aware of it around that time somewhere during high school when books about young adults searching for their South Asian identity became all the rage. I never read it, though, because I was a bit disillusioned by some of its kindred spirits, which portrayed petulant children of immigrants who just didn't get "it"about their heritage and somehow managed to find "it" by the end of the book. I thought this one started out a bit the same, but as I'm getting further into it (it's rather long for a book of its genre), I'm beginning to relate more and more to the protagonist. The poor girl (Dimple) is completely lost about Indian culture, and somehow seems less Indian at all junctures than her very-much-white best friend, a "friend" who manages to outshine her, ignore or not notice her feelings, and steal the spotlight away from her whenever possible. It actually really makes me angry. The boy that Dimple's parents think is perfect for her (he being super-Indian and all that), the boy that she never thought she would like but actually ends up falling for, is also the boy that her best friend decides to set her sights upon, oblivious to the fact that Dimple still likes him. (Though, to the best friend's credit, Dimple never comes right out and says so, which is both infuriating and completely relate-able; she doesn't think anyone would ever prefer herself to her best friend, so when the boy seems to like the friend [though any non-idiotic reader would see that he likes Dimple], she doesn't speak up for herself, because who wants to put herself on the line like that?)

Anyway. I'm really not liking the best friend in this book. And though the book has its cheesy made-for-immigrant-kids moments, it still has strong imagery and some rather lovely phrasings, not to mention characters that really do jump off the page. I'm thinking Dimple will end up with the boy her parents think is perfect for her. Or at least I hope so. Let's see.

[Interesting aside: Something Borrowed, borrowed from the same friend who lent me Born Confused, also features a protagonist whose best friend has always overshadowed her--and always been allowed to do so. Interesting that my friend called both of these two of her favorite books. I wonder if there's something to the similarity of the characters that speaks to my friend's own personality.]

A New Beginning

I've officially defected from Xanga and come over here. I've been thinking about doing this for quite some time, (a bit idly, I'll admit) but I was hesitating because I always develop attachments to the things I use often--cameras, computers, glasses, cars, and also blogging sites, apparently. I felt a bit like I would be betraying my little ol' Xanga were I to start a new blog here. But since I haven't posted regularly in my little ol' Xanga for ages, I don't feel so guilty anymore. Besides, the Xanga had too much of my teenybopper past attached to it; perhaps that's why I haven't blogged much recently: it was slightly buried in the remnants of the past. Anyway, though, here I am!

Having graduated a semester early, I'm spending this spring semester working in my lovely plant genetics lab on campus (You're sure to hear more about it as time wears on. Lots of fun stuff happens in lab.) and going to India (to visit family) and Singapore (to visit a friend) for seven weeks! Which is a long time. Which brings me to the reason I felt like posting in the first place. I know the trip could be really good, if I went at it with the right attitude. I'm sure there will be many memories to be made, lots of fun to be had, much soul-searching to be accomplished [check it out--countable and uncountable nouns in that list, woot!] in both India and Singapore. Yet I kind of don't want to leave home. I feel like being gone for such a huge chunk of the semester will lose me the opportunity to watch my friends do a lot of interesting things--not to mention to do a lot of interesting things (i.e. go to Chicago over spring break, do random stuff in lab that both annoys and entertains the postdocs, linger obnoxiously long over lunch in South Servery, do movie nights and celebrate 21st birthdays and on and on) with my friends here at home. And I know I'll get homesick in India; I always do. Plus I've never actually gone there by myself before, so I'm slightly nervous about lugging around my bags and making my way through the airport and actually knowing what I'm doing.

All that being said, though, if this trip isn't going to suck, I need to get myself excited for it. So to that end, here is a list of things I am looking forward to doing during my trip to Asia:

1. Drinking fresh coconut water (eleneer; how the heck do you transliterate that?)
2. Eating palm fruit (or so I think it is; all I know is it's called nungu--again, how do you transliterate that?--in Tamil)
3. Eating roasted corn (suttu solam!)
4. Seeing Singapore for the first time!
5. Visiting the temples I love
6. Writing lots of postcards to friends back home
7. Getting to know my cousins better
8. Going to Pizza Hut in India; yay for paneer on pizza!
9. Making enchiladas for my cousin in Chennai
10. Buying clothes and shoes and earrings and other nonsense in Pondy Bazaar and elsewhere
11. Seeing parts of Chennai I've never seen before (hopefully this will happen)
12. Writing in my little green journal and maybe even conceptualizing a new piece!
13. Reading lots of books in my spare time

Right, that's a pretty good start, I'm thinking. But if I want to actually get on the plane, I need to pack, which means I need to get off the computer and get my day started, which I am loath to do, but I guess I should just suck it up. Hopefully I'll be able to update this once or twice while I'm in Asia so that I can show you guys what I'm doing over there. Here's to happy blogging!