Guess whose car this is???

On living in Squalor

Now, don't get me wrong here. It is not as if We are on the brink of poverty here in the U.S, but by all standards, our existence in America as of now is going along the lines of what I would call 'necessary minimalism'

If comfort is to be gauged by the number of material possessions that aid our life and make it more comfortable, we are somewhere between sliding down a razor on your balls and having a drop of hot oil explode on your hand. But then, you may say, what are material comforts, but the things that you are made to think you need but do not actually need in order to live a comfortable life.

Mom, driven by a very understandable need to feel at home in this land, is expressing her concerns by proposing to buy various kinds of home furniture, a venture that I veto every time she brings it up. It is true that we own only 3 pieces of furniture, an old 4-seat dining table that serves as computer table, ironing board, writing desk and general cluttering area; along with a drawer chest and a flimsy bookcase. We do not own beds, and we sleep on the floor, which is fine by me, given that the ceiling is only 2.3 meters/8 feet high, and lying on the floor gives me a sense of space. My own room is threadbare, the only bit of furniture being the aforementioned flimsy bookcase. I do not clean up my room often, and I let the deitritus of my life, such as computer wipes, chocolate wrappers(food obsession of the moment) apple cores and banana peels lie about. I have no pride in my room, and I do not decorate it in any way. I consider it to be mainly a sort of holding cell, a storage for my tired body for the night, and a container for all the things that I do possess. It has no soul, no memories, it's walls have heard no secrets whispered, and I see it as a waste of time and effort to infuse life into this cardboard box of a room. It is for these reasons that I always manage to dissuade mom from trying to settle down into a life of three-seater sofas and upholstered chairs. I really hate to selfishly shoot down my mother's recurring ideas about buying some more furniture, but I do so also because I know what a precarious financial position we are in, and despite the fact that there are considerable savings lying in bank accounts, I can foresee that this period of difficulty will not pass soon, and the costs of living are only going to rise. The only possible break I can estimate is the hope that Pop will be able to find a job here soon, and thus contribute to the household income. By that time, my time here will have drawn to an end, and my parents will be able to chase the dream of a better life unfettered by my rootlessness.

Rootlessness is the perfect word to describe my condition. In the span of five months, I have not forged one lasting friendship, or casual friendship, or any interest of the romantic sort. I have not let the essence of Americana infuse into me, mainly because you need to have social contact in order to do that. I do not know my neighbour's name, and I have not come up with any sound reason to stay in America, save for the fact that I can make more money here by working 5 days a week, than a month in India. It could be said that I have deliberately decided not to break soil and sprout new buds, but in my defence, It is so because I see no reason to do so when I know I have to go back to India in a few months. My existence here is buoyed only by taking comfort in the scraps of my earnings that I have saved, and the role that this meagre sum will play in my later life.

That, and the fact that you can buy some really high-quality hand tools and knives (the focal point of my non-essential expenditure) over here.

Music - AIR-mike mills, AIR-venus (from the album AIR - Talkie Walkie)

Now in blazing Techicolor!

Finally, I can grasp what every foreign tourist from the Americas and Europe means when they exclaim how colourful India is. Most of the times, I assumed they were talking about the colour of the mud and the dust, or the various shades of cowdung encountered on the roads.

Recently, my Brother and my S.I.L visited the Kila Raipur rural Olympics, which are held every year around this time in an attempt to vent and channel some of that energy that Punjabis seem to hold in excess. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to see the many fine pictures taken. One particular shot of the audience dressed in their finest carnival wear, struck me as the reason why this sentiment runs so high in most people not born in the lifelong Mela that is India.

Whenever I happen to stroll through a shopping mall, I always see the same women's and men's clothiers, such as Ann Taylor, Petite Sophisticate, Brooks Brothers and their ilk. And without fail, they are always stocked with merchandise in colours such as-Puke tan, faeces brown, algae green, stool sepia, scum grey, and their variations as well as the standard-issue white and black.
I swear, I once chanced upon a store that seemed to be carrying all their stuff in only one colour, besides the regular black and white. It looked as if the Supreme Soviet had suddenly decreed that the People's Textile mills nos. 234 to 567 will produce material only in Standard colour No. 17.

Agreed, the clothes were of excellent design and of an incredible fit, but come on. How can you sell every woman a skirt of the same colour? It's impossible. Women need clothes that are unique, personal and to their taste, in a way that the dress becomes an extension of their personality. How can something so drab, like the universal bark-coloured trouser reflect the bewildering difference of nature between each woman's personality? Most men would be understandably content to dress in denim or khaki, but I think it's criminal to constrain women's fashion with such horrible colours in spite of the great design.

So when you are born in a world of mud-coloured textiles, I would expect nothing less than absolute shock when these guys see the insane variety of colours I used to take for granted.

Music - Prince/the artist formerly known as Prince - Pussy Control, DaRude - Rush