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The Masque of VS Naipaul @ The NRI

I have waited nine years to see VS Naipaul. The last time he was in town, he was fresh from his Nobel win, and I was still star-struck from my introduction to his work in a postcolonial lit class. I bought tickets the day they went on sale. Unfortunately for me, Joe took ill (or so he claimed!) about half an hour before the talk, and I didn’t make it. Lucky for me, Naipaul is a prolific author much sought after on tour, so I did get to see him recently. My latest NRI piece reflects on the talk, and the lack of Indians in the audience. Here’s the intro:

V.S. Naipaul is a small man, rounded in the middle and eloquently spoken. His accent is educated and British, his movements sparing, as if all his energy has been spent on interpreting the world, then presenting it in text. Naipaul, at 78, is an archetypal, intellectual NRI: born in Trinidad, he’s a postcolonial novelist, often writing on some level about the sense of belonging, or lack thereof, felt by NRIs; in 2007, he called on his fellow Trinidadians to let go of Indian and African, and instead embrace Trinidad. He’s been criticized for his pro-Western views, his stance on the “Muslim invasion”, and his arguably neo-apologist comments.

P.S. I once stopped Joe from seeing William Gibson. It’s an old argument we fall into pretty easily, and runs much like this:

Joe: You stopped me from seeing William Gibson!

Me: There was a snow storm!

Joe: It was still on! You said they’d cancel, and they didn’t!

Me: We didn’t have a car, there were no buses, and you’d have literally had to walk up a hill knee deep in snow!

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At The NRI: Food = Love ?

I have a new post over @ The NRI, on food, love, and being Indian:

Why must my Indian aunts insist on cooking for me?

For me, traveling home is a fraught process. First there’s the cross-country flight, then the cross-Pacific flight, overloaded immigration queues, packed baggage carousels, and clearing customs with a small, worn out kidlet. And then comes the hard part: visiting extended family.

Read more….

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Birbal and the NRI (at the-NRI.com)

When I was small, my father told me stories. Sometimes they were standard fare, rehashings of Cinderella or Goldilocks and the Three Bears (he particularly liked Goldie because it starts with one of his favorite foods–porridge with honey). As I grew older, though, Dad started throwing in other stories, Indian stories he’d heard growing up. My favorite? Birbal.

Read more @ The NRI…

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Haagen Dazs Offers Indians An Icy Reception

icecreamcaseI don’t eat ice cream – not much, anyway. Every now and then, though, I splurge on a cone of the good stuff, lactose intolerance be damned. And, until recently, my cone of choice was Haagen-Dazs.

Founded in 1961, Haagen-Dazs is an ice cream institution. There’s an ice cream bar in every mall, and burgundy-gold cartons line the freezer shelves of every store, Walmart and local market alike. With 58 permanent flavors and regional offerings (Azuki in Japan, Green Tea throughout Asia and the US) it’s clear the average consumer loves the stuff. And why not? After all, it is pretty good ice cream…[read more @ The NRI]

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An Indian Rapunzel

hand_and_hair_and_laundry_clip-otherI’ve always had a love-hate affair with my hair. When I was little, I’d beg my mother to braid my hair, and I’d pretend I was Rapunzel locked in the tower with only my hair to connect me to the outside world.


But as I grew older, I grew less enamored of my hair. Caring for it was time consuming; drying it took a full day unless I could talk someone into helping me with the hairdryer. In the summer, it was heavy against my neck; in the winter, it was full of static, crackling and causing me to spark against every piece of metal I touched. Come the year I turned 15, I’d had enough: it was time for me and my braid to part ways…[read more at The NRI]

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It’s All Hindi To Me

HindiPublished Friday, October 2nd, The NRI

I’m a half Indian woman, with the Indian bit on my dad’s side. For the most part I’m happy with this, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish the mother-caring father-providing roles had been reversed for, oh, say, one day a week, two at most.

Why?

Entirely selfish reasons, of course. You see, children who grow up with a primary carer, (in my case, my mother) who speaks two languages tend to acquire the second language very quickly. Children growing up with their father (or secondary carer) speaking two languages, however, rarely acquire the second language. If children do end up learning some of the father’s second tongue, it’s usually the result of a concerted effort by both parties…[read more at The NRI]

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To Snip, or Not to Snip…

baby_eye-otherPublished Friday, October 2nd, The NRI

“It’s a boy.”

When I first heard those words, I was both elated and disappointed. A boy. Perfect! I mean, I know everyone says they don’t really care what gender their baby is as long it’s healthy, and I didn’t. Except…

We’d have to do the snip.

You know the one I’m talking about. The one Muslim boys get. The one Jewish boys get. The one some kids just get…[read more at The NRI]

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Indian Stores – Getting More Than I Bargained For

spicesPublished Friday, October 2nd, 2009, The NRI

“I’m just as dark as they are, damn it!”

This is a pretty common refrain for me. Don’t get me wrong – as a half-Indian, I’m not exactly brown-brown, but rather a  very milky coffee sort of color, the kind of hue Behr calls camel (350F-5, if you’re interested). When I was younger, I often wished I was darker, more woven basket (340F-7) or bristle grass (330F-6), spending hours in the sun, hoping to get a tan despite the 3-inch thick layer of sunscreen my mother made me wear every time I ventured outside…[read more at The NRI]

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