Jan 3, 2012

January TV Ban

Ok, here it goes.

I hate blogging, or at least I hate blogging about myself. I don’t find the topic that interesting. Even interesting experiences I might have had. Still, it’s something I need to do. So how do I make it worthwhile for me and you? I’m not sure. But I know the more I do it the better this will be.

I have made some decisions. I guess its that time, resolutions and all that. These aren’t resolutions per se (my resolutions are to call my father more often and study my Hindi). These are just decisions I’ve made that are going on. The biggest one (so far) is what I’m calling a television fast. I feel that watching television is an addiction, for me at least. I begin to crave it more and more. I organize my day around it. The more I watch television the more I think about it all the time. And some television is OK, but good television can lead to bad television, which can lead to a productivity and creativity sinkhole.

So no television during the weekdays, with the exception of an hour,  maybe hour and a half, on Thursdays. I don’t think I can stand Thursdays without my Parks and Rec, and Archer. But that’s it until the weekend. It’s the first day and I’m all ready feeling the effects. I’m in withdrawal. I’ve been thinking about TV on and off all day, thinking of whatever else I can do to relax without going numb (hence my first blog post in at least 6 months). Tomorrow will be easier. Wednesday will be harder. This I know.

Television can be an addiction. Yes, not in the traditional sense, but more of an addictive off-shoot of some deeper issue. Insomnia, depression, extreme stress about not having as much work as you’d like on your thesis done. I think there could be another reason, though. I think my television-dependence could have been hard wired into me.

Take this example. My mother always says that I was a sweet child, very sensitive, quick to interpret others’ needs. So when my mother wasn’t feeling well she and I would curl up on the couch and watch episode after episode of Sesame Street. In fact I remember watching a lot of television when I was young. Not a criminal amount or anything, but a lot. In fact television informed many of my early insecurities about sex. This is what happened: I saw two people acting seductive toward one another on network television. I asked my mother some question about it. She responded with some comment about the two of them being sinful. The seed in my young mind was planted. All sex = sin, ergo only bad, bad people do it.

I digress. However, isn’t is possible that my affinity for television, my craving for television came from my early semi-dependence on it? Possibly it wormed its way into my early cognitive evolution? Or possibly I just learned that was the way to relax so now when I relax I instinctively think about watching whatever is on/recorded? (See, if I was a better blogger I would have researched this and reported on the science.)

Regardless, I hope that my TV ban for the month of January will help kick start a productive year and help me kick the bad habit of sitting in front of the boob-tube every evening. Yes, L is supportive. He’s promised not to watch any television while I’m home with him. Video games do not apply. Where’s the entertainment in watching a super-human Spartan (try to) kill mythological demons?

Anyway, we’ll see how it goes. Next is a semi-juice fast inspired by jointhereboot.com and Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead. Nothing crazy, just replacing one meal a day with raw vegi-fruit smoothies. (Are you noticing any phobia about commitment?) More on all of this at a later, but too much later date.

  General

Mar 10, 2011

Bad Wedding Photos!

Yes, yes – the compilation you’ve been waiting for. The cheesiest of the cheesy photos from my Indian wedding. Without further ado… (roll over for commentary)

  General

Feb 26, 2011

Longest Sentence Ever?

After a little research I know this is not the longest sentence ever, but it is the longest sentence I have run into in my general reading. All thanks to Proust, who else.

“All this, and still more the treasures which had come to the church from personages who to me were almost legendary figures (such as the golden cross wrought, it was said, by Saint Eloi and presented by Dagobert, and the tomb of the sons of Louis the Germanic in porphyry and enameled copper), because of which I used to advance into the church, as we made our way to our seats, as into a fairy-haunted valley, where the rustic sees with amazement in a rock, a tree, a pond, the tangible traces of the little people’s supernatural passage—all this made of the church for me something entirely different from the rest of the town: an edifice occupying, so to speak, a four-dimensional space—the name of the fourth being Tim—extending through the centuries its ancient nave, which, bay after bay, chapel after chapel, seemed to stretch across and conquer not merely a few yards of soil, but each successive epoch from which it emerged triumphant, hiding the rugged barbarities of the eleventh century in the thickness of its walls, through which nothing could be seen of the heavy arches, long stopped and blinded with coarse blocks of ashlar, except where, near the porch, a deep cleft had been hollowed out by the tower staircase, and veiling it even there by the graceful Gothic arcades which crowded coquettishly around it like a row of grown-up sisters who, to hide him from the eyes of strangers, arrange themselves smilingly in front of a rustic, peevish and ill-dressed younger brother; raising up into the sky above the Square a tower which had looked down upon Saint Louis, and seemed to see him still; and thrusting down with its crypt into a Merovingian darkness, though which, guiding us with groping finger-tips beneath the shadowy vault, powerfully ribbed like an immense bat’s wing of stone, Theodore and his sister would light up for us with a candle the tomb of Sigebert’s little daughter, in which a deep cavity, like the bed of a fossil had been dug, or so it was said, ‘by a crystal lamp which, on the night when the Frankish princess was murdered had detached itself, of its own accord, from the golden chains by which it was suspended on the site of the present apse and, with neither the crustal being broken nor the light extinguished, had buried itself in the stone, which had softly given way beneath it.’”

If you can make sense of it please let me know.

  General

Feb 23, 2011

Wedding! Part 2: The Reception

Our car was first to leave the church for the reception hall, but somehow people arrived before us. The reception was held in a hotel reception hall and when we entered the hotel workers stopped what they were doing and stared. I’m sure we were a sight to see, a white girl dressed head to toe in traditional Malayali wedding garb. Once upstairs L and I were whisked away to our respective rooms where the two beauticians were already waiting for me. I entered the room clutching the floor-length veil. “This” I motioned “Off, please.”

I changed into the Mandraghodi but that was not all that changed. My jewelry was swapped all the way down to the stick-on jewels in my hair. I was given two additional gold chains to wear, I guess to make up for the weight of the veil. By this time I had a roaring headache and was feeling the fatigue of smiling in front of a seemingly endless line of cameras. But I needed only to look at L’s family to see that I was doing all right. All of them looked happy and ready to pass out.

I learned later that it was customary for the family of the groom to not eat until the end of the reception when all the guests was gone. While L’s parents and aunt looked exhausted John, his brother and the contingent of friends from Boston who had come for the trip were in high spirits. High being the key word. They had all been drinking shots of vodka and whiskey mixed with some fruit juice. After I had changed and a hundred or so photos had been taken T, beautiful T, handed me a cup of “juice” and I gulped it down as we headed downstairs.

Most of the other guests had arrived by the time we got downstairs. I was instantly surrounded by a foursome of aunts who cooed over the ceremony and told me about their families. L’s mother gracefully dragged me from group to group where I learned that so-and-so was related to this uncle’s cousin’s brother’s nephew, or this aunt’s sister’s niece’s cousin. I felt rude leaving the conversation one introductions were made, but I suspect we wouldn’t have had much more to talk about. L’s parents blessed us each in turn and two of our ridiculously cute flower girls draped large flower-wreaths over us.

As we walked up the stairs I tripped slightly over the bottom of my dress and heard a collective gasp from those watching me. I had a vision of the saree unraveling and I standing there in my underwear. I was able to tuck it in, but the under skirt had been loosened and I knew it would take little for it to slip off.

Once inside L and I were escorted onto a stage where we lit an oil candle and then given a coconut to chug. We were surrounded by a dozen or so well-meaning family members who all had different ideas of what to do next and how we should do it. But most importantly, everyone was happy. I was happy too, despite my growing nausea. The lights and the cameras and the people somehow seemed to flow together and surge against my temples.

We sat down on our bench for a short-lived moment before we were summoned to cut the cake and feed it to each other and our families, a custom I was used to by then. It’s fun when you do it once, maybe twice a year, but it sort of looses its amusement when you’ve done it every day for three days.

The rest of the reception is a bit of a blur. I remember taking hundreds of photos with people on our stage. Family members would line up as if they were waiting for a roller coaster. And I remember going from table to table, listening as L introduced everyone. “This is so-and-so’s daughter’s family. You met him earlier,” to which I would reply “of course! It’s so wonderful to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

The buffet was long and beautiful. On one end they were making fresh apum and on the other fresh jilabi. L and I were given about ten minutes to eat and his brother and John brought each a plate. My personal favorite, although I only had two bites of it, was the fish cooked in a banana leaf. There is no fish like south Indian fish. It has a flavor all it own that somehow stands out amidst the spices and oils. While we stuffed our faces with food the photographers continued to take photos. I’m sure there are many photos somewhere of me unromantically shoveling food into my mouth.

We, again, were called to the stage for more pictures and continued to take pictures for a long time. Once the guests were gone I could see L’s family on the far side of the hall finally eating. I sat down and adjusted my dress, which had been loosening itself all afternoon. The photographers seemed to laugh at us as told us they still had more photos to take. The posed photos. I had seen enough Bollywood movies to know what was in store for us. And I was not disappointed. Check back tomorrow for more of these kinds of photos!

After it was all over, it wasn’t over. Back at the apartment we had another small prayer ceremony where I was to silently carry a candle and light an offering to Mary. We prayed silently followed by what I can only assume was Our Father and Hail Mary in Malayalam. During these I usually mumbled quietly to myself just in case someone was watching me. The last two photos of L and I tell the story of how we felt once it was all over better than I can.

That night my dysentery took hold and I began to shake and sweat. It hurt to go from standing to sitting and once I was laying down it was excruciating to move. L and I were to stay together in my hotel room as our first night as husband and wife, but as soon as we got to the hotel I told him he should go visit our friends who were also staying in the hotel. He spent the night drinking beer with friends while I lay curled up in the fetal position only when I wasn’t running to the bathroom every 20 minutes or so. Really, the perfect start to any marriage!

  Wedding in India

Feb 22, 2011

Wedding! Part 1: The Ceremony

Well, this new semester of classes is kicking my butt. I find that between work, class, homework, my own writing and extra stuff like eating, exercise, etc. at night I’m mentally exhausted. It’s important to me to document my experience as I lived it to help my friends and family understand the experience and the challenges that L and I have faced. So I will continue, albeit slower than I would have originally hoped.

The morning of my wedding I woke up with diarrhea. The stylist that was to do my hair and make-up was supposed to come to my hotel room at 6:30, but I knew realistically that meant 7. Luckily I was right because at 6 am I was in the bathroom for a half an hour. The pain of dysentery (which I would later confirm I had) would stick with me for an entire week and further screw up my system even after I got back to US. But I didn’t care about that. I just wanted to get through the day.

The stylists began working on my hair at 7 and I was able to tell them exactly what I wanted through L’s mother who I had called. I was nervous about this at first, because L’s mother is an opinionated woman who will often go with what she believes is best despite others’ ideas. It just so happens that she’s right 98% of the time. But in this instance I didn’t care if she would be right, if my hair would ultimately look better if the stylists did it her way. I wanted to take control of something and that was more important than looking good.

By 7:30 I had five people in my hotel room, by eight that number had grown to fifteen. Luckily I wasn’t the only one getting ready or getting my hair/make-up done. L’s cousin Teenu as well as L’s mother came later. I felt relieved to have some of the attention off me. My hair was pinned in an elaborate spider-like bun with stick-on jewels attached to four braids flowing out to the center. They placed a gold crown on the top of my hair and attached a veil I would soon come to hate. The five-tiered veil was made of a light net material with jewels sewn into the mesh. The largest tier went to the floor and only after twenty minutes of having it on my neck ached. (Unfortunately, I can’t find one good photo of the veil)

I was covered in jewelry. I had earrings, necklace, bangles, two rings, two anklets and two toe rings-not to mention my henna. But nothing was more beautiful than the saree. My new found Indian cousins and aunts all told me that I looked amazing in the saree, that the dress looked great on me because of my skin tone. I think they’re crazy, of course. I still don’t understand how my pale skin could be more desirable or look better than their rich, brown skin. Yet, I felt beautiful in that dress. It was not beautiful in a western sense, it did not accent the best features of my figure (I’d never willingly show off my belly). Instead I felt like I was wearing a work of art.

By 9:30 my friends and family had already taken about 500 photos of me. I am not one who thrives at being the center of attention. In addition, I had eaten three pieces of toast and some watermelon and felt horrible. But I was determined to get through the day as happily as I could, and not go to the bathroom. I didn’t even want to try to maneuver in that dress!

There was a lot of chaos getting to the church, although I’m not sure why. I remember posing for a lot of photos and my friends and family twittering around me. They were speaking in English, but they might as well been talking in Malayalam. The purpose of that day was finally hitting me. I was about to get married to a man I loved. Neither L or I knew what the ceremony would be like, what we’d have to do, and I was sure I wouldn’t be able to understand most of it. But at the end of the day we would have gained some legitimacy and some freedom.

We arrived at the church to find over a hundred people milling about in the parking lot. L and I were to enter the church first with the priest followed by the other guests. I was escorted by John, L’s cousin, and L was escorted by his brother. Seeing L at the top of the stairs made me instantly feel better. He was not only handsome (as expected) but in his smile I could tell how relaxed and happy he was. It was if I could hear him telling me “This isn’t that big of a deal. Let’s just have a good time.”

Once inside the church the whirlwind of voices and commands again took over. We were lead to light a candle. Then we were instructed to sit, then stand. The Father announced to everyone that “although 95% of the people in attendance did not speak English the majority of the service would be conducted in English for the few people who did.” I was asked to read a passage from the Bible- something about God taking a rib of Adam to create Eve. Then L read a passage. If you had asked me during his reading what he was saying I probably couldn’t have answered. I was focused on the hundreds of people behind me, the heavy veil that was never in the right place and the stained glass windows. I looked to my right and saw my father amidst the other priests, his video camera pointed right at my face.

While the Father spoke to both of us, he stared only at me. He would often say things like “you may not know this because you’re not Catholic,” or “Because you’re not Catholic you don’t…” He stressed that the purpose of marriage was to have at least one child. I learned earlier from this Father that, in his mind, infertility is adequate grounds for annulment and that adoption doesn’t count in the eyes of God. If anyone of the 250 people in attendance happened to look at my hands during this part of the service they would have seen me furiously scratching the top of my hand in order to keep my tongue still and a serene smile on my face.

My favorite part of the ceremony was, however, when the Father urgently received a piece of folded paper, and looking at it appeared to sigh heavily with purpose. He went to the podium and said that the owners of a car with such-and-such license plate needed to move their vehicle since it was blocking the next wedding party.

Because I am not Catholic, and therefor could not receive communion in the Catholic church, our ceremony was limited to the wedding service which did not include a Mass. Thank God. Our wedding was over in forty-five minutes. After the blessing of the rings, the tying of the thali, draping of the mandraghodi (those things explained below) and blessing with holy water it was done. More picture taking ensued, and we were rushed out of the church onto the next event, the reception.

Maybe because of the fact that I was the center of attention, but I could not help feeling horribly selfish about the whole thing. It wasn’t until that morning seeing L’s mother, stressed and tired but trying her best to hide it, that I realized how much work she had done for this wedding. It wasn’t simply because L’s parents wanted to have a wedding that lived up to the standards of their extended family. They were trying to give L and I something beautiful the best way they knew how. I had translated much of their suggestions and demands as attempts to conform me to the tropes of their culture, to have me fit in as best as possible, in many ways to not embarrass them. Sitting in the wedding car with L, his brother and John I knew that his parents were modest, insightful, if not a little stubborn, people who wanted, above all, for my family to feel welcomed and for me to feel like I belonged.

Thali – The thali is a small diamond shaped piece of gold with a cross on it. During the ceremony seven threads are taken from the mandraghodi and combined together to make one long strand. The thali is then hung on this long strand. At one point in the ceremony L ties the thali around my neck. How he ties it is important because it signifies our success in marriage. He didn’t do too bad a job.

Mandraghodi – The Mandraghodi is the saree I wore for the reception. After the ceremony I then change into the Mandraghodi, but before that it is blessed by the Father with a prayer and holy water. Then (to my surprise) it is draped over my head for part of the ceremony.

  Wedding in India