At the periphery of my sleep, breaking waves is an emotion I have become a stranger to.

It looks like simple joy and on touch moves that way too, in simple steps down the street.

It opens the door, enters with -out knocking and stands at my bed waiting for me to awake.

What shape is it, what seamless form? Is it like sweet wine swirling over my senses of smell and taste?

Or is it like a flower, a dogwood tree in bloom, little stars like snow that line the avenues in my wintry dreams?

I don't know, I don't know and I call out, my eyes closed, "Who goes there?". And then it vanishes into

the night, walks into a door into which I can't enter, not tonight, not right away: like a red woman who has left me now with

thoughts of wine, flowers and discontinous sleep.

2002:12:12 23:30 Atlanta

Last night I was trying to introduce granpa to a great body of comic work by Ramesh Mahadevan. And in this context we got talking about few articles I wanted him to read. The first one was called Life of Dr Desi, in which he pulls out all the punches on desi folks caught in a curious time wrap in 21st centruy America, as empitomized by Dr Desi. Real people like these do exist.

And this was followed by a piece called Marriages are made in Heaven, which also happens to the title of an old Hindi Movie. In this peice, a version of Dr Desi, attempts to get his daughter Malini, yankeefied to Molly, to a FOB like yours truely.

FOB by the way, for the unschooled folks on class warfare in the model subcontinenal minority, is fresh off the boat. I am not as much anymore I suppose given that I am getting to be an old hand. Also as I was discussing with Peter the other night, the how tos of getting the "sacred" green card by convining the US governement via the Phd reserach (that I should be engaging in currently instead of ranting here) under a very special State Department qouta that they have to keep back highly essential professionals like me here. My essential qualification would be that I can make a mean "sambar". Dear Mr President, may I suggest you fire my sambar filled missiles at Saddam, instead of the nukes you were proposing to use!!

Also notice the aptness in the name, "green" card as in grass is finally green; to make a lot of "green" as enshrined in the Constitution here: the pursuit of ever"green" happiness. I guess, in another scale too I am not high up the Indian "caste" system in the US. Call it the corrupting influence of the Dollar God under which we desis, plain forgot the good old caste system from back home. As an aside and for the interested my "caste" evolved from the "Shudras". So under the dollar denominated caste system, physicians occupy Mount Kailas. And no I am not jealous of the cash they make which I think they richly deserve.

Ok enough of asides and asides on asides. Coming back the Molly's marriage. Everything is perfect except that she is an ABCD with a boy friend. Now I know I have opened a can of worms by using the dreaded acronym, American Born Confused Desi, a hush hush word as bad as the "nigger". My house may be firebombed by beer swilling redneck ABCDs.

This brings to the central thesis of this rant, that is Fusion is Confusion. And to support this thesis I invoke the holy matrinomial/ personal ads. First comes the claim that the values are "East & West Mix". Now I never understood this bit. This is like claiming to be a vegetrian who eats beef. Cows are really the Holy Cows to most Indians. Let's discuss this further: a popular western pastime is clubbing.

Your sorry eyes cut through the bone They make it hard to leave you alone Leave you here wearing your wounds Waving your guns at somebody new

Baby you're lost Baby you're lost Baby you're a lost cause

There's too many people you used to know They see you coming they see you go They know your secrets and you know theirs This town is crazy; nobody cares

Baby you're lost Baby you're lost Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting I'm tired of fighting Fighting for a lost cause

There’s a place where you are going You ain't never been before No one left to watch your back now No one standing at your door That's what you thought love was for

Baby you're lost Baby you're lost Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting I'm tired of fighting Fighting for a lost cause

This is from Beck's album: Sea Change. A great album and a great song of the day.