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.

time is never time at all you can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth and our lives are forever changed we will never be the same the more you change the less you feel believe, believe in me, believe that life can change, that you're not stuck in vain we're not the same, we're different tonight tonight, so bright tonight and you know you're never sure but you're sure you could be right if you held yourself up to the light and the embers never fade in your city by the lake the place where you were born believe, believe in me, believe in the resolute urgency of now and if you believe there's not a chance tonight tonight, so bright tonight we'll crucify the insincere tonight we'll make things right, we'll feel it all tonight we'll find a way to offer up the night tonight the indescribable moments of your life tonight the impossible is possible tonight believe in me as i believe in you, tonight

For MOM(kiran).

Since I can't in any other way, communicate the pain I feel everytime I think about him in the last 48 hours and how things have transpired in his life. He writes he wishes that he will get another life to live out the love that is now engaged to another person. I have nothing to say to that except that he deserves much better then the pathetic shit he has been dragged through. And that even if he gets another life I would pray that he would not get involved with a person who can't live the convictions she claims to have. I think this is much worse.

Atleast it's bearable if people come out and just say that they don't love us anymore, as it happened in one of the iterations I have been through. But this hipocrisy of claiming love and then shying away from it is the most fucked up place to be. Maybe I write this because I feel this inability to defend myself while someone is punching me in the face as they claim a lot of love at the same time. Is it love or just plain hedging against uncertainity: that scenario where one fucks around and not finding satisfaction can come back to the old "bitch" on hold? Whatever.

It doesn't matter when I burn like a comet here, in high fever as does MOM on another continent. And guitars tear through me, like bullets. Maybe this is what it means to be crucified and they who wound with one hand can't be of much help with the other.

After the storm, on the road are the broken branches. And after the goodbye, the click of the receiver being put down, are these emotions, this sene of rankling unjustness of things, pain stored for too long, in the bruises that still fester, exploding into screams, echoing of "fuck you". Always what goes around comes around. We keep doing it to one another, it has almost become a joke. I wonder what will happen when the fingers of both hands are not enough to count these statistics, I have two fingers chopped away already, so I have eight more to go. I don't know how many you have left, 4 or 5? Why is it so difficult? I have never asked for much except acceptance of who I am and the still my report card was always marked with unsatisfactory remarks.

Now it's time to give the finger, it's my salute to your feeling of unsatisfication with me. I am tuning out of your constant radio broadcast of me not being enough or not being as good as someone else: the subjects starting with my dick. I am sick of this and I am getting out of this club whose membership is measured by what he does and doesn't, this ringa - ringa roses game of getting in and out. I guess I will be the fumbling stranger in every room you might be in, look around and you will find me standing there as you dine with someone who can charm the pants off Miss Universe.

I am resigning from your parliment, where I had to be voted on:a vote of confidence again and again, always fearful of when I would get the dreaded call of eviction. I am now happy to sleep in a box lined with newspapers against the cold than stay in a palace where I get kicked out when the weather changes: from wanting to have a relationship to wanting to go out on fun dates. Did you ever think what would that do to me? I am so cut up, and I say this not because I need your pity or care, I don't want any of that from you, but because you should know the consequences of what you did.

I once begged you, I remember my pitiful voice pleading for some belief in me, for a chance. I realise you know neither, for you chance is a roll of dice in a card table at Vegas and a relationship is something that satisfies you or else. I take myself off the shelves. I am not for sale anymore atleast to you. I refuse to be a man with a feature set.

I am taking back my imperfect face and putting it on, I am not the most well dressed person in the room and will never be. Too sad you knew what I was under the skin and still wanted a ghost in a white coat. I say I got what the stuff that really matters at the core of things, too bad you wanted something else.

The guy who said: some food to eat, a roof to sleep under and someone to love are all that a human being needs to live would saffocate in your noxious world of withering demands. You had too high expectations of me, not for me, that I would have understood and even appreciated that, but for yourself. Sometime sit and apply that list that you once wrote out, of the suject of a perfect date and see if you measure up to that standard of perfection.

I am sick of being a whiny little dog who wags his tail when you show up or howls mournfully when you are gone. If my tone is curt know that I can be as hard as I am soft. You saw the best of me and this is the worst. I don't have the time to give to someone who doesn't have her days free for me right now. I demand to be as high as on the priority list as I put someone else on my own.

And of those whom you "trust", I say atleast "trust" them fully. If they think someone is a smelly sewer, take him as just that. If you don't want to think for yourself, don't even try because you will end up stepping over feet and that hurts. And I don't want to win over people who have lost my respect.

I am too aware of my own faults and my own confusion and I belive I did constantly correct and change what needs to be corrected and changed. But everyone needs many chances to get it right: you and me. And for a change I am giving myself as many chances when I fumble and fall down.

What is this and why today: the hurricane has hit the shore. After the storm there are, there will be broken branches. It's not hate. For once drop your reflexive attitude of being on the defensive: of wanting to hang out to your version of history and hear mine: as the other night, I invited you to stay at granpa's not because I didn't want you to stay with me but because I wanted you to stay in the most comfortable possible place. And when you do perhaps you might recognize and maybe even sense the pain in this voice that said: fuck you.