Pri-yucky Chopra

"Psst...Priyanka. That dress? Sorta Dancing With the Stars, but also: nice rack."

"Tee hee...I know!"

"But, um. You know, the beanie? Did some Bollywood hussy rip out, you know, a significant portion of your epidermis, or, um..."

"Just keep smiling, and keep your eyes off my bling."

"And, you know, one more thing. Your arms? And your legs? They're different colors. But still, fab, darling. Fab."

(Credit where credit is due: Salmaan Khan and Priyanka Chopra walk the ramp at the Salaam-e-Ishq music launch; PTI photo carried by HT.)

Thank you, HT photographer Amlan Dutta, for capturing this photograph of Kajol arriving at the premiere of Baabul on December 6.

As the peanut gallery gossips behind her, Kajol smiles through her pain -- and calls her publicist.

"Hi, Hari. I thought you told me ponchos were still an acceptable substitute for a chic shawl. It's bloody cold, but I wanted to look sexy, and yet I hear whispers that umpteen yards of polyester strung together in a fringed chain mail is something of a faux pas. Furthermore, your advice on the bag covered in disarrayed pailletes? Crap. Finally, a waistband, ankle bands, and billowing cotton/spandex are nary a substitute for proper pants. In other words, you're fired."

Writers and Jaipur's heritage

Abhay Mishra's piece in the Indian Express today, "Meet Rushdie, Kiran Desai at Jaipur Heritage Festival," piqued my interest. Anyone been the the heritage fest? Will this manufactured event actually provide fruitful literary commentary, or is it just a publicity stunt, featuring fleeting glimpses of authors whom we have constructed as heroes?

Unfortunately, the article doesn't provide any answers -- or even any details, beyond the fact that it is sometime between January 13 and 23 and presumably in the Pink City -- so I can't offer much food for thought.

I have, however, just finished The Inheritance of Loss, written by Desai. Not great (though it was awarded this year's Booker), but certainly not execrable. It seemed to lack a certain formal structure, hiding behind the larger issues it presented, but perhaps that's just the influence of recent criticism I've imbibed. I will say, however, that the way Desai ran together words reminded me of Arundhati Roy, and at time I contemplated whether Desai won only because India is such a hot topic these days. Furthermore, the part of the novel I found most emotionally resonant? When the dog, Mutt (Mutt Mutty Mutton Chop!) was taken from its owner. Probably not the lasting impression the author hoped her readers would glean.

But how do you pass?

Is gender a yes or no question? Well, if, like me, you were a total hippie and graduated with a double degree in journalism and gender studies, you probably acknowledge the fluidity of one's sexual identity; however, if you're an official from the recently concluded Asian Games in Doha, it's a little more cut and dry.

As in the case of Santhi Soundararajan, whose silver medal in the women's 800 meter race is in jeopardy after she "failed" a "gender test." This will be an interesting case to watch unfold; as of now, the story has a lot of shock value, but little information to substantiate the confounding details.

For example, a gender test involves a board of doctors, a gynecologist, and physical and psychological exams, but what exactly are they testing for? And what does it mean if one fails? Did they find a penis, and, if so (the larger point), are we nothing more than our genitals? Even if one wants to hold sporting competitions that separate the sexes, how far can the regulation of athletes go? Must we really air these personal struggles to a gawping public, always looking for the next big scandal?

As much as I dearly love the media -- and depend upon it to feed my blog -- sometimes I question the business. I have no illusion that the journalists are purposely attempting to meddle in this person's life, and I understand that occasionally, one buys into the idea that all information is good information. But I simply can't see how the international media masturbation is fruitful in any way in this case; of course, I'm not urging media being censored, I'm simply asking if it's always necessary to disseminate story after story when simple questions can't even be accounted for. Next week (theoretically), a story will come out saying that the person "passed" the gender test after all, whatever that means, but will hundreds of newspapers, Web sites, blogs carry this clarification?

A new fave

Word people, pay attention! Great little Web site I just discovered (umm, and I'm probably way behind the curve, so don't skewer me if everyone already understands this site's awesomeness) -- Verbotomy.

Each day the site owner posts a definition and a cartoon illustrating the definition, and people write in suggesting words that could be defined in such a way. That's not a real coherent explanation, I know, but trust me. Give it a click, check out the FAQs and submit you own! There's some sort of strange scoring component, but it's just as well to ignore the social-networking aspects and merely delight in the wonderful, inventive, luscious creative solutions people come up with. Tonight I'll curl up with my latest apparamour, a beautiful embroidered shawl that was a wedding gift, and enjoy the show.

Pantsless fug

Alright. I can overlook the fact that the person who wrote the headline considers these women as adorned with "a bit of glitter" -- the pink outfit, though perhaps not immediately apparent from my poor reproduction of the picture, appears to have been constructed nearly entirely from the remains of a disco ball repurposed after the dismantling of Delhi's latest passe party place. Also disturbing, but not entirely unnerving, are the hairpieces that the women have been styled in: detachable buns styled as if these dainty flowers have just disembarked from a cross-city jaunt on an Enfield or Bajaj scooter.

No, what bothers me most is the nearly nude...churidar? Footless tights? Leggings? The top is an appropriate (if more-than-slightly tacky) dress, but coupling it with some bastard stepchild of Mary Kate Olsen's skintight retro capris and the traditional Indian bottom is confounding, to say the least. Furthermore, if you're so intent on making this the next big thing, why not, at the very least, make the untoward garment the color of the darker stripe, so as to prevent our fine but perhaps more Simpsons-esque sisters the embarrassment of explaining that yes, they are indeed wearing pants?

Fugging Indian fashion

In the grand tradition of incredibly important blogs such as Go Fug Yourself and Manolo's Shoe Blog, I present a new (intermittent) series, provisionally entitled "Fugging Indian Fashion." I am not sartorially gifted. I nearly always look rumpled and occasionally, I have wardrobe malfunctions: once when I was in a high school concert as the first-chair flute, I wore a tight white shirt with only a lacy white push-up underneath, and a button failed in front of a horrified audience of about 100 well wishers. Perhaps I am not qualified to critique the fashions of others. However, India presents a unique challenge: so many beautiful people, such horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE style. Never before have I met someone who thought it appropriate to wear a bright blue T-shirt bearing the word "FUCK" -- in 200-point Helvetica, no less! -- on casual Friday at a Very Important Multinational Company. My first victim is Sarah Jane, a VJ on what I presume is an MTV imitator (though she might, indeed, work for the desi MTV). Inappropriately placed vinyl belt? Check. Jaunty, albeit ill-fitting, capris over textured tights, conspiring to make a lovely, perfectly sized girl look like an obese leprechaun? Check. White shoes after Labor Day? Check. Superfluous laces? Check. Seriously, check out her expression. Even she doesn't buy what she's wearing.

Retro(photo)blogging the nuptials

Or, "The Other Side of the Great Indian Wedding."

It's December 7, 2006. Our anniversary will be the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, which somehow seems quirky and fitting. We're certainly not an ordinary couple.

We arrive at the district commissioner's office a month after we've filed all our police reports, affidavits of support, and administrative detritus, to be sworn husband and wife and receive our official marriage certificate. Which sounds quite routine and simple, except with us, nothing ever goes as planned.

Our spirits are buoyed when the first bureaucratic lackey enters us into the day's register; our pictures are pasted next to a description of ourselves and our dwelling, and S strokes his moustache in anticipation. The man, whom you will recognize in this photo wearing a strikingly bad toupee, assures us that the magistrate, who will consecrate our unholy love, will be there in an hour, tops.

Two hours later, we're still waiting. Our witnesses, which include S's father, two of our former colleagues from the Delhi newspaper, and a woman who is nearly six months pregnant, are getting antsy; one is dispatched to buy Magic Masala Lay's and quaint little guava juice boxes, the kind you placate kindergarteners with. I need a nap and feel like crying, but the show must go on.

We order a round of chai from a small lean-to behind the office; its tin roof supports a raft of rhododendrons, a vibrant magenta cloud of flowers. S's father instructs the chaiwallah on the proper preparation of tea; the man gently minces a hunk of ginger with a fragment of brick, and we relax on a planter, hoping for some news. The Intrepid and Important Indian Photojournalists begin calling their contacts, haranguing them to discover the whereabouts of our magistrate.

The hours pass, and we attempt to amuse ourselves by taking pictures next to two abandoned, torched cars lingering in the commissioner's compound. An old couch, it's back separated from the seat, springs and a wooden frame exposed, languishes near a gate. The bridal party of another couple orders Domino's pizza; I fret and try to find a quiet place, a place apart from the hum and buzz of anticipation. Next to the marriage registration office is a newly opened disaster management cell. There are signs warning us about touts, explaining that marriage registration is a simple procedure. This is our fifth visit to the office, and the current ordeal has lasted four hours; no official is in sight. It's not as complicated as, say, brain surgery, but it's no walk in the park.

Finally, five hours after we were told he would reach the office, the Hateful Administrator shows his face. S and I are ushered into his office, but the man continues to ignore us, jabbering into his phone on what we are supposed to assume is official business.

After terminating the call and hastily ordering his peons around, the Hateful Administrator begins to examine our file. Papers are pushed in front of us, and five copies are duly signed. Amid our hubbub, the man pauses, clears his throat, and produces exhibit A: an undertaking stating our names, parentage, birthplaces, previous marital status, and religions. I've never been a believer, never had a religion, and yet I didn't want to call myself atheist or agnostic, so I just left that spot blank. The papers were signed off by the Hateful Administrator's underlings, despite this omission, so we assumed it was all smooth sailing.

Not so. The Hateful Administrator brandished the paper and began, "Religion is everywhere. What is this? How can one not have religion?"

I shrunk into my seat. My voice was very small. "I've just...I've never had a religion."

"Surely you were born Christian. We'll just write born Christian."

"But I wasn't born Christian; we've never been anything..."

"But a paper can't just have a blank space."

I'm panicking; our wedding party is glaring at the man; tension is rising. S plucks the paper from his hand and says, "Fine. Is it alright if I just pen in 'agnostic'?"

I'm not entirely happy with the solution, but it's better than being put through the wringer for another 20 minutes. The ceremony continues, and we read out our lines, perfect actors: yes, I take this man/woman to be my lawful husband/wife. My hand is on S's knee, I'm blushing, and we're both waiting for our Hateful friend to add his final stamp, read his final rites.

"What, no garlands? Not even exchanging rings? What kind of a wedding is this?"

Well, sir, we're not asking you to pass judgment on our decisions, we're just asking you to wed us. I shoot S a sideways glance, my eyes dancing between outrage and joy. A few more tense moments pass, and the man begins reading from our marriage certificate.

"I hereby pronounce you, SIS, son of JJ Singh, and TF, daughter of Mrs. Melinda...Daughter of Mrs.?"

The Hateful Administrator realizes he has taken his dickery a step too far; a law was recently (the last year or so) enacted which gave women the right to be listed on documents, but I suppose it's still not common for matriarchs to be cited in this fashion.

"I, uh, now pronounce you husband and wife."

He doesn't add, "Now get out of my sight." But we do anyway; we burst out into the sunny December afternoon all smiles. More goofy picture taking ensues, then we bump off to greener pastures for a late lunch; it's far from romantic, from a billowing white gown and hundreds of chic guests daintily tucking into crudites, but for our relationship, it's oddly fitting. Here's to a new era.

News of the overly litigious

Just when you thought Americans were absurdly overeager to use and abuse the legal system, The Hindu reminds us that it takes all kinds.

Two headlines on page 10 of the Delhi edition today: "AC too cold, rail passenger can move forum," and "Case against Aishwarya Rai."

In the first, the reporter relays, "The Central Information Commission has...asked a 70-year-old passenger to approach the Consumer Forum for refund of fare from the Railway Board as air-conditioning in his coach was 'uncomfortably cold.'" Isn't air conditioning supposed to be cold? And, if you've ever been in an air conditioned place before, and you know that you don't like how cold it gets, shouldn't you bring, perhaps, a jacket or a blanket to keep you warm?

I may have a personal beef; at work, it drove me insane all summer, because the office was kept at a rather chilly temperature, and every day, you could expect that you would be cold, and thus logic dictates that carrying a shawl or a jumper is necessary, or, at the very least, a good backup. Instead, these women would come to work and spend at least a few hours every day nagging the building's guards, complaining about how cold they were, and sipping endless chais. Oh, how I wanted to wring their necks. I digress.

Exhibit B is related to Ash and Dhoom 2. PTI reports, "A case has been filed against Bollywood actress Aishwarya Rai and actor Hrithik Roshan for an alleged obscene sequence in the recently released film, Dhoom 2.

"The case was filed in the court...under Sections 292 (vulgarity) and 509 (derogatory to women) of the Indian Penal Code. The complainant has alleged that women felt offended after watching the scene and that it promoted vulgarity in society, especially among youth."

I object to legal restrictions on vulgarity for this very reason; while some woman in Indore might think it's harmful, others might think it's perfectly innocuous. How many other actors and actresses have performed item numbers (big, splashout, ridiculous coordinated musical intervals in scanty costumes) without being persecuted in this way? Is it really necessary?

I've lost my train of thought, so I'll end the rant. I just wish that people would keep to themselves a little bit more; if you're cold, bring a jumper (and if you can afford a ticket in an AC car, you can most likely afford protection against the cold). If you find something vulgar, avoid it, don't let your children watch it, tell your friends that you don't like it. Is this personal quibbling really a matter for courts?

I'll also take the obsessive-compulsive undershirt

In an advertisement for Big Bazaar, a Wal-Mart-like retail chain that spans India:

"Paranoia socks (set of 4): MRP Rs 99; buy one get one free"

I wonder how our friend the groundnut wallah feels about all this horn tooting

In news of the meta, Times of India today reported on a forthcoming article in the International Herald Tribune that ostensibly is a piece examining the trend of Indian pride in the rising strength of the nation.

It's a bit difficult to judge the content and/or article at this point, but it's certainly something interesting that I've noticed: an incredible hubris on the behalf of (middle- or high-income) Indians about how great they are, based primarily on the fact that growth has nearly hit the magical double-digit mark for several years now.

On the one hand, it's great. Pride is a powerful motivator. But on the other hand, when one is on vacation in Cambodia and runs into another traveling Indian journalist who extemporizes on t he incredible weakness of the southeast Asian nation, it's a bit hard to swallow. For example, as a (somewhat) objective outsider, I didn't see a significant material difference between sewage systems in areas not developed for tourists in both Cambodia and India. I didn't find the Cambodian people "primitive" and "immature," as this man claimed; rather, I found them remarkably flexible for seemingly beginning to reckon with some of the havoc wreaked by the Khmer Rouge.

So it's an interesting reality check. Times of India seems completely ignorant to the fact that the article likely casts something of a skeptical light on their practice of putting a logo -- "Global Indian Takeover" -- on anything related to how awesome the subconty is (i.e., "The report reaffirms the point by taking note of a logo...with every article that indicates India's growing international presence and stature in every walk of life"), but such is the Slimes.

IHT apparently ushers evidence of Sonia Gandhi and Manmohan Singh as the only doubters of India's ascendance, noting, "'Gandhi appeared embarrassed by the mood of triumphalism about India's economic transformation, pointing out that while India was "a country of dazzling prosperity," it was also a country of "dehumanizing poverty"'".

Still, it seems that Singh's reservations about "obstacles to these dreams of superpower glory -- the educational system, a failing public health service, and a shortage of vital energy resources" will continue to fall by the wayside, at least in mainstream media. They're too busy tooting their own horns, or ogling Aishwarya Rai's goodies. It's a bit of a shame that a sensitive/balanced analysis of Indian mindsets is confined either to specialist domestic journals or international papers trying to dip their nib in India's swirling pot.

She lives!

Yes, despite my blogging sabbatical, I am alive and well. Shocking!

Today was my one-year anniversary of gainful employment with MNC. Huzzah to all that, and in celebration, I'd like to pull a "by the numbers" column out of my bag of tricks:

240 -- days I commuted to work
2.5 -- hours spent commuting per day
600 -- total hours spent in office car between December 2005 and December 2006
25 -- equivalent number of days I sat immobile in a Qualis, reading classic literature or bobbing my head to the sounds of filmi FM
36 -- books read from the Modern Library list of 100 best novels
26 -- days spent at a posh hotel in New York while trying to get my visa in order
50 -- average number of documents edited per month
600 -- estimate of documents edited in the past year
4 -- occasions upon which I discovered the word "pubic" or a variant on the word in documents
2 -- times I caught the word "asses" during my happy editing time
5 -- average liters of water consumed per day
1200 -- rupees it would cost per month if I paid for that water
500 -- rupees deducted from my monthly salary for unlimited snacks, beverages, and lunches
6 -- shots of espresso consumed each day
100 -- days I worked out in the gym for more than 30 minutes in the past year
6 -- days until I get married
0 -- number of co-workers who know that I am getting married sans pomp and circumstance

That should do; I could go on ad infinitum, but I won't. How does your year shake out?

Hu are you talking about?

Hu Jintao, as imagined by the art department of Outlook magazine, meet Eugene Levy, actor, riband, he of huge eyebrows. Or have you already met?

(I'm just saying, resemblance much? And also, how awesome would it be if Hu Jintao sang songs about terriers and literally had two left feet and danced in circles?)

Help! The Indians! They're stealing my copydesk!

Just when all my nitpicky editor colleagues were getting comfortable comes the latest news from our global world: Indians are plotting to take over the planet, one comma splice at a time!

Yes, an article on the Poynter Institute's Web site heralds the coming of age of the editing outsourcing business, and stateside workers clutch their red pens in fear. Well, from someone who is more intimately acquainted with the subconty than these chaps, I'd just like to say shenanigans. SHENANIGANS!

Although Joe Grimm points to a number of providers offering editing services, I'm guessing that he hasn't taken the time to do something so simple as give the providers' Web sites even a cursory read. For example, Hi-Tech Exports (which Grimm explains offers 40 hours of editing services for less than $300) -- what copydesk do you know would contract a company whose corporate site features the sentence, "We have so far completed successfully, a wide range of projects." Nice comma use, fellas.

I agree that it's certainly an interesting industry to watch, and given the preexisting English skills, there are certain editorial functions that may be amenable to this sort of parsing. But the kind of alarm implicit in this blurb and the responses to it just smack of paranoia. Do a good job, develop lots of skills, and, if need be, offshore yourself; if you are a dedicated worker, you have nothing to worry about, so long as you don't wed yourself to being in one place doing one thing for one's entire life.

Pre-shaadi snooping

So it's wedding season -- not just for me, but for thousands of couples throughout India. I'm not really sure why November-February is considered so auspicious, but I suppose it probably relates to the fact that the weather is bearable. Anyhow, everyone's getting hitched, and, always desperate to discover the next big trend, HT City brings us "Knot guilty: Is marriage on your mind? Someone may be stalking you -- perhaps, a detective your prospective in-laws have hired..." (Monika Adlakha, Nov. 13, 2006, Delhi edition).

Essentially, it seems that people are hiring private investigators to track (primarily) brides to be to make sure that the girl is "suitable" for marriage.

So what do agencies check, according to the article? "The bad news continues to be for the single-and-ready-to-mingle gang, particularly if you are a girl, as 'too much of openness is a complete no, that's the first thing we are asked to check,' says Sanjay Singh of Indian Detective Agency, adding, '...the enquiries for the girl's character have seen a rise.'"

Let me get this straight: women are spied upon by their potential families, and doing something so innocuous as, for example, talking to a man who is not the prospective husband can lead to a report being filed about how one is unsuitable? This is insane. Yes, with the proliferation of e-dating sites and marriage classifieds, you may be thinking about tying yourself to a person with whom your family is not intimately acquainted. But wouldn't it be more fruitful to, oh, spend time getting to know a person and their family, and judge from those interactions whether or not you think it's a good match? I am constantly told how impersonal and rude Americans are, but this strikes me as a far greater slight to the human spirit than my decision to read a book during my car ride to work.

Now, of course, people are free to waste their (thousands and thousands of) rupees as they see fit, but is this really necessary? No person is infallible; must I really live in fear that my decision to talk with a friend at a cafe is an irrevocable denunciation of my loose ways? Sigh.

Art in India

Not content with the domestic scene, art lovers in Delhi can now get a piece of the Met -- without ever having to leave the safe haven of South Extension.

So new that the location hasn't been added to the Metropolitan Museum of Art's listing of its store locations, I doubt that the outlet has been officially launched. But there it is, right on Ring Road, nestled above Mango and adorned, for the time being, with only a flapping red banner.

In brand-happy urban India, I'm guessing that this will be a smashing success -- once people discover that the store exists, and that the Met is a Famous American Institution. For now, we'll have to rely on what is presumably a story from the Press Trust of India (though perhaps the agency should be called the Press Release Trust of India):

The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, one of the largest and finest art museums in the world, has opened its first store in India. In New York, the Museum houses more than two million works of art spanning 5,000 years of world culture from prehistory to the present, and from every part of the globe. Founded in 1870, the Museum has long been one of New York’s leading tourist attractions, and was visited by 4.5 million people last year. A long-time leader in Museum retailing, The Metropolitan Museum of Art Store was ranked fifth among New York City’s most popular chain stores in the influential Zagat New York City Shopping 2006 guide.

Thank you India; thank you terror; thank you disillusionment...

(Or, why S should not order an entire bottle of wine for the two of us at a fancy birthday dinner.)

The past year has been one of tremendous growth. In another journal, I reflected upon the different needs I had as I faced both my 22nd and 23rd birthdays; one's life changes so fast in the rapid progression from excited young professional to haggard old crone. (Or, in the words of my mother, "Just wait until you're 50. Then your birthday will really become a non-event.")

Anyhow, instead of babbling on and on about myself, I'd like to give some shout-outs. I'd like to thank the Academy and:
S -- for being everything and asking nothing, for showing me that I can be beautiful, for believing in tenderness and progress and love that doesn't have to be perfect, but malleable
NY -- for remember, across all these miles
SV & theek hai -- for getting me a birthday cake, and for apologizing because what you really wanted to get me was a case of Diet Coke
S's mum, dad, and bro in the U.S. -- for being unbelievably understanding, for never asking too much, and for calling and wishing me well, even though I haven't made as much of an effort as I should have to make sure you're comfortable in my homeland
T&M -- for ringing up from Canada, though we've never met face to face
D -- for freakishly getting engaged to a woman who has my same birthday, making it easier for both you and S to remember the date
Mass Com bunch -- for flooding me with the sweetest e-mail messages this side of Hollywood, and for reminding me how much the day meant to me last year
E-lizzle, J-dawg, etc. -- for being, you know, my hos, no matter what

The airing of grievances will have to wait 'til Festivus...

Pizza: What CAN'T it do?

So, one of the myriad *great* things about Cambodia, and Phnom Penh in particular, is the preponderance of restaurants offering "happy pizza." What is happy pizza, you might ask? Well, it's got a secret ingredient that looks somewhat like oregano, but is actually quite a different herb altogether. Depending on to whom you are speaking, it may or may not be medicinal, it may or may not kill your brain cells, and it may or may not give you the munchies. Hm.

Anyhow, I'm just sitting here wishing I had a nice slice of happy pizza, because basically since September I have been a gigantic ball of nerves. My sleeping schedule is off, my eating patterns are off, and I rapidly cycle between loving the world and, between sobbing fits, calling my co-workers names that are variations on the theme of genitals. Vacation was great, but the entire time I was still wrapped up in this drama related to some unfinished bureaucratic business that wasn't resolved until I got back to Delhi.

Here's to trying to lighten up (and to, ahem, lightin' up -- I know, bad, ba dum ching!).

I have seen the future, and it is not bright

So, in pizza-related news, the latest rumors on the Internets are about Kono Pizza, which might be interesting to someone who doesn't live in the subconty, which, as I have previously discussed, features it's domestic version of the product, which Pizza Corner calls the "Conizza."

The best part, as many people have pointed out, is that it seems to be giving the pizza industry a collective hard-on, causing them to disseminate marketing buzz such as, "Every few years, a product comes along that completely changes its category. As the iPod has revolutionized the way people interact with music; as cell phones and wireless internet access has altered the way they communicate, so, too, will the way they approach eating change with the introduction of Pizzacono, the first dramatically new way to consume pizza in recent memory."

I still think it's all absolutely ludicrous, but maybe I should take some time this weekend to experience the magic. That said, most responses I've seen tend to affirm my belief that this is one of the most unholy creations wrought upon earth by the higher powers.

Chatter on Metafilter re: conical Italian cuisine...

"It's the next Pepsi Blue"
"You know what would revolutionize pizza? Put some general tso's chicken on it, cram a slice into a taco shell, then batter and deep fry the fucker. That would be revolutionary."
"Like calzone, but harder to eat"
"...'The name "Pizzacono" accurately describes the product's taste and characteristics.' 'Cono -- literal meaning is "vagina." Used by Spanish people everywhere, frequently in place of "damn," "shit," and "fuck."'"
"Who has a problem eating pizza with one hand? What kind of pizza are these people eating?"
"These guys are fools. There's just two ways to improve pizza: stick it between some breasts or inside a vagina. CASE CLOSED."
"I took my first bite cleverly from the bottom of the cone, and gargled in delight as I sucked out the toppings in one foul swoop. The gargle turned to a gasp as the hot grease overpowered my esophagus, and the cheese welded to the now blistering walls in my throat. As I fell to the ground, gasping puss and cheddar, the pizza crust cone rolled nearby in a lopsided manner, a silent megaphone that would never voice my cry for help."

Headline o' the week

Courtesy Indian Express, October 31, 2006: "Americans, Americans: Why Do They Do Things So Differently?"

And, for your pleasure, if you click "read more," you can read my version of the story -- in which I have merely substituted references to America with references to India and its people, and which I call, "Indians, Indians: Why Do They Do Things So Differently?" (Tongue, of course, firmly planted in cheek.)Do you think The New York Times would consider running this on their editorial page?

Europeans call them crazy. But are Indians really crazy or do they just do their own thing?

I have always been intrigued by their use of the word "prepone." When the world refers to plans that have been fast tracked, they say "the date has been moved forward," but Indians say prepone -- even if the prefix has just been added to an coantiquated term for a type of bread!

Even if India's teas were introduced to the world by exploitative colonizers, India's beverage of choice is still chai. And how. A paper cup of milky, syrupy sweet tea filled every two hours or so. Ditto with the samosas. A couple of friends may go through several dozen of these deep-fried wonders in about an hour. I've often wondered if there's such a thing as Indian food -- apart, of course, from tandoori, Chinjabi, dal, and roti.

Talking of khana reminds me of a time when I was visiting a small Indian company. We'd been working nonstop since morning and I was beginning to feel hungry. Finally, at 2:30, I asked we could grab a bite. "Oh, I'm sorry," responded my host, "I usually don't eat until later in the afternoon. And then I just see what's in the canteen." So we walked to the cafeteria; there was enough to feed an army, but I was with someone who "just wanted to see." I got myself a liter of water and some salad, with a small bowl of dal and some boiled rice, but there were Indian and Continental choices aplenty, which my host proceeded to heap in large portions and leisurely consume, before going back for seconds -- and having four or five jalebis. And this guy just wanted to check out the scene!

The Indian economy has traditionally been a disaster. They don't bat an eyelid when government officials embezzle crores of rupees , yet they complain when their company deducts 500 rupees from their monthly take to cover the free lunches and dinners provided at the workplace. Every Indian carries a few hundred spare rupees to bribe traffic police if they're pulled over for running a red light -- who cares if these are the same people who are outraged when Transparency International publishes reports that cites corruption in the country as endemic. Is this all a grand Indian scheme to drive the rest of the world crazy?