The Big Chill

http://boxedwaterisbetter.com/hello/

watching cnn about the terrorist attack that happened in pakistan today in my right ear, eavesdropping my uncle talking to the prime minister (?) about it in my left ear.

Today was weird. Woke up in Ambala, a town that is half tuscany and half burkina faso, with endless fields of wheat lined with what could be olive trees (botany isn't my strong suit), turbaned men lounging around mud huts drinking tea, two bicylces for ever scooter, and two scooters for ever car.

I was visiting the last living and oldest of my grandfather's brothers, Inder Mohan, a venerable, deaf, and slightly eccentric 92 year old man who spent yesterday afternoon showing me pictures of my family and letters from American relatives. Met my bed ridden Tayiji who kept forgetting that I don't speak Hindi and wouldn't let me leave until she made sure Inder had given me a felt blanket and the equivalent of 10 bucks. Adorable but awkward.

Today, Inder's grandson and his wife drove me 7 hours to Delhi. I should have taken 5 but we got lost. Badly. I was no help and realized that Rajaji Marg looks like a million other Marges around India Gate. Got into a horrible mood because all I wanted to do was go to Kahn market and eat fettucini alfredo and strawberry ice cream at The Big Chill, which was looking more and more improbable.

Once back at Navy House, I tried to get a car, but all the drivers were at the airport to wait for my uncle, who was returning with my aunt from Goa. I was in no condition to meet anyone and was biting my lip until 5:25, when an extra driver showed up and drove me to Kahn market 5 minutes before my relatives were scheduled to arrive.

Once at Kahn market, I ran around frantically trying to find something that I wanted to do. There were no tables open at The Big Chill, so I took a strawberry milkshake to go and wandered around feeling anxious about nothing. I realized that i just wanted to be back at the monastery, where, although there is no strawberry ice cream, there is no traffic, no waiting, no pretense, and little stress. I realized that I missed the simple life.

So I bought ten dollars of imported cheese, Vogue India, another Austen book, and The Sun Also Rises and felt a little bit better. I went back to Navy House where I grinned through small talk and ate dinner. Leaving for Mysore from Navy House (Delhi) tomorrow at 5 a.m. I'll arrive at the apartment around noon.

It'll be the fifth day in a row where I wake up and go to sleep in a different city.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhwbxEfy7fg

something real

I grew up in a world where you have to learn that things you see in the magazines or on T.V. are spurious to the max or go crazy from the hammering understanding of your blatant inadequacy. Kate Moss is a god to some teenagers and twentysomethings attending NYU, but they probably throw up after three bites of keash and get nose bleeds in the middle of their political science classes. I don’t like tweaking, but I do like to digest my meals, thank you very much.

However, this means that I have to realize that what the media shouts at me a hundred times a day before lunch is bullshit. Coming of age with sanity after the turn of the millennium requires the ability to read vogue and know what parts to laugh at (the models that look like twelve year olds) and what parts to document in your moleskin (the way to revitalize your African frazzled hair and what collections to veneratably ogle online).

This crucial talent, however, has also made us a generation of skeptics. If it’s good, it’s too good to be true. If it’s bad, it’s either a lot worse, or the CNN is inflating the story just so the pundits have something to talk about when nothing else is going on.

A few years ago during Christmas, my classmate and neighbor went to Guatemala to work at an orphanage. She came back head-over-heels in love with the children. A string bracelet with the countries name was everlastingly affixed on her wrist; she had fundraisers selling homemade calendars and Guatemalan chocolate. She vowed to and eventually did go back for the summer.
She didn’t gush about the experience to strangers or anything, but in the days of MySpace, nothing was a secret. My group of school friends actually made fun of her behind her back, laughing at her MySpace photos and her new Latina-inspired style. The experience wasn’t authentic, just a show so that people would think she was “deep” or the new Mother Teresa or to help her get into a good college. “Great, go help street children in your seven jeans,” I remember one saying.

A solid education has taught us to think critically, but when do we stop criticizing? Can anything ever be good or authentic enough for us?

In a time when everything we do will become satire in someone else’s head (and in a time where everything we do is being published to the world via Facebook or… blogs), how do we live a life of authenticity without the fear of being categorized as trendy or phony by someone else, or even yourself?

I often battle with the authenticity of this year. How much of this is to really help the world and how much of it is for yourself to figure out some of your life before starting college? Do you really want to do these things you’re doing, or do they just sound cool?

I feel that for at least one month of this year, I’ve discovered something that I can believe in. Alaska was a bust, spending time with some of my extended family was occasionally excruciating, and Ghana sucked a whole lotta hope out of me. But, living at a Monastery in the middle of fucking nowhere has made me realize that not everything in life has to be looked at so critically. Authenticity of life is something you feel, not derive from playing to a certain set of standards. I guess that this is something you can learn only when you truly love something, like I love that place. When you know there is real love in your life, the clawing standards society sets for sincerity don’t matter. You can feel the truth of some things, and by golly, that’s good enough for me.

what i'll do to facebook

includes hiking for 3 hours, waiting for an hour for a hour long bus ride, and then walking all over a town in the middle of the himmalayas to find the three computers in 150 sq km that are connected to the internet. kind of a bitch. kind of think that today will be my last day on the internet until next month.
the monastery, however, is probably the best decision i made this year. when i open my eyes in the morning, i can see the himmalayas without even sitting up in my bed. probably because where i'm staying is a 3 hour hike up a himmalayan mountain. i teach four classes of about 5 girls between the ages of 15 and 23. they are sweet and hilarious.
monasteries are a way for women in the mountains to escape the dead end of village life and arrainged marrieges (sometimes to TWO men). these girls are the equvilant of jesus freaks by a long shot. mostly, they're independant women who want a way to get out of kinnaur. this is the best way.
i'm trying to find something interesting to say, but really can't. i'm almost done with the two austen books i brought up with me and will have to revert back to ulysses. austen books are basically 19th centurary chick flicks and they usually leave me awake all night wondering who i'm gonna marry.

that and i miss teri beef like the bejesus!