Holiday of the Melon

What a week politically! First the death of Anton Balasingham, which will have far-reaching changes in the political leadership and strategy of the LTTE and now Niyazov, the head of state of Turkmenistan, a brutal dictator by all accounts but a most unexpected death and a very uncertain future ahead for that country

in?

Crossing various seas soon, the atlantic in a few hours and then the pacific. In today's world, if we are to be explorers, we must traverse the frontiers of thought geography, those boundaries where convention stands on one side, and the unproved on the other. And in crossing those frontiers, we become necessarily changed. I know all this and I can't help but go forward, trusting. Are you in or not?

exams

12 more hours exactly until my last exam and straight to the bar thence. Begone ye ghosts! I was in the library for 12 hours today. It's been 4 and a half years since an event like that has happened. Like Haley's comet, it'll probably be as long until next!

barack

Did you know that Barack Obama's middle name is Hussein? Jesus Christ. I wonder why we haven't heard that wonderful morsel of news in the mainstream liberal media (god love 'em) yet? You gotta laud the guy just for making it through politics and thinking of running, with a name like that.

Talking to a law professor, whose student Obama was and who genuinely thinks that he's brilliant off-the-charts. There's a lot of desire in the Harvard establishment to see a mixed-race kid from the wrong side of the tracks, with an A-rab middle name, anointed.

Live life as an epic adventure

The last lesson of a Professor whom I have adored and for good reason too. I can’t explain all the emotions that arose, but he delivered a stunning lecture today and was rewarded with a standing ovation at the end of it. The class is a development economics class, but it ended with the best leadership class I have ever been in all semester- he said cut the crap about what you think you want to do. If you’re white and want to work in a developing country, don’t look at them as locals and you as American, don’t act out of guilt in having had a good life and wanting to give something back. If you're local, they're going to look at you different, 'cause you speak English and are foreign and wealthy and they think you want a job in the World Bank or Wall Street after that. Forget it. Cut that crap. Do what you have to do well. Be a Hero, Not a Victim. Experience is what you do with what happens to you, not what happens to you. Don't say you couldn't pass that policy because of x, y, z. Make a mark. Leave a Legacy and Live life as an epic adventure. And take yourself seriously because no one else is going to if you don’t. And even if you fail, at least you’ll have had fun. Coming at the moment it did, as I had been reevaluating what to do going forward regarding a certain project in Sri Lanka, it was a call to arms and many responded as such. Dammit, I hate to say it, but I think I’m starting to fall in love with this place.

Go Big or Go Home

Years later, when I have finally become all that I want to be, and a successful film maker and author, I will look back and give interviews. Here are some choice quotes and things that I plan to let the world know about my life:

Dedication upon accepting the Nobel Prize for literature : As George Orwell said "The aim of great art is to be imaginative in its craftsmanship and politically committed at its heart". I dedicate this prize to the thousands of aid workers, toiling away in remote lands, away from those that are dear to them, materially unrewarded, at risk of life and limb, in the service of humanity. To you, to the lamplighters of Florence Nightingale, I am humbled and proud.

"I chose to start expressing with film, because I didn't have the discipline to start with writing. Writing is far more unforgiving of mistakes and unsuccessful experimentation, perhaps because of the long tradition behind it, and because all you have is a series of words. One more, or one less, and the whole thing falls apart. Film on the other hand, there are so many rescue mechanisms within it (sound, lighting, characterization, acting, tone), that its easy to start with because hardly anyone ever gets it all right. Writing on the other hand, is the higher art, and having been somewhat trained in the tradition of literature, as Byatt says, I approach the task of entering the canon with far more fear. "


(I say: GO BIG OR GO HOME)

whimper

This week is the last week of classes. To two particularly brilliant, engaged, charismatic professors, I salute you. And now, the ramp up for finals and then a flight out of these frozen climes to the tropics almost immediately afterwards. More discussion involving the limits of violence as well as the growth constraint facing China ("The answer is" the urban-rural gap). Two more massive papers to write through the break, applications, and a large project that will probably take over my life should I think about it. But until then a quote from T.S. Eliot will suffice :"This is how the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper".

Another interesting fact I learned today: that it was the First Council of Nicaea, convened by Constantinople in AD 325 that led to the formation of a universal standard Christian doctrine.

dinner out

Talking about civil disobedience was quite emotional. Was the first time in weeks that I had done any reading for Ethics and only because it was Martin Luther King assigned. He said that we must confront the community, and if it does not want to negotiate then we must take to a program of direct action, by which he meant a nonviolent protest of civil disobedience (of breaking the law) and yet subsequently submitting to the law willingly and its penalties. And that that in reality would be expressing the highest respect for the law. But what does a group do if the community that it wants to confront simply does not want to negotiate and if a nonviolent Gandhian movement does not succeed? I want to believe what Gandhi said, which I do believe sometimes, that in the end, the way of love and truth will triumph every disaster but what if I , or others can't wait that long? And a state has violence, a monopoly on violence which it can legitimately (in the sense, electorally justified) use, and what of groups that do not? and what of those that say that war is an extension of politics by other means as Bismarck did? and yet I would not want to go so far as saying violence should be used by those who cannot achieve their ends by other means.

also had dinner yesterday with an ancient civil rights professor of law who's taking a lot of heat in the national press for his support of the use of torture in qualified situations and who really loved the sound of his own voice as well as dinner with Arthur Golden, author of Memoirs of a Geisha who sadly had nothing interesting to say.

reconciliation

I had a class yesterday on the justification and limits of civil disobedience and after that I was talking to someone last night about truth and reconciliation and it made me pause and reflect about the nature of conflict. X said that in south africa for example, he had lived through apartheid and seen the violence and abuse perpetrated by a system against its own people. If you had asked him 12 or 15 years ago whether he was proud to be a South African, he would have said no, but today he is. Yet, he won't sing the whole anthem (which has three different verses from Afrikaans, Xhosa and another dialect I believe) and believes that the truth and reconciliation commission has a lot to answer for, for it let a lot of white perpetrators off with amnesty yet did not include any modicum of financial reparations. He said he was denied his identity for so long that he would never surrender it again. War may be political but first and foremost it is always a human experience; it tears the heart out of memory and experience, leaving one with scars that run deep, perhaps never to be healed. He said that all the young, we, can expect from the old generation is tolerance and that they would come together but never forget the scars of the past. And it made me sad to think that there were some things that we would always be imprisoned by and that the past could never be wholly cleansed.

sexual dynamics

so. Just to continue procrastinating on the everest of work I have to do, the million social engagements I have to rsvp on, the massive sleep debt to be worked on, and the dehydration of copious amounts of alcohol, I have decided to write about the sexual dynamics at school here.

We have what is called a midcareer program. Luminaries include about 8 world presidents. This is the program for people who have a minimum of seven years experience. Then we have the basic masters in public policy and the masters in public administration (for people who already possess a masters). Then we have the masters in public administration in international development (commonly known as How To Be A World Bank Economist).

The midcareers are for the most part married. If not, there's something else up with them. The incoming MPPs are the source of talent for most of the school, as the median age is around 26. Midcareers typically prey on MPP1s.

The school's acronym is also known as Kiss Sex Goodbye.

Lastly, its that time of the semester where everyone is starting to come apart at the seams and look for some stress relief and finding it in the most unexpected places. It's all rather funny actually.

abizaid

So just spent 3 hours procrastinating by watching more episodes of the West Wing, trawling Friendster, trying to Skype people who're never there, MOPE-ing, and just generally feeling sorry for myself.

John Abizaid, Commander of US CENTCOM, and in charge of the Iraqi operation, and an ex-personal hero of mine (he has fallen from grace since then) and also Arab American, spoke at school on Friday, days after his controversial Congressional testimony- where he was unclear on whether or not the U.S. should increase or decrease troop levels in Iraq. The level of conflict in Iraq right now is the highest it has been. Rumours in the policy community is that the U.S. will start decreasing troop levels as early as in six months. The future looks grim for Iraq. The decreased troop levels will mean increased sectarian violence. I don't pretend to know much about the situation, but what Colin Powell said a long time ago holds true: "If you break it, you own it".

Abizaid, a Westpoint and Harvard grad, also said interestingly enough that he is optimistic about the future. It should have sounded silly, and would have from anyone else, but not from this man. That's not to say I believe it, but it's good to believe that there are still a few good men.

casino royale

I love reading the New York Times review of movies, particularly by A.O. Scott and Manohla Dargis, a younger critic who's giving him a run for his money. I especially love how the paper insists on calling actors by their surnames with suffixes e.g. Pierce Brosnan becomes Mr. Brosnan.

But here are some choice quotes about Casino Royale (from the NY Times Review) that I think are written in the spirit of the whole 007 adventure itself and is profound in and of themselves. Movie critics of the world- you now define the zeitgeist.

"Every generation gets the Bond it deserves if not necessarily desires, and with his creased face and uneasy smile, Mr. Craig fits these grim times well"

"Mr. Craig’s Bond looks as if he has renewed his license to kill. "

"You see Mr. Craig sweating (and very nice sweat it is too); you sense the filmmakers doing the same. "

"They have also surrounded Mr. Craig with estimable supporting players, including the French actress Eva Green, whose talent is actually larger than her breasts. "

“Casino Royale” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). The sex is demure, the violence less so.

It is rather dull to have to go back to reviewing null hypothesis testing for a stats exam, after such a smashing review as that.

analysis

and now the analysis begins, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, ad mortem.
at moments like these, it is best to realize that Van Wilder had it right: "Life. don't take it too seriously. You'll never get out alive".

(it helps, if only for a moment).

brothers in arms

Am listening to the classic Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits most famously featured in the Season 2 finale of the West Wing, the single greatest television episode of all time. It sent chills down my spine when I first watched it and every time since. It transcends the medium of television. Reportedly Martin Sheen started crying at the end of the table read for that script. Now I'm watching the West Wing Season 7 and its not as good, but yet, still retains every now and then that flicker of brilliance which reminds you that it raised the bar which nothing else has quite managed to touch the same way.

vox populi vox dei

The Democrats have won both Houses, after concession by George Allen from Virginia finally. For the first time in 12 years, they are finally in power. The fun thing about being in policy school is that there was a massive spontaneous party with drinking into the wee hours, obsessive watching of the election results on laptops, incessant politics discussion, nailbiting waiting for Allen to concede and finally, the shock resignation of Rumsfeld led to standing ovations (we have plasmas in common areas) from both faculty and students. It seems like a new dawn, and let's hope it's not a false one. It was our professor, an active politico that managed Webb's campaign in Virginia and when he came into class, he got a standing, prolonged ovation.

Politics matter. It's the only thing we've got to really change things.

rumi

Because someone quoted Rumi at me today and I really must stop falling in love with so many random people because I haven't got very much left.

We are three, by Rumi

These spiritual window-shoppers,
who idly ask, 'How much is that?' Oh, I'm just looking.
They handle a hundred items and put them down,
shadows with no capital.

What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping.
But these walk into a shop,
and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment,
in that shop.

Where did you go? "Nowhere."
What did you have to eat? "Nothing much."

Even if you don't know what you want,
buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow.

Start a huge, foolish project,
like Noah.

It makes absolutely no difference
what people think of you.

bs-ers

"At the end she chooses life, and in choosing life she chooses imperfection and compromise. And that's something she's never before allowed herself" - Emma Thompson in the Sunday Times magazine about her new movie Stranger than Fiction.

I forgot to tell you this story. John was in town last Monday and I had to wear a skirt to go to the Harvard Club which is this incredibly posh members-only place and then shuttle to the business school which I thought was a really tough crowd to work but in the end, an entire section ended up donating a school which was brilliant and really changed my perception about their motivations.

cold

I distintly blinked when at 4:30pm I saw a very large moon hung in the pitch-dark sky. added to the bitter cold of 2 degrees in what is just early november and I am not feeling very kindly disposed to things at the moment. I feel like escaping really perhaps to London or something ridiculous like that over the coming weekend and throwing financial caution to the winds, but it would be TOO extravagant and quite possibly I would be too sad so it is best to hang on for dear life here and plow through the next six weeks after which I shall be home. I did not expect to want to leave so quickly, but I think the pace is getting to me. I have no time to call parents or friends and it has been over three months since I spoke to my blood sister. This cannot continue.

iller

In Starbucks, (horrors) because I couldn't get a seat at the indie coffeeshop round the corner (and also because I had niggling doubts about its hygiene due to presence of extremely grungy, long-haired, unwashed waiters which no doubt contributed to its street cred but left me slightly wary!). Plotting India and Chinese inequality indicators, while trying very desperately not to think of someone who is only a few states away. Perhaps that is too much information. Feeling slightly blue, and listening to Roy Orbison is not really helping matters. But there promises to be a game night tonight with a bunch of close friends (which at the moment sounds far more appealing than getting dressed up and bopping the night away). I've also come down with an awful cold which does not make things better.

man proposes and god disposes

on a plan to save Sri Lanka and things that you never thought you would say in your adult life.

Me: Have you thought about the very real possibility that you might be killed?

Him: I have. But I'm willing to take the chance and take precautions. After all if they want to kill me, it's a sign that I must be doing something right. Besides you'll be there to carry on the work and others like you.

Me: Don't try and be a hero.

Him: This killing and dying it can't go on. It can't.

And for a brief moment, it felt like I had discovered the reason why i was here and it was strange and terrifying and compelling all at once.

rhapsody

There's something about Bohemian Rhapsody isn't there? I keep listening to it and its crazy operatic blend of pop, rock, classic, yearning angst, despair and manic energy and I can't get over it. It's timeless. No wonder it was voted the Nation's favourite song or something in Britain.

Absolutely plastered last night at a Diwali show. Bumped into an old RJC person outside and was in shock. Then tried to get a cab whilst drunk at 3am and it was awful. But we braved the biting winds, got home and collapsed and woke up and I vowed never to drink again.

Rhapsody on a Winter Night by T.S. Eliot

TWELVE o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

kennedy peace talks

I'm angry and I'm tired. I'm angry because clearly even thousands of miles away on a whole different planet you can still have fruitless discussions about Sri Lanka with educated intelligentsia and because the nature of conflict, development, human rights are still so misunderstood by those with the best of intentioned. Brings to mind something that a dear friend said recently: It's the white liberals that I hate the most. I can deal with white conservatives, because I know where they're coming from, but when the white liberals talk the talk and turn around and stab you in the back; that betrayal hurts the most.

I guess that's what I feel here. I feel so vilified by everyone. Abroad, outside, amongst Tamil friends and family, I'm always the one pushing for a moderate point of view, pushing always for the inclusion of alternative political voices into defining Tamil aspirations. Here, of all places, the debate is so limited that I end up inevitably foghorning for the LTTE because otherwise Tamil people would have no voice. Elegant variations of idealism are never realistic.

We are having peace talks every Tuesday as I am on a group project with another Sri Lankan and the title of our project is "solve the ethnic conflict in Sri Lanka". He has the patience of an elephant and a frustratingly dialectical-materialist view of time, and I have all the urgency and narrow blinkeredness of a hummingbird and we are getting nowhere fast, which has sadly mirrored the history of peace talks in Sri Lanka.

Oh and I thought I would be able to escape it by coming here, but instead, it is more of the same and since I sought it out, I can't complain and yet, I do.

more

More attacks, for the first time at a tourist spot in Galle. The war is being brought down to the South, ostensibly to start a strategy of provoking communal violence in order to increase sympathy-funding, particularly by the diaspora. The NYT has a not-bad leader (compared to the tripe published by most) found here: http://www.iht.com/articles/2006/10/18/opinion/edlanka.php

Separately there is finally, finally, a new Prize (funded by the sponsors of the Booker) for Asian writers writing in the vernacular. A long overdue prize to recognize the rich literary traditions of East Asia and the subcontinent and I look forward to the gems it will throw up (as inevitably prize-winners will get translated into English)

lanka afar

More death and destruction today with another bombing. I knew that the temporary overtures to peace were mainly just to build up/rest and change the power structure. The peace talks have supposedly been happening since March. Geneva was a total failure, surpassed only by the sheer irrelevance of nearly every member on the government team. Fasten your seatbelts, we're in for a long, bumpy ride. It's hard to get a sense from afar, given the total lack of transparent, bipartisan media reporting but the reports from the ground give some sort of sense.

Had a class on Sri Lanka today and leadership. Professor posited that it was the existence of corrupt/rent-seeking politicians in power that destroyed a developing country and only good leadership could turn the boat around. I agree with the latter, but not necessarily with the former, if that makes sense.

libraries

I hardly ever come to the main library, preferring to stay in policy school campus. But I ventured over to Widener today. It is quite extraordinary, a faux-Victorian building complete with Doric columns (on the infamous Doric columns of the age, read the Fountainhead which expresses the proper contempt for the practice of lifting wholesale Doric columns from Roman times and transplanting them to a new America) and has the most comfortable chairs and tables. In fact I would venture to say that it is exactly like in the movies. One niggling question remains; the notorious practice of each graduating student to have had sex in Widener at least once seems difficult to me, given the expansive, wide open structure of the building. It almost makes me nostalgic for the old LSE library, in the dungeons of Chancery Lane where it was rumoured that people entered (especially to the periodical sections) and were never seen again. One friend of mine went inside, fully five or six floors down in a damp section, and promptly burst into tears when at 9pm, she couldn't find her way out.

chichester psalms

A dear friend was singing in the difficult-to-get-into university choir at an old church last night, for a gala night of leonard bernstein (composer, conducter and university alumni). The leaves have started to turn and walking through cambridge is to walk through a crescendo of autumnal colours, red, oranges, deep rust, amidst falling leaves. There is talk of apple-picking next weekend and cherry blossoms in washington in the spring. Perhaps a weekend up in Maine too where the wind comes rolling in off the coasts. The choral piece was the Chichester Psalms by the eclectic Leonard Bernstein. His family were in presence at what I think last night was his sixteenth death anniversary. I had never heard it before and in the cavernous halls of the church, as the draughts whispered through the pews; it was perfect and wintry and everything I had never thought I had already imagined.

diner

The world continues to turn, imperfectly, fitfully. More strange dreams. I dreamt that my dog turned into a human being, but then it left, too.
I was told that I should attend conflict resolution workshops to learn the skill of compromise and negotiation since I clearly don't have any of those skills. The subject? A group project on "How to Solve the Ethnic Conflict in Sri Lanka". Well yes then. Watched Diner, a strangely satisfying movie about exactly nothing.

The thing I like about this place is the type of conversation I can have. Yesterday it went from indifference curves and compensating variation to the use of market facilities in managing emergency responses to experiential education within a traditional curriculum (and how a student, an ex-teacher got his children to translate hip-hop into normal English) to leadership and the MBTI and Dead Poet's Society to more on Rawls and all in a day.

sch

Slammed again as usual, overloaded. I wake up, eyes reddened, stagger zombie-like to school, during class I do work for other classes and get through the crazy email load, and then stagger onto more classes. The work accumulates, as do the people which is good. the south asian diaspora here is quite hilarious. there is one nepali guy, one bangladeshi, one sri lankan (me), two Indians and about fifty million Pakistanis. Apparently the composition and political bent of business school and policy students reflects the presidential administration in power at any given time.

I did want to blog about something interesting, but I have completely forgotten what it is. Dinner at a friend's house, and it was nice, lovely, perfect to drink wine and talk about Rawls and this is why I had come to graduate school

on history

"We need history, but not the way a spoiled loafer in the garden of knowledge needs it" Nietzsche

"To understand nationalism as an historical reality, it is essential to step outside the history that nationalism gives itself"- Sudipta Kaviraj

mfa

Well the week has finally found down, an interminably long one that had a first major assignment due. Total classes missed: 5 this week as well (and I was trying to be good too!) but a friend was in town, and so ended up inevitably going out and drinking a lot (which was a lot of fun) and trying to regression-analyze growth variables and write about utilitarianism and Bayesian probability. Sometimes being in school is good and sometimes , well, it plain sucks. I'm always exhausted, running hard to stay in the same spot, not researching or doing the things I wanted to do by coming here and in general just being perpetually rushed. But anyway.

Friend and I went to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston which has quite a few good pieces and is not just a token museum in a small city as I imagined it would be. It also happened to be the first Friday of the month, and so Bombay Sapphire was sponsoring a social gathering in the Old Master's wing, and so under Renaissance pictures of bleeding Christs, we drank gin martinis.

another week

So another week draws to a close and a new one begins. It's October 1st today. Did you know that? I don't know what happened to the time. This weekend also marks the first weekend that I am fully set up. It took far longer than it expected. I'm behind by oh, about a thousand pages or so, but somehow, listening to Chet Baker right now, it all seems rather far away. Falling ill really did give me the opportunity to stop for a bit. I'm not sad or anything, but everything seems so impossible at the moment. Just how, everything is going to work out in the future, seems quite impossible and a true state of happiness seems so distant. I wonder how we all get there, sometime.

ill

Lately, I have been discovering that as I consume more alcohol I am starting to do sillier things than I would do normally, last night being a chief example. I'm trying not to cross a line, but these lines are drawn in the sand sometimes anyway. I'm also really ill at the moment and this has got to stop and so i am not going to any parties tonight which will mean that I will be at home on a saturday night and as my room mate said, that does not make me the reject of the K school.

tired...

Had the longest lunch and lobster rolls with a North Carolinan/Australian women just jabbering on about the impossibility of the work load, everything we've overextended ourselves with, men, Sri Lanka and the identity, what in the world are we going to do with ourselves when we grow up, fear of failure, ethics classes and their abysmal structure, Hausmann the Dream, and all other sorts of things. I overslept today and missed yet another class (total so far in two weeks; five- I think I hold the record or something).

Had a fellowship meeting last night where an ex Harvard MBA alum came to talk on the importance of the role of the COO in nonprofit groups and the traditional tensions between the visionary founder and the COO/implementer. It was kind of interesting, but very US-centric as these things are. And then a couple of friends and I decided that it was the night for brandy, so we holed up in Casablanca and drank Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie and some VSOP Armagnac. And then I sauntered home and had a house pow-wow on men and how many physicians it takes per 100,000 people to not make a difference anymore in life expectancy and Denzel Washington, who as y'all know, is so FINE.

I am exhausted.

work

So. I went out for dinner last night and tonight with someone I shouldn't have gone out to dinner with, but oh well, disaster here I come. You and I, are ships that collide in the night. Up till 4am last night writing a paper on bioethics, specifically the ethics regarding stem-cell research and embryonic transactions (covering cloning as well as IVF treatment). Then up till 2am tonight graphing regressions and fitted lines on life expectancy and mortality rates and all that biz. Met an Uzbek who hates Karimov (what's new). And another Singaporean guy who was simply lovely. And now I'm tired and pondering my life. Had an interesting class today on leadership and the delivery of political goods essential to the functioning life of a newly transitioned democratic country (assuming no conflict)- comprising economic opportunity, political opportunity, the arteries of commerce, empowerment of civil society, rule of law, and 3 others, which I can't remember. And then the Defense Minister from India was in town and some questions on the violence in Sri Lanka and India's role in mediation was asked and he said: " We respect the territorial integrity of Sri Lanka and want the LTTE to give up violence and come to the table. We have learned from our bitter experiences in the 80s.". Spent the weekend U-hauling furniture from different parts of Boston off craigslist- finally it is all complete and the house is a home. Had an interview on Friday, which I bombed too, on corporate social responsibility and corporations as development agents; opportunities and development needs. He assumed I was familiar with the literature, well, sadly, I wanted to tell him, I have spent the last 2 years in Sri Lanka or thereabouts and it is not quite on the radar there.

I am very upset that i have not read a book in over 3 weeks.

hmmm

Another day has vanished quickly. Of note was that today someone played a joke and told me that Morgan Freeman was attending the Kennedy School on the MC MPA program. And then I turned around and I saw him!!! Only later on did I realize that it was a joke and in fact it was his unconscious twin and stuff. This guy must really enjoy a lot of glory by association or something.

I have an interview on Friday. It's for a part-time nonprofit consulting job. I haven't had an interview for like a million (read four) years! This is crazy. And someone hounded me today to organize a social enterprise conference which I succumbed to because he was so persistent. SERIOUSLY. I am so behind with work, with novels, with friends, and what the hell am I doing signing up left right and center, and whoring my email address? What I really miss at the moment is just random boring stuff from Sri Lanka. I fantasized in the cold today walking to school, of turning a corner and seeing a coconut stand or a cow or a trishaw driver.

I need to get a grip.

ethics

I had Ethics yesterday. The professor is a crone, who was around dictating the Bible to Johann Gutenberg. The topic was basically the limits of free speech under the American constitution. She's a professor of philosophy by the way.

"So what happens if I say: go fuck yourself? Oh wait, that doesn't mean anything anymore right? What if I say "Go SUCK yourself" Or tell you that you're a motherfuckin' ass-licker? What if I go around sticking my middle finger up at everyone (and she proceeded to do exactly that).

I could only watch, while a line from Bogart kept reverberating in my head.

"You've got class, kid. With a capital K".

God bless America.

classes

It's like barely the second week of full-on classes and I'm already overwhelmed. I've had no time to email any friends properly or call anyone. The emergency calls keep on coming though: a new baby being born, a cousin asking about the death of his father, a sister stuck in Nepal. That's about it on the personal side.

Having never lived with a dishwasher, I keep loading my clothes in the laundry with DISHWASHER detergent. I only found out today that it was not meant to be so. I keep meeting the random-est people ever. I have no time for the friends that I HAVE made. There's endless reading (like 300 pages EVERY day) and the homework tide has started to turn. It's not difficult (yet) but just time-consuming. I am still sleeping on a mattress on the floor (a vast improvement from the actual floor itself) because I haven't had time to fix the bed. Or a bookcase. Two UPS boxes are over the Atlantic somewhere. My room looks like a nuclear bomb went off on it. So what did I do? Instead of addressing any or all of the above problems, I ended up having a random lunch with some guys today, then going shopping and blowing 300 dollars on clothes, then watching 3 episodes of Grey's Anatomy, then chatting with room-mates about boys, then thinking about business school applications, then just stoning for an even longer time. Thusly, 10 hours passes by. and I have to wake up at 7am tomorrow.

I've already started skipping classes and definitely am nowhere yet on the homework pile but the good thing is that I actually don't care about grades here. Anyway, this is a short dispatch from the front. talk soon,

the cod

I'm in Cape Cod at this absolutely swish place, I haven't had such luxury in a VERY long time. It's a scholar's retreat and really started off with a bang. So many people here have done such amazing things, but it seems like this gang is really special and really humble. You can already see a marked difference between the public service crowd and the business school crowd. The business school crowd is sharper, ruthless, and focused. The public service crowd is happy, warm and all over the place.

We had to do two case studies this afternoon, talking about the ethics of leadership. I had to re-read Martin Luther King's Letter from a Birmingham Jail and it was really rather moving. I quote below...

"I have traveled the length and breadth of Alabama, Mississippi and all the other Southern States. On sweltering summer days and crisp autumn mornings I have looked at the South's beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. I have eheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious-education buildings. Over and over I have found myself asking: "What kind of people worship here? Who is their God? Where were their voices when the lips of Governot Barnett dripeed with words of interposition and nullification? Where were they when Governor Wallace gave a clarion call for defiance and hatred? Where were their voices of support when bruised and weary Negro men and women decided to rise from the dark dungeons of compacency to the bright hills of creative protest?".... Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection".

Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Stilt Fishermen

Stilt Fishermen by me.

Seer fish affixed in a constellation
Mouths agape, hung trembling as
Rubies grew in Indra's net. Eyes of coconut milk
What did they see?

Blood glinted in the blueness of dawn
Uneven jakwood stick as the axis of stars
Splinters smoothed by the
Burnish of sun-blackened skin
Perched eagle-like, still above
While the waters roiled

The eye gazed unseeing
Then a swift jerk, a twist
And milk flooded more eyes
And jewels crashed and bled
Indra surveyed the world
What did he see?

As the vision faded
And the rubies grew
In the silence of a Galle dawn.

"Hinduism and Buddhism give life to the idea of Indra's Net. In the heaven of Indra, a vast net or web of silken strands spans across space infinitely in every direction. Every intersection of gossamer thread hosts a shining luminous pearl or multifaceted jewel. The surface of every jewel completely reflects every other, and the net as a whole. Likewise, each reflected jewel in itself reflects every other, that reflects every other, that reflects every other, without end, as mirrors to infinity." By Wikipedia

more

So the week, the first week, the marathon is nearly over. I have a retreat to go to in Cape Cod where the weekend will be spent meeting many more new people on the fellowship and having a good yarn, but I had an excellent dinner with a friend and her fiance this week which really did make me feel better about the whole thing and we talked about the problems of indigenous communities in Australia and the wonderful, charismatic Nolan Pearson. and then i shared with them "The Theory of a Good Novel" (my five pronged analysis) which they were charmingly impressed with and we had endless wine and exactly more of the discussions which made me realize why I was at policy school and nowhere else.

And then I skipped some classes to really do nothing ostensibly which is rather bad. It's only the first week but, somehow I just wanted to get out. I haven't left Cambridge this week which is especially bad. Today however I bumped into the most random person, an ex-Morgan Stanleyite which really made me feel that this world is far too small. I also met two other Singaporeans both of whom seem really rather lovely. So, this makes it almost two and a half weeks that I have been at school already and I definitely feel like I have yet to settle down. But I will get there.

And that was it really.

life

An anecdote from a course entitled "Running for Office" or something like that. The instructor is a veteran campaign manager and he was talking about the sleaziness of politics and stuff. For example during a live radio address by a gubernatorial candidate, he planted a question and the guy got up and asked "So, X, do you agree with President Jose Cuervo's assessment that his country Mexico needs to liberalize its trade policies?" and she said Yes! And then this guy said, I don't know what Jose Cuervo would say, but it's a brand of tequila, and she got slammed on being ignorant about foreign policy.

Ricardo Hausmann on the developing world : The rich get richer and the poor get children". "There are three paradigms of thought on development"
a. God is in control (and all problems of the developing world are moral failures and failures of discipline. Listen to the angels/preachers (IMF, World Bank and Washington Consensus) and all will be well (except when it's not).
b. There is evil in the world (e.g. corporations )
c. God is dead (or otherwise busy) and we don't have all the answers but we keep on trying to find a framework or theory to fit the facts and don't try to fit the facts to our theory.

Most economists, regarding development, follow the Theory of Original Sin (which according to him goes thus: Somebody ate an apple and now women have pain when they give birth). (This view also caused outrage).

and then I met someone from Sri Lanka and instantly hit it off and had a very emotional discussion about Sri Lanka with both of us tearing I think, at least i was and it was all rather strange and wonderful for that was exactly what I had imagined graduate school to be, to have someone to discuss the issues with.

school

Well. *heaving massive sigh*.

It's been two weeks since I washed up at the shores of policy school. I've spent the last two weeks obsessively shaking hands, trying valiantly to commit names to memory and generally being awed, bewildered and nostalgic. I've made some friends which is always nice, connected up with others, tried to set up house (which has been a major endeavour), tried and failed at doing anything else.

Classes started yesterday, I mean shopping started yesterday and full-on classes start tomorrow. I've looked in on courses with ex-presidential advisers and communications directors, internationally renowned trade economists, and met with students with vast experience, from civil advocacy in Iraq, to managing indigenous affairs in Australia, to Sudanese civil war arbitrators, to campaign advisers, full-on conservative Mormons, Ausralian local mayors and the whole gamut in between. What has been pleasantly surprising is that the vast majority of students are humble, engaging, kind and committed to public service and poverty.

It's all been a planet and a universe away from Sri Lanka. And I haven't had any time nor any calling cards to call friends and family often yet. The time difference is unforgiving too. I am more and more interested in writing. The early wake-ups have been a major shock to the system as has been the cold. Apparently last year on Oct 1st was when the winter coats were all busted out. I have fantastic, kind, non-anal housemates. The parties have been mild so far, but I reckon it's only a matter of time. There are many people here with as confused identities as me too which is always reassuring. And I'm going to definitely apply to business school too.

I will check in again but the wave is about to crest (and no doubt crash).

square

So my sister finally arrived and today we ventured into Harvard Square. It was strange. People here talk too much and really have not very much to say. First we spent some time in the local Social Security Office trying vainly to get a Social Service Number without which I can't get a credit card or a million other useful things. We failed, albeit temporarily. Then into Harvard Square where I successfully opened a Bank of America bank account. Then to T-Mobile where I successfully got a phone. Both these will be activated tomorrow. Then to the International Office to register my 'alien' presence. Then to Finale, a dessert place apparently opened by a Harvard MBA student. Then we carried our sorry asses back home and fell gasping onto bed when Cyann (the dumbest cat on the planet) decided to jump up onto my ass and circle around a few times and flop down contentedly. And now I'm watching Grey's Anatomy. All in all a useless but somewhat accomplished day. also food sizes here are huge. Also I am missing Sri Lanka.

a-may-rica

so I'm in Boston after long last. Arrived yesterday morning, after the flight was delayed by 4 hours. Then I got into a dodgy cab that ended up picking up 5 more people and after driving around for 2 hours, I finally got into the apartment that I am to be spending the next week in before I move into my place which is finally available on the Sep 1st. Anyhow there was a small detail that my interim landlord forgot to mention to me: She has a CAT!!! Aaarghh. I HATE CATS. And cats hate me. This one, with some stupid pretentious name called Cyann arches her back and hisses at me everytime we cross paths. She has reserved the futon in the living room for herself and the amount of hair she sheds could keep the local wig company in business forever! Anyway. Then I discovered that plugs here are different which I should have known but failed to pre-empt. Down to the local Radio Shack, then to the co-op farmers market which was the first destination that I saw a green leaf in sight. Have you ever walked into an American supermarket? They're full of synthesized chemical shit. I didn't see anything natural for two blocks (inside Walgreens, 7-11s etc.) until this one. I got goat's cheese brie and organic bread. Had some random conversations with storesmen who asked me about my accent. (to save a lot of trouble, and also because it's infinitely cooler, I told them I was British!). alright. Am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my sister in a few hours who will make sense of this bewildering country.

a-may-rica

so I'm in Boston after long last. Arrived yesterday morning, after the flight was delayed by 4 hours. Then I got into a dodgy cab that ended up picking up 5 more people and after driving around for 2 hours, I finally got into the apartment that I am to be spending the next week in before I move into my place which is finally available on the Sep 1st. Anyhow there was a small detail that my interim landlord forgot to mention to me: She has a CAT!!! Aaarghh. I HATE CATS. And cats hate me. This one, with some stupid pretentious name called Cyann arches her back and hisses at me everytime we cross paths. She has reserved the futon in the living room for herself and the amount of hair she sheds could keep the local wig company in business forever! Anyway. Then I discovered that plugs here are different which I should have known but failed to pre-empt. Down to the local Radio Shack, then to the co-op farmers market which was the first destination that I saw a green leaf in sight. Have you ever walked into an American supermarket? They're full of synthesized chemical shit. I didn't see anything natural for two blocks (inside Walgreens, 7-11s etc.) until this one. I got goat's cheese brie and organic bread. Had some random conversations with storesmen who asked me about my accent. (to save a lot of trouble, and also because it's infinitely cooler, I told them I was British!). alright. Am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my sister in a few hours who will make sense of this bewildering country.

khayyam

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it

- from the Rubaiyyat by Omar Khayyam

iran again

x60

I'm stuck in Heathrow while my flight is delayed by 3 and a half hours. Instead of bellyaching, I shall extoll the particular virtues of my current laptop, the IBM X60. It weighs about 1.5 kg, about just more than half my previous clunker at 2.2 kg. It also, joy of joys, has a 6-8 hour battery lifespan when using wireless. This is not just a ludicrous claim, my previous Toshiba advertized a brilliant 4-5 hour lifespan, but in reality clocked in at just over 2 hours. In addition to being light, durable and enduring, it also has some great specs, 1.83 Hz Core Duo of course and a stonking 1.5 RAM (YEAH). Things that used to take me 16 mins to download previously, now take 40 secs. That's some serious computing power advance. And it has a TFT screen instead of the SuperBrite screen that comes on so many laptops and causes eye strain. Finally and wonderfully it has a 3 year international warranty. The only drawback is that it is not exactly easy on the eye. IBM has the same standard design on all its laptops, black magnesium alloy casing. But I'll survive that. Prepare for some extensive blogging over the next 5 hours.

Miami Vice

Just watched Miami Vice and I'm strangely compelled to blog about it. The movie was bizarre, unsettling, sad even when it was supposed to be a stupid action flick!!! But then again, since the director was Michael Mann (of Collateral and notably Heat), it's not that surprising. Much has been said about the movie, but I adore A.O. Scott from the New York Times, a movie critic whom I read as faithfully as Michiko Kakutani, Tina Brown, Cary Tennis, Julie Burchill, Lucy Kellaway and Sathnam Sanghera (newspaper(wo)men). I quote: "This was not a job that anyone needed to do, but then again no one could have done it better". He also cites the fact that the entire reported production cost of the film was 50 mil more than the annual operating budget of the Miami PD. Hmm. Interesting. However I write because I want to pay particular homage to Gong Li, an absolutely captivating, unbelievably intense, extraordinarily beautiful goddess in this film. I didn't actually understand much of what she was saying since she was supposed to be Mexican, but the electricity she generates was stunning. I was awed. Also I've never seen a film that made me want so much to be a part of Vice.

schtuff part infinite

Okay I shall not post now about my extremely boring life at the moment. I've been a total recluse in London the last three days but I really needed the space and time alone, not to reconstruct, not to forget, but to not-think. Nothing interesting about that really, except I've been catching up on film and yesterday wandered into the National Portrait Gallery for the annual BP exhibition and chanced upon the Ondaatje wing which was endowed by Christopher Ondaatje, brother of Michael Ondaatje. And in it, shocker of shockers, he's described as financier and writer. WRITER??? WRITER?? This from the man who wrote the odious, self-aggrandizing "The Maneater of Punanai" (pun clearly not intended) about his travels in the East of Sri Lanka hunting down a maneating tiger which he did not even succeed at. And in the book, he has some digs at fellow writer/brother Michael. Do NOT. Even. Get. Me. Started. on a comparison. ANYhoo.

diaspora

The Tamil Diaspora infuriates me. The definition of diaspora is as follows: the movement, migration, or scattering of a people away from an established or ancestral homeland. In this case, the ancestral homeland is the Northeast, the heartland of that homeland is of course Jaffna. I was talking to some second generation Diaspora Tamils here. Boys that had been conscripted, shot at, escaped and had bitter, extremist memories of their times and experiences living in the Northeast in Jaffna until 1995. There is widespread belief here that this time, the 'boys' as the movement is called, will get the job done. The end of 2007 is the projected date of liberation for Tamil Eelam. The Northeast of Sri Lanka is no longer referred to as Sri Lanka, but Tamil Eelam. How we name names and draw lines of separation. Does no one understand that if there ever was to be another Partition, it would be accompanied by the same blood loss as happened in India when 1 million people died in the largest cross-border exchange known to human history? That like it or not, or whether because of biased policies, there are now large communities of Sinhalese living in Tamil areas and of course vice versa? And that notwithstanding that bloody transitionary period, the following years under the rule of a military-fascist organization (which already has a pseudo-state consisting of one courthouse, one bank and whatnot in a tiny outpost in the Northeast staffed entirely with ex-military types with no understanding of how to run a social organization like a government) will be also bloody because all revolutions with few exceptions, end up devouring their children? And that this myth of the Tigers giving up their right to power after seven years (after essentially having secured that transition a la Lee Kuan Yew (I'm not kidding, I actually heard this comparison being made between Prabhakaran and Lee Kuan Yew) ) is just that, a fucking myth? To that, the near-universal answer of the Diaspora is that if the 'boys' should turn tyrannical, then the Diaspora would cut off funding, that they, the Diaspora (living thousands of miles away, with practically no intention of coming back) would be involved in monitoring such governance. I mean the logic is riddled with inconsistencies and it frustrates me that everyone abroad is clinging onto such logic, drowning men clutching at straws because there seems to be no other hope to hold onto, no other liberator. No other saviour than the Tigers.

albion

So I'm in London, finishing off some last-minute assignments such as printing agreements and strategic planning documents for work, attempting (and failing) to start an application to business school (although did I tell you I finally managed to take my GMAT in a dingy, airless, third story hovel in Bambalapitiya?), trying to get over jet lag, feedback on a manuscript, meet friends, research bank accounts and furniture etc. and just generally being a totally axe-capitated headless chicken.

But I came across two quotes today which I wanted to write up before I forget. One is from scientist MiguelNicolelis' grandmother: "When the dream is bigger than the place you're in, leave the place to pursue the dream". and "The only lasting bequests we leave our children are two: one is roots, the other wings".

jaffna

so the city of jaffna has been primarily sealed off. Cash shortages are hitting the city, and no new money can get in, because the only main road is seriously closed or checkpointed. Communications are sporadic. The army and the LTTE are both consolidating positions. Raids have happened on the student union of the university there. Jaffna is army-controlled for the moment, but represents the cultural and symbolic heartland of the Tigers, and hence the bid for recapture.

rdom

So am in Singapore now, recovering slowly from the maelstrom of Sri Lanka and the increasing corpse count. It has been devastating.

I read about a new musical in Canada somewhere of course, perhaps Edmonton, called Pork Belly Futures which has a song about his girlfriend being addicted to all of Michael Ondaatje's works.

I read another friend's manuscript. Everyone is writing or attempting to write nowadays.

Heard about another play in Singapore about JBJ. It sounds sad.

That's all I can dredge up. I'm still so very tired and doesn't help that yet again, I've been laid low by food poisoning.

the nature of misfortune

excerpts from cary tennis, an online columnist/soothsayer/agony aunt for salon.com

"We don't say that the reason for your misfortune is that the gods are bitchy and full of shit, that they are crazy, sick motherfuckers, that the gods spit on us when they're drunk and curse us when they're mad. We don't mention what is actually known to be true, that although sometimes in some places the gods intervene on our behalf, just as often they get lost and don't show up, that they fight among themselves instead of attending to our wishes, that they look at us with interest and sometimes with lust but only rarely with pity, that instead of offering us protection they scheme to have us for themselves no matter what havoc it causes down here! They couldn't care less! They are gods!

We tend to think only of the good gods, the ones that offer us bountiful harvests and invent intricate bees. It's a habit from childhood, when we were taught to think of one good god, when although we dreamed of monsters we were told that god was watching out for us, that there weren't really any monsters there in the closet, that they weren't really crawling around up there in the space between ceiling and roof. No responsible adult would have thought to teach us that among the gods are horrible nasty fucks that would just as soon sprinkle cancer seeds in a womb as devise a perfect delivery of a perfect little baby.

So what do we do? We toughen up. We quit playing patty-cake patty-cake give a dog a bone, we season ourselves, we take the bit in our teeth, we flog ourselves with birch branches, we bitch and moan and howl at the moon and give up our illusions of a soft loving god who hears our prayers and answers them. We board the windows and doors. We wise up and face the fuckers, we quit lying down and taking it, we let go of our prettiness, we prepare for the battle ahead. We say never again will we be caught off guard, never again will we pretend, never again will we believe that this thing we have created cannot be poisoned in an instant by a shit-head god on a bender, fucking up our paradise for his shallow and grim amusement.

We were taught a lot of silly things as kids. Only later would we learn what pleasure the gods take in disrupting our plans; only later would we learn how minuscule are our options, how puny our plans of defense; only later would we learn there's not a whole lot we can do except rub stone in our eyes, interrogate our lovers mercilessly, place fierce guards at entrances and exits. "

poisoning.

laid low yet again by food poisoning. The past three months have been particularly bad. Perhaps I have become more susceptible to it. I don't know. I spent yesterday with my head down the toilet, retching violently the remains of a rather expensive lunch at a reputed restaurant. That'll teach me in future. I'm now on medication. I also have to move out of my flat in approx 3 days and of course have done nothing, no packing as yet so I am about to be frantically rushing around soon enough, shoving things into boxes and wrapping wads of masking tape over everything.

Fierce localized war has broken out in the East.

forgetting

"But why do you question things today, when you have done all that you could to be ignorant, by developing the art of forgetting"?- Albert Camus

I watched "The Art of Forgetting", a documentary film on the effects of the war and tragedy on memory. The film looked at 20 years of war in Sri Lanka, and was filmed during the ceasefire when the filmmakers were able to access parts of the country that were closed off for years. I couldn't stop weeping throughout the whole film. It was a very unexpected reaction. It opens with the above quote from Camus, It also says that some people say that there are two stories in Sri Lanka, the story of the North, and the story of the South. Just hearing these memories expressed, by these people from all over the island who have lived this war, was just so horrific, and so tragic. Where do all these stories go? Is this the only record we have? Because as a nation, we have accomplished the art of forgetting, which is not the same as the art of accepting the past, or making peace with it. The reason for war is war.

torch

Sri Lankans like to think that they're better than the rest of the subcontinent. Higher literacy rates, better infant mortality rates, a smaller proportion living underneath the poverty line; you name the useless statistic and normally we're better at it. We also like to think that we're slightly more advanced, liberalized culturally and socially than those redneck Indians, with their village practices of suttee (wife-burning) and child marriages and widow brothels and whatnot. Obviously too, most of these horrific practices are always perpetrated against women.

Yet the empirical evidence would seem to prove otherwise. The Hindus in the plantation region of Sri Lanka are generally from what is classified in the Brahmin system as low-caste (Harijans, or children of God as Gandhi called them). As a result, paradoxically, as is often the case, they embrace the rituals , superstitions and blind prejudices of the same Hindu caste system that perpetuates their down-trodden status. One such example is of a woman who works with us in a menial capacity. She had a 21 year old daughter who did not want to get married. She forced her daughter to get married to a family that the daughter specifically did not want to get married to. (21 years old is already too old you see, to be unmarried. ). This was accompanied by much prayer and rituals. Almost immediately, the daughter was pregnant (and the advent of the baby was hastened by the mother's supplications at approximately 20 temples). The baby was born 6 months ago. Incidentally, for the last year and a half, there was some problem with the payment of the dowry (given by the bride's family to the groom's family normally before marriage). Some grooms are happy to wait for the bride's family to take on untold debt and pay off the dowry gradually. Some grooms send back the wife to their parents' home if the dowry does not arrive. This groom's family's patience was wearing thin.

Last week the baby was in an accident. In a fire. The baby has third degree burns and was rushed to the Colombo hospital from the central province because they were unequipped to deal with the severity of the burns. The baby is now disfigured for life, although she has survived after four days of intensive care. The doctors all grimly assert that such a disaster could have in no way been an accident. The daughter has come back to her family and she will not explain what happened. The groom's family is silent. Everyone knows what happened, that the groom's family torched the baby as a sign of their discontent over the insufficient dowry. Meanwhile Pushpa has not stopped crying for 12 days, at the plight of her daughter and grandchild. And yet no one will file a case against the husband and his family, no one will torch his family. They do not question their right to mutilate the baby because of a rational annoyance over dowry.

It reminds me of a story I read in a newspaper. Of how an unsuspecting NGO worker advised a Bihari family in northern India not to give their 9 year old daughter in marriage. The article went to prosaically state that doctors, after 18 hours of surgery, have managed to reattach the arms that were hacked off by the angry father at the NGO worker's interference.

Development? What use? What a fucking joke. All over the world and throughout human history, I think religion has a hell of a lot to answer for.

And forgive the rambling, but it also brings to mind Shylock's poignant query,

If you prick us, do we not bleed,

If you tickle us, do we not laugh,

If you poison us, do we not die?

And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

And yet it is not true. Suppression does not necessarily provide revolution. One needs a sense of basic human rights, one needs to subsequently know that there has been violation, and finally one needs to want to progress, to advance. But if a community is happy to live according to medieval structures, under modern suppression, if tradition alone defines the value of lives lived, then development? what a fucking joke.

and again

We were talking about Sri Lanka today and the effects of culture on relationships.

The Westerners have a different style of breaking-up. We expect to be friends with the ex, after a decent mourning period, we expect continuity. We expect evaluation, joint post-mortems, some sort of reconciliation before the transformation of the relationship to friendship. We almost always expect friendship unless the break-up was bitter.

During the relationship we are careful. Wary of expressing what is not yet known, or not yet true. We demarcate, draw boundaries and lines of permissiveness. We operate according to the rules within our culture. He said "I love you" already? But he's not playing according to the rules! . To give too much too early is to risk rejection and failure. To express too much is a violation of privacy, violation of self. And we all know to have low expectations in the beginning. We bring baggage too, from all our past relationships (and the exes are still orbiting in our periphery, giving rise to the question, is the past ever past?) and we become more brittle with each passing relationship. We do not expect any relationship to be the final relationship, the odds are against it. We do not expect marriage; indeed we do not even know what marriage is, and view it with a faint sense of foreboding. The expected timeline of a relationship is a lot less than forever.

The locals do it differently.

At play is a confluence of tradition, culture and history. For the migrant Westerners, whose lives are marked by relocation, to come to a culture where a family's ancestors lived in the same square mile 300 years ago as today, is to experience 'deep culture'. Where the expectations and behaviours in relationships lead to marriage instantly, where the combination is evaluated pragmatically, with a view towards propagating children, where the element of the religious and matching horoscopes (and thus of a match preordained in heaven) rules. And 300 years hence, we are still overwhelmingly rural, with collective rural memories, with unconscious tribal expectations of unity and relationships. Love is not what is so important as is stability. And so every relationship begins with the expression of love, for there is no proper word in the local vernacular for the Western conception of love, but instead different words to distinguish different manifestations of affection, lust, romantic love, filial piety, and even love born out of duty. It is the latter that holds sway over the imagination here, the fulfilment of duty to parents (thus getting married to someone of their choice to propage the line), duty to one's wife and children, duty to God. And this carries over, with sometimes alarming effects into modern day love and relationships. One is ill-equipped to combine the two, to combine the almost wary, rational, equalizing, constantly-evaluated love of the Westerner/Modernist with the traditional, society-mandated love rooted in one-sided power relationships (based on traditional gender roles) of the Local.

And when East meets West, though never the twain should meet (wrote the Twain himself) then the consequences are disturbing especially in a country where gender roles are shifting. A local youth yesterday blew himself up with a hand grenade purchased from the black market, killing himself and critically injuring the girl with him (an ex girlfriend who had jilted him). Love suicides are very popular here (and to a certain extent are romanticized in local literature). It is fashionable to risk everything for love. And people who have multiple relationships are stigmatized (not held up as the benchmark as they are in the West and people who have sexual relationships are almost completely dishonored in the wider society. (People who have multiple sexual relationships are completely beyond the pale). There is a very confusing map to navigate for the young local male, who holds the most power. What he says dictates roles. The young local female can jilt him and move on, but at considerable risk to her reputation and to her chances of garnering another suitable young local male (since no one wants what someone else has already had). Notwithstanding that, amongst the Colombo elite, the rules of the West play, with the naked emotions of the East and if you don't know where you are, the combination can be heady.

Because the other thing, is that due to the giant collective trauma engendered by a 20 year war, people have come to accept loss far more readily. And live far more intensely. So they say I love you instantly and throw themselves into a relationship and when it doesn't work out, they walk cleanly away, meaning they make a clean break and cut off communication because they can deal with loss a lot better than the unsuspecting Westerner, caught in this bewildering emotional web. And it is astonishing because in the end, it is they, it is they who in fact experience greater total net pain than the Westerner, who is cautious with his affection, and who has not learned to let go.

petrol

It is a particularly irksome time to be in Sri Lanka at the moment. In addition to having foreign programs basically being de-incentivized on being shown on local tv (goodbye desperate housewives (tolerable) goodbye West Wing (not so much)), in addition to having a satellite provider decommissioned (rumours abound as to the underlying reasons but suffice it to sum it up with one word: 'politics') we now have no petrol.

This is shocking. The government has appointed a crony (former cricketer) to the post of co-chairman of national petroleum board Ceypetco. In response, the unions have gone on strike. Ceypetco had 8 fuel storage units when they went on strike. All 8 units have been depleted. The strike has been going on for 2 days and there is an impasse. Yesterday there were 3km queues at Colombo petrol sheds. Now, there's practically no traffic. Soon, we'll all be walking, in a throwback to the prehistoric days. F***ing ridiculous.

trade union

We are engaged in a trade-union dispute, my very first and I'm quite excited. It has been instructive in the tensions between classes, between corporations and labour, of the power of mobilization, why trade unions fill the vacuum of political representation amongst the poor, why they are always socialist in nature and the reasons why the much-vilified trade unions still exist and wield considerable power. The situation is as follows:

A partner-NGO in the much-mobilized plantation sector is responsible for securing land to build a school. The land must be given by the corporation owning the plantation. The corporation has refused to give the land to anyone other than another corporation-friendly NGO (whom we have severe reservations about working with). After months of negotiations between all four parties, the corporation held a board meeting (some members of the board were pro-worker friendly) last week and finally majority-ruled that there would be no deviation from this policy. Our partner NGOs have now enlisted the help of the trade unions of which pretty much every worker on this plantation is a member of (since the school will benefit the worker's families) and the whole jingbang is going on strike for the whole of the coming week in the hope to hold the corporation hostage to their desires. The corporation seems unbending and we're not sure how long the workers can hold out without their daily wage. Our NGO can't publicly take a stand because we'll be accused of using foreign influence to bear on the situation. But behind the scenes, we've been working the phones to the relevant government officials, to the corporation, and of course to our partner NGOs. Of course in none of this, is anyone a complete saint. But it's good to take on the Man. The only thing is, I'm pretty sure we'll lose.

nyt

So yeah. Our fearless leader was featured in the New York Times Sunday magazine this past Sunday. (From Today to the NYT, not bad) but unfortunately it was a hatchet job. The inside scoop is that the actual interview was pretty long but the interviewer condensed it into sensationalistic soundbytes and as a result, he sounds a bit of a clown. But never mind.

Why is it that some things are harder to get over than others, defying all rational explanation? Perhaps because of the lack of closure, the lack of finality. Why is it that some people can live their lives with no heed to the consequences of their actions, with no heed to responsibility? And their carelessness ends up destroying other people's lives, scattering ashes over the ruins of possibilities. Their inability to face the consequences of their actions, their running away, their cowardice can be more damaging than a bitter fight sometimes. Because the running away, lends no closure. No finality. And when you do finally gather up the pieces and move on, it's always as scarred.

But anyway.

schtuff

At first I was afraid, I was petrified.

Or so it goes. Back in Colombo after a quick trip to the hills to sort out some community land issues (two different groups were arguing in the vernacular over some land- I tried ineffectually to stage an intervention with me going: I think everybody needs to take a break and work towards a positive solution. They went furiously "No madam you don't understand". I decided to check out of the situation. It was all rather funny.

And something else too. I finished the third season of the OC and that draws an end to my procrastination over studying for the GMAT which is in approximately 9 days (crikey). I also have exactly 3 weeks and 3 weekends left. It is all getting a bit emotional.

embassy

What the hell is going on in Beirut?

I know the world has bigger problems than mine at the moment, but in the immortal words of Ally McBeal (god it seems so long ago), the reason why my problems are bigger than everyone else's are because they're mine.

And on that note, well here's a list of random shit. I am going via London to Boston (hallelujah) and all direct flights too which is a combination of lucky chance and my parents' munificence. (I wonder how long I can ride this cash cow?). Then my dad got stuck into me because my sister had some harebrained scheme of volunteering in Johannesburg in between jobs which is ridiculous because she will get raped and murdered no doubt (it's okay for me but not for my friends or kin!). Then I went to the US embassy today and despite not having a bank draft, or photos, managed to wheedle my way through (since it takes a month to give an appointment) and also sweet-talked the officer into waiving a 2 year home residency requirement on account of the fact that Australia is oversupplied with well-meaning public sector types and as a result, does not need me to return there to serve! I also met an Air Lanka cabin crew guy at the visa interviews process who gave me a detailed expose on the glamorous lives of lankan cabin crew. Then I walked away with the visa in hand which was a shocking end to my expectations of unnecessary bureaucracy and the like here!

I survived the day basically on 3 hours of sleep as I whined and droned to my sister half a world away while she proceeded to consultant-tize my love life (dismal) and I got stuck into her about how she's become a corporate drone and then she got into me about how emotional she was. So there was some 3am trans-Pacific sisterly bonding which was kinda sweet. And then was racing around today with everything else. I . Am. Exhausted.

emoting

There are some films, some dramas, some pieces of music, some books; shards of which you carry through your life. Re-experiencing these certain pieces of art is always emotional, for me, I'm always on the verge of tears, a knot of nausea begins in my stomach, I forget to breathe. I am not going to list them here, or even meander through a philosophical discussion on why it is so that certain art does that and not to others, but suffice it to say that it exists. (and that i shouldn't blog while I am listening to one of these songs).

As you can probably tell, I'm still feeling extremely, fragile and emotional. I raced through 17 episodes of the third season of the OC. (When the left is giving way, and the right is giving way, instead of attacking I resort to American television. Dire, I know). There's this song that keeps playing through it, and which I have come to resonate with, despite (or because of) all its cheap tackiness (and this is the Youth Group version, not the Rod Stewart one)
come on now, everybody sing, and.. "forever young, I want to be forever young"

let's dance in style
let's dance for a while
heaven can wait we're only watching the sky
hoping for the best but expecting the worst
are you gonna drop the bomb or not
let us die young or let us live forever
dont have the power but we never say never

the music's played by the mad men
forever young, i want to be forever young
do you really want to live forever, forever, forever
forever young, i want to be forever young

moving

Moving out can be very stressful indeed. People underestimate it, especially people like me, who leaves everything to the last possible minute and then races around to find the largest bag possible and sweeps everything from the cupboard into the bag in one smooth motion. But there are other little things, like when you ship shit overseas. I for one, when moving from London was felled by the appearance of a mouse, and called up my mother at 4am, sobbing because the mouse had peeked out at me.

Here's an encounter between my sister, who's at the end of the tether moving from San Francisco to Sydney literally around the world and across a dateline.

Doorbell rings, UPS man arrives
Sister: So these are my boxes. Could you please load these onto the car?
UPS LADY: (shaking her head) nah nah, I ain't carrying those! I can't lift those
Sister: But I called the UPS people and they said they would pick it up from my doorstep. That's why I'm paying you guys.
UPS Lady: But I'm a woman, and I can't lift those boxes. They're too damn heavy
Sister: But I'm a woman too, and I can't lift them and I have to get onto a flight in 12 hours.
UPS Lady: Well lady, you've got a problem. Under State Laws of California, I have rights and I do not have to pick those boxes up.
Sister: (Promptly bursts into tears).

I don't know what happened at the end.

team sri lanka!

spot the wallaby!

bits

Israelis blockading Lebanon and I have an email from a future classmate-to-be, detailing the reality of strikes and spending the night in bomb shelter and being unable to leave the country. Another future classmate-to-be writes of the Mumbai train explosions. Sri Lanka of course has its own conflict, less immediate, smaller-scale, but still absolute. We all paused for a moment today to think of the hatred that conflict spawns, of the inevitable vitriol against the Hezbollah, Israeli government, Pakistanis, Kashmiris, Sinhalese, Tamils. Will the hatred never end? Will only too few people ever have the courage to love?

I was talking to a close friend last night, over crab rolls and chilli cheese toast and iced coffee Sri-Lankan-style, who is in the field of peacebuilding/conflict transformation (violently opposed to the term conflict resolution, because resolution is a false concept, indicating the possibility of finality to a conflict which is never true). And she was saying, that it is forgiveness, reaching out, the act of love, which takes the most courage of all.

Am on a rampage through non-fiction at the moment, finished reading the superlative Alistair Cooke's Letters from America detailing 50 years of transatlantic radio dispatches, nearly finishing Imaginary Homelands which I managed to track down in a behemoth bookstore in London (and who says chainstore book-dumps don't have their benefits?) which is not quite as good as Step Across the Line which was more thoughtful and anyway I'm not the biggest fan of Rushdie at the best of times and also reading The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman and a book of BBC dispatches from Britain through the war. I never thought I could get into this stuff, but it is intensely fascinating, in the absence of motivation to read literature which is sometimes quite exhausting. Like the codebreaker nonfiction of Battle of the Wits which a dear friend gave to me on a birthday many many eons ago.

goal, man

I'm contemplating a return to the hallowed halls of Goldman, if only so that I can finance a lifestyle where I could fly all over the world and sup on prosciutto and melon. The catch-22 is of course that were I able to finance such a lifestyle, I would not actually be able to live such a lifestyle. So maybe what I'll do instead is to chuck in the towel on today, which has been one long, irksome waste of time dealing cantankerously with cantankerous people and generally being on a post-London blue, and skip out, go get the new season of 24 and other DVDs including X men, and have a long, late lunch with my ONLY friend in SL, at a lovely Western cafe, loading up on brownies and ice cream.

And I found this on dealbreaker.com which was quite simply hilarious.

(This part originally from a Bloomberg columnist): (Stories all about Goldman Sachs employees)

The diaries are penned, allegedly, by junior staffers around the world. So, pinch of salt at the ready, let's join the young masters and mistresses of the universe. Meet Amol, a vice president in Treasury. Amol says he's at his New York desk by 7:30 a.m. He must be a genius speed-reader. While I'm wading through invitations to boost my bedroom performance or help relieve deceased African dictators of their ill-gotten millions, it takes Amol just 15 minutes to sprint through his e-mails and check on the day's news.

Frankly, we think Amol is full of shit. An accurate representation of Amol's day would have started more like this version:

6:45 AM - Alarm goes off
7:00 AM - Get out of bed
7:10 AM - Drag my ass to the gym
8:30 AM - Drag my ass back to apartment
8:45 AM - Wake up sorry ass roommate
9:00 AM - Get to work, digest Page Six and Drudgereport
9:06 AM - Wonder if I will ever be on Page Six, and under what circumstances
9:12 AM - Receive call from irate landlord over noise
9:20 AM - Call sorry ass roommate, tell him to turn down stereo
9:30 AM - Ask myself repeatedly, "What'm I supposed to do? What'm I supposed to do?
"9:45 AM - Salvage faint glimmer of what I am supposed to do. Open LBO model from shared drive
10:30 AM - After working on LBO model for 45 minutes, realize this is the wrong one. Narrowly avoid taking over a perfectly innocent Muffin Company.
11:15 AM - Write email to ex girlfriend she is great, and I mean, I don't know yet...
12:30 PM - Break for lunch. Contemplate taking up a smoking habit. Can't find cigarette brand I identify with. Shelve idea.
1:15 PM - Bathroom break. Smuggle a novel into the John. Spend way too much time on job. Become neurotic as someone sits down in stall adjacent. Feel like prisoner on Russian gulag. Leave stall.
1:35 PM - On way out of bathroom, check self out in mirror. Practice various serious expressions in mirror. Throw shoulders back. Admire own tie.
3:00 PM - Lost time. Bang watch hands. They don't go back into place. Look around in awe. Can't figure it out.
3:45 PM - CNN.com. Re-evaluate plans to purchase gas mask.
4:15 PM - Decide against purchasing gas mask in favor of new Gucci loafers. With silver buckles this time.
5:00 PM - Mother calls. Send to Voicemail. Begin referring to mother as Sendtovoicemail.
5:30 PM - Call from client. Working.
6:45 PM - Order dinner. Debate the intricate differences between General Tso's Chicken and Sesame Chicken. There are none.
7:45 PM - Eat dinner, trawl television for Reality TV. Struggle to make witty jokes to impress coworkers.
8:15 PM - Probe nascent gut with hands. Am I getting fat? Can't remember what I used to look like. Can't make comparison. Will just have to wait and find out.
9:00 PM - Exeunt.

(and may I just say it's true. All my friends used to wonder where I got all the free time to make free international calls all over the world and read six newspapers a day).

champagne

So at the wedding there was champagne toasting and the best man popped open a bottle of champagne for the family. I want to be married! I want to pop open champagne, if only for the fact that after so many years, thankfully, it's finally fucking over.

london cab

Just to record for posterity this conversation with a cabman, thus continuing my lifelong love affair with London cabdrivers.

Partner descends from big black London cab, while handing me a green 5 dollar note, (from that movie, you know!), and cab drives off.

Cabbie: So you have a good night then, miss?
Me: (Sighing dramatically) Yeah, I guess so
Cabbie: Aww no love, what happened?
Me: This is what I love about London cabdrivers and miss! You don't want me to start telling you about my life story, I would bore you and myself senseless.
Cabbie: I'm a good listener love, and I've listened to them all.
Me: Have you ever been in love with someone for years and years, and ever wondered why it never happened? Was it because you had never been in love at all, or was it because it was never meant to be?
Cabbie: I was in love with someone for 20 years and I never told her. We married different people. I had two kids and she had one. Then, somewhere along the line, we both separated from our partners. It was never meant to be you see, with the Other then The One. And I met her recently, and we talked and exchanged numbers. I've been waiting for her to call me though. I can't quite work up the courage to call her. What if it all was such a dream? What if I had thought we had loved each other so long, and it turns out that I was the one carrying a torch?
Me: You should have called her. You should have told her that you love her, that you loved her. What use is there in keeping that burning love silent? At worst you'll be where you are right now. At best, who knows?
Him: I know. But somehow, that fear of it not being real, not even the fear of rejection, is too strong. It's like you isn't it love? You can't tell him.
Me: (Silent). (We draw up to my place).
Him: Let's make a pact then. Let's make a pact and say, we will not be afraid of love. We will not be afraid to tell them that we love them.
Me: Go on then. You're on. You have to tell her that you love her.
Him: I will. And you will too. (He turns the car around). Remember! Who dares, wins.

Of course, I still labour under some illusion/delusion that I was never in love at all. But I hope that wherever he is, he told her, that he loves her.