Buying a Sri Lankan

Why can't I own a Canadian? is an internet meme that became popular because of a parody letter about the ramifications of a certain Biblical law that states that it is okay to own slaves as long as they are from a foreign nation. The letter was originally written by someone named Jim, as a response to Dr. Laura Schlessinger, a radio personality who dispensed advice to people calling in on her radio show. A follower of Orthodox Judaism herself, she had condemned homosexuality by citing Leviticus 18:22 which says: "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination." The letter has been posted and re-posted several times (Hence, the post) since it first appeared on the internet in 2002. Here's the version from the Humanists of Utah website. It's been sometime since I read something so snarky, and 'informative':

Dear Dr. Laura,

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:

When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your devoted fan,
Jim

Unfaithfully Yours

Dear K,

If you are reading this, it means I actually worked up the courage to mail this. So good for me. You don’t know me very well but if you get me started, I have a tendency to go on and on about how hard writing is for me. But this, this is the hardest thing I ever had to write. There is no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it. I met someone. It was an accident. I wasn’t looking for it. It wasn’t on the make. It was a perfect storm. She said one thing, I said another. Next thing I knew, I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the middle of that conversation. Now there’s this feeling in my gut, she might be the one. She’s completely nuts in a way that makes me smile. Highly neurotic. A great deal of maintenance required. She is you K. That’s the good news. That bad is I don’t know how be with you right now. And it scares the daylight out of me. Because if I am not with you right now, I get this feeling we’ll get lost out there. It’s a big bad world full twists and turns. And people have a way of blinking, and missing the moment. The moment that could have changed everything. I don’t know what’s going on with us and I can’t tell you why you should waste the leap of faith on the likes of me. But damn, you smell good. Like home. And you make excellent coffee. That’s gotta count for something. Right? Call me.

Unfaithfully yours,
H

PS - Attributed to Hank Moody, the male lead from the overtly sexual American TV drama, Californication. The letter is addressed to the love of his life, Karen. In order to learn new interpretations of the phrase "love of his life", you'll have to watch the show.

Needless to Say

Disclaimer - What do you do when there is nothing (even remotely) interesting happening in your life? You almost have absolutely nothing to share. Most of the days are spent staring right into the computer screen, trying to decipher whether another asterisk or a hash sign would make a lot of difference. Then, do you seek refuge in fiction, yet again, or do you try to salvage something worthwhile from the wrecks you had been safeguarding for exactly such a crisis? You be the judge. Albeit an intelligent one.

Dear X,

Now that I know that around 150 people know who {someone} was (and is), I can probably die in peace. The promise of a wonderful afterlife was given to me by the angels who visited me in dreams. They came again today, while I was day-musing under a creaking ceiling fan. I was told that my work on this planet is done. Thus, I will now indulge in my darkest desires and wildest fantasies, their consequences being hardly of any, well, consequence now.

I have also been wondering why day after day both you and I waste several of our precious hours, typing out these monstrosities, when we could have been utilizing them in several other (more) lucrative pursuits. The answer is left to the responsibility of the responder, SHE being the more intellectual, refined, and creative of the two. I am hoping I won’t be handed disappointment in expectation’s stead.

Coming to less welcome subjects, I think we can safely divide retro(-intro-)spective atmospheres into two broad categories. One might be called the Creaking Ceiling Fan while the other can be vaguely described as a Nocturnal Wonderland. Both are equally competitive and strive for attention on a day to day basis. I am also speculating why there has to be a certain algorithm to every nuance in an engineer’s life. Even subtle subjects like philosophy, love, and music are dissected with clinical precision and their mortal remains examined with a certain surgical finesse. It’s all very frightening; and amusing at the same time. Let’s digress to less intimidating subjects (if I can come across any).

Your habit to write your journal daily certainly surprises me. You come across as the girl in Before Sunrise, who keeps a written account of all her days, and still pretends to forget some of the most remarkable moments in her life. I started off as a die hard fan myself, often addressing my journal as something very feminine and real. With time, the writings started improving in quality but the quantity went down considerably. Now that I look at my journal, I find that I started it off way back. It has a well defined Prologue in which I announce my far fetched ambitions to fill the ruled pages with ink of all sorts - blue, black, red and even graphite. I think the implementation went awry somewhere down the line. Another algorithm is called for. But we will save its dissection for another afternoon, when the sun is more obliging, and the time less so.

The park story seemed amusing because you should choose a park (of all places) to explore. I have, if truth be told, thought of similar places I might like to visit in another lifetime. Am I beginning to sound very intense in my writing? I guess the reader doesn’t have much of a choice in these matters. SHE has to bear with all the crap certain meditating souls come up with. Oh! talking about meditation; have you ever tried imagining a perfectly clean blackboard? I believe if one can do so, with nothing and no one soiling the pristine darkness of the board, one has succeeded in achieving control over most of one’s senses. I have tried attempting the feat several times; having succeeded in keeping the slate clean (pun intended perhaps) for at most a few seconds. Not bad eh?

The relentless urge, and pushing, to excel and be on top of the game seems post-worthy. Does it strike you as amusing too? However, laziness has probably caught up. This discussion dwells on the borders of being futile. So I will defer the subject for the time being. Maybe you can come up with something worthwhile on the same. Who knows?

The length of this obscurity seems praise worthy already. I have, exactly at this moment, realized that this mail can be perfectly described by a word I learned a long time back - BLAND. It’s a monologue one would want to get over with. A yawn would probably greet the footnote and the innovative signature won't be even glanced at. This enlightenment calls for a course of action. Hence, acting in accordance with this new found knowledge, I will now go and attempt something constructive.

“The entire world is our oyster again / Waiting patiently to be by that genius awed.”

Proverbially me,
Y

Dharti Putra

Word of Derision - This is mostly plagiarized from a mail I wrote (and one I received). I apologize for the lack of originality.

In a time not so long ago, humans occupied the ramparts of a dilapidated fortress in the state of Gujarat. They guarded their private space with fierce gumption and allowed no one to intrude upon it. As time passed by, some humans got jazzier (by the day) about cohabiting with exotic species. Soon, certain varieties of peacocks, langurs and the like also joined the military ranks. No one minded the change of policy as it was the order of the day. However, slowly but steadily, certain numbers from the rival K9 Gang (Canine to non-jazzy people) also started taking over significant portions of the human territory. Nocturnal rendezvous in shady corners (for obvious reasons) became forbidden. Social gatherings in uncharted areas became a strict no-no. Dogs, as the intruders came to be known as, had struck fear in the hearts of the mighty warriors of the human kind. Dogs were everywhere. They slept in our rooms, ate from our plates, drank from our cups, and peed in our washrooms. The time was ripe for a revolution.

Humans marched in big numbers, protesting against the council’s inability to deal with the problem. But there was a minority faction to deal with. Concerned voices in the faction were supporting the cause of the Dogs. “No, they are not going to be chucked out of the campus. That probably amounts to cruelty against an endangered species”, said their spokesperson. It didn’t matter if they enacted obscene scenes learnt from National Geographic and guffawed at our discomfiture. Many of us were caught in a predicament (that undecided gang probably included me too). To itch or not to itch. That was the question. The benefit of doubt went to the Canine kind. They were staying. That day, huge numbers of Dogs came out and reveled through the night. They wagged their tales at their distracters. They danced. They feasted. They howled. And, then they mated :|

The era of the Jhola Krantikaris had just begun. They sniffed around for abusers of environment (the list included acrobatic lizards as well) and jhadofied them in full public view. “Beware of the JKs”, we told our junior militia. I switched off my power guzzling night lamp more often than I would have liked to. I even began snooping around in barred rooms and putting out lamps and fans. The frightened militia was even known to feed Dogs from outside the fortress. The JKs seemed pleased at this. An uneasy peace existed. But that was the lull before another storm.

I remember the story well. It all began one day when a majority of the humans could be seen wandering from wing to wing, soap in hand, wondering where they could dispose of all the muck from the day before. Some of the displeased were the dreaded JKs. They called a meeting…………

Now let's dwell on the water saving tirade for some time. It had been on the agenda for quite some time. Thus it’s paramount that one understands the background. It's only then that one realizes the ingenuity of the solution. Now, we probably have more trees, shrubs, bushes, herbs, gardens and grass than any other institute in the state of Aapnu Gujarat. Anyway, maintaining the manicured gardens takes enormous amounts of man power (and water). “We Provide Employment”, they say. Fine. But what about water? Where is that going to come from? Silence. Aha.

"What about getting rid of them? Chop down the bloody things", said another visionary. No can't do. The green looking things are all counted and accounted for. It’s very likely that there is actually a number that can be arrived at. The singularity of the situation can be better appreciated when one is told that the institute land is actually forest area that has been leased out to the administration at a fee of Re 1 per year. Hefty fine awaits anyone who as much as plucks a twig from a dead tree. Talk about inflation and the entire hullabaloo surrounding it. Baah.


Back to the meeting……….

Now sometime during the course of the heated discussions, some crazy ass environmental freak (like so many that can be found these days) suggested that we should use sewage water for watering all the lush greenery in the campus. Even the JKs themselves were a bit surprised by the novelty of the idea. Whaaaaat? Are you crazy? Heh heh...sorta. Damn. The majority, not knowing what to do because of the turds still inside them, supported the wild idea and the plan got implemented. So now every evening (mornings when I am fortunate) we have our lovely sprinklers going swish swish swish with the hagga water all over the campus. The water is treated of course. But the stench remains, at least for an hour (or maybe more). Poor and helpless militia men (read students) can often be found employing hitherto unknown acrobatic skills in evading jets of sweet smelling fluids. It is said that no nasal malfunctions have been reported till now.

But our jhola krantikaris did not stop at just that. Some wisecrack amongst them suggested that we use the same (hagga) water for our tatti washing sessions too. Voila. Potty mein to waise hi badboo aati hai. Paani se thodi aur sahi. Clap Clap Clap. What a visionary! So here I am, a normal guy gifted with a decent sense of smell, who is subjected to attacks on his nasal sensibilities every day. The lavatories don't have a flush. Just turn the knob and whoooosh, your hagga water is back to serve you in your daily ablutions, sans all the muck. Life couldn’t have been better.

The story of our Dharti Putras does not end here of course. They continue to fight for their cause. Their distracters jeer at them for being sissy. The undecided kind hang out with whomsoever they deem fit. So it might be safe to say that I am contributing my bit in saving the planet. Dew or no dew, let's just say we smell it every day, shall we?

Phlegmatic Unease

Word of Derision - I am not a very 'New Year' person. But certain conventions are better respected than ridiculed. We might sometimes also need to change the way conventions are understood. For not even history is rigid. It's a matter of perception. I hope this post helps some of us do just that. Change the way we look at something that has been passed down to us. Unlearn the preconditioning that has been mechanically drilled into us. For that's what New Year is all about. Probably just that. For the record - Wish you a 'Happy' New Year.

Dear D,

It was really odd, on my first evening here, there was get-together of the local Indian gang, and they were all talking about the Teen Murti Library and the University Coffee House and the M.Phil Department, wallowing in nostalgia. One girl called Mrinalini said she knew you, or had once met you once at some pompous Foreign Service party where you’d told her, “The US and the Soviets are in this nuclear arms race primarily to distract the rest of the world. It’s all a game, they want to keep all our minds away from the real issue, which is the throttling of what they call the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Worlds by Soviet Necessity and the American Dream.” I hope you are squirming with shame? Mrinalini thought I wouldn’t believe her. She said you were fat, pompous and very drunk, like the rest of the party.

I have been trying to write as few letters as possible because writing letters is the supreme indulgence for me nowadays. Communicating with people is difficult here and it’s such a temptation to make up for that through letters. At least with letters you don’t have to deal with immediate reactions – you can imagine that whoever you’re writing to is interested and understands exactly what you mean. Writing letters is a wonderful way of copping out of everything – the lectures that go so badly, all the people in this place whom I can’t talk to. It’s so tempting to take the easy way out, to go on about how the people here are so dull, ignorant, smug and provincial. They are all that, but there’s also something wrong about my attitude to them. Because of my color, accent, etc, I feel wary and strained talking to Americans – the moment I face one of them, I can feel the shutters going down on me, and I know my face looks blank, bored and closed.

In just a few weeks here I’ve managed to establish a ‘circle of silence’ around myself which nobody would want to break into. To appear quite and disinterested is the greatest defense, to convince yourself that nothing matters. And the ‘stay away from me’ expression gets quite out of hand sometimes – the only American who’s made heroic efforts to make me comfortable just asked me if I wanted a poster. Without thinking or even looking up, I said, “No, you can keep it.” His warmth feels like a terrific obligation and s responsibility - it takes me such an effort to respond that I sometimes actually run away when I know he’s around. I don’t know why the hell I’m writing all this.

There was a real low last week – I have to make my class do an exercise called freewriting – they have to write nonstop for ten minutes about whatever is on their minds. Last week one student wrote, “I am not paying big bucks to listen to Indian telling me how to write English. And her fucking accent is giving me a migraine.” I really wonder what I am doing here, especially because academically this place really ‘sucks’, the one American expression which covers all possible negatives. Some other time I’ll write you a bright bitchy letter about the kind of absurdities one hears at lectures here. The worse is not having anyone to share the absurdity with. It’s hard getting to know people. Everyone seems friendly at first, everyone stops and asks, “Hi, how ya doing?” But after a while you realize that that’s it, nothing ever follows up that, “Hi How ya doing?” And to answer that with anything less exuberant than, “Pretty good”, is a social outrage. The creed is to be bright, brisk and busy. You can imagine what a disadvantage my face is, and my voice – dull, gloomy and lazy as can be.

I share my room with a Mexican. She is OK. At times I hysterically wonder why people ever leave their own countries and go abroad. Why don’t we ever learn that all changes of place are for the worse? It’s not love for the place; it’s the familiarity, like old winter clothes. Didn’t you feel something of this at Yale? You were always so closed about your American experience. Yesterday another American asked me where I was from in India. I said, “Bombay.” He thought for a while and asked me seriously whether I rode to college on an elephant. I said, “Yes, but I had to hire one, since we were too poor to own our own.” That’s entirely my fault, for not being where I ought to be, back home.

I can’t transfer to another university within this PhD program unless I am willing to lose credits. My only experience of the US before this was of NY and I ought to have known that being in the heart of the corn country will be very different from NY.

What I really didn’t bargain for was the nostalgia – I have such a bad memory that the past usually becomes mere past for me with great ease. But here I take nostalgia to absurd extremes – watching Hindi movies, Guddi, Barood etc, I don’t think it works, to run away from a place when your relationships there get messy. For the first time now I feel I need some continuities. But then I don’t know if anything lasts, except that I am the same person wherever I go – and that certainly is no cause for joy! In the first few days I thought I’d get friendly with my Mexican roomie and ask her about subtle racist attitudes here.

I don’t know why I am writing all this but now that I’ve missed a class already, I might as well fill up the page. Of course I’m being defensive again. I can’t say anything to anyone without leaving an escape route for myself, prefacing everything with, “Don’t take this too seriously” or “I don’t know why I am saying this.” The only way to cope with this is to pretend nothing matters.

Oh, there are some lovely things here too – the varieties of ham, books for ten cents each, Mrinalini, the underground radio station which plays hours and hours of old blues, bars – but they are not nearly enough.

I can see you perfectly sometimes – perfectly composed in your tie behind your Citibank desk, drowning some client in bank jargon. I keep asking myself, why were you so cold and curt at the end. ‘At the end’ sounds terribly dramatic but you know what I mean. It feels absurd to even mention it because that was in another country, and besides. For the last line you could consult your English literature friend who, if that letter of his you showed me is anything to go by, is enjoying going insane, in some backwater somewhere, what was it, Madna?

Please write back. With my love, R.

PS - This is an extract from the book English, August - the debut novel by Upamanyu Chatterjee.

From Russia With Love

This is an impromptu post triggered by a chance letter that reached me this morning. Usually, I would have waited for all my regular readers (heh heh) to respond to my previous post. But, an exigency calls for some unforeseen measures. So on we go.

Letters always have this strange old world charm associated with them. Be it Papa sending you his wishes in the most unromantic monotones. Be it Didi sending you rakhi with nothing but a message like - "Sending in hurry, so unable to enclose chawal". Be it your best friend pouring his heart out. A hand-written account of even the simplest of things can never fail to move you. A smile is bound to grace that grumpy face. A memory is bound to be cherished. And the chitthi is bound to be read again and again.

It doesn't matter if you are the g33k G0d or n3rd p3rs0nifi3d. It doesn't matter if you swear by e-mail and Instant Relay Chat. That little chitthi will transform you (even if it's for a moment) into a teary-eyed fool (okay maybe that was an exaggeration). Like a flash, moments shared together are bound to, you know, just roll off. (Arrggh... I don't have the perfect expression for the feeling!)

We live in the age of emails and teleconferencing. Of flickr and orkut. So what is it that affects us in such a subtle way? Is it the personal touch? Is it the realization that the person took time out especially for you and not just forwarded the season's greetings? Or is it something beyond words? As always, questions like these can only have fuzzy answers. In the end, it's just the feeling. You feel strange (and good). So why the heck worry about the reason?

I, for one, used to enjoy writing letters. Believe it nor not, I used to write letters to my mum, while in school, pleading with her not to send me to that place the next morning. I even used to tell her that I was ready to clean utensils and all. "Mummy I am ready to even mop the floor. But I don't want to study!", I remember writing. Of course I was a lot more stupid and carefree back then. Those letters never fail to break me into peals of laughter even now.

But it's all telephonic conversations and emails now. "The old-world-charm is too slow a way to keep in touch", says the multitude. But it's not too much of a trouble to find time every now and then. On second thoughts, maybe it is. But take the time yaar. You might succeed in making someone smile today. And that is one good deed in your bahikhata. Start collecting the points now