My Wednesday

    I have begun taking a writing class with the Moutain View Los Altos Adult School. This is in line with my hope to write more this year. The following is a piece I wrote based on one of the given prompts from the teacher. I've highlighted the prompt in the writeup. 

    My eyes snap open at 7:25am with the melody of my alarm. I fell asleep early last night, and so waking up in the 7’s isn’t as painful as it usually feels. I remind myself to preheat the oven for my son’s breakfast, as I remember that today is the day he doesn’t like the school lunch. What will I give him? Yes -- we had discussed and agreed upon last night’s shrimp fried rice leftovers. 

“Remember to put tissues in your pockets,” I tell him, heading out the door. As we drive over to school, early enough today that I’m not cursing the woman in front of me who’s delaying me because she doesn’t know how to take an unprotected left, I use the opportunity of having his undivided attention to gently remind him of what else lies ahead in the day. 

    “Remember, today is your first cooking class,” I say. He moans -- the perpetual response I get from my newly christened middle schooler. As is with everything else, he didn’t want to sign up for this class. “Some of your friends will be there -- it won’t be so bad.” I list out the two other kids’ names I remember. Who else is in the class? I had texted the moms’ group to ask whose kids would be joining -- no one responded. Maybe I should send them another text when I get home? 

    But of course I don’t remember to do that. In the list of things to be done, this falls in the lowest of priorities.

    Prep for dinner, otherwise you’ll regret it when you come back home at 6:45 in the evening, tired from being on your feet for hours, hoarse from teaching your Gen Z and Gen Alpha students the merits of physical and mental discipline -- all packaged in a cultural context that they relate to only in the color of their skin, their names, and the food that they sometimes eat. Soak the rice now -- but set a 15 minute timer, otherwise you’ll never put it on the stove. Warm up a parantha on the grill for yourself, and set a 3-minute timer to flip it over. Remember -- if you want caffeinated tea, this is your window of opportunity. My saffron black tea vacillates between warm and cold several times in the next hour, as it makes its way back into the microwave, only for me to forget it’s there, and then be reheated again. I have never drank more than half a cup of tea. Something just beeped -- was that the timer on the stove, the oven, the microwave,or the new toaster oven that I’m still learning all the features of? I walk over to the pantry, and stare blankly at the rows of cans, jars, and packets of pasta in front of me. “Must remember to buy more penne. Put it on the list.” 

    Why am I here? Why did I walk over to the pantry? Retrace your steps, what were you doing in the kitchen before you walked over? Prepping the rice, the beans … My shoulders slump as I walk back to the kitchen, feeling like a failure for having such a poor memory. 

    “Kids," we marvel. “Their brains are like sponges! They soak up everything!” True. Our brains are very much like sponges. Except now our sponge brains are leaking out everything new that comes its way. Remember to make our dentist appointments. Pay that overdue bill. Cancel the credit card. Call the bank to inform them the new debit card never arrived. Pay the insurance premium, and make sure the old car has been removed from the list. Reschedule the math tutor. And only after that reschedule the Spanish tutor accordingly. Adjust the automatic sprinkler schedule. Remember that this week is recycling. Send a text to your cousin for his birthday. A phone call would be nicer -- but then you have to remember to do it in a timely manner. A text voice message can be the happy medium. Check to see if there’s extra toilet paper in the storage. Charge your Kindle. Return the library books. 

    Coconut Milk!! That’s what I wanted from the pantry! 

    Too much to remember -- and it's only 10am. 

   

Is Art Not Enough? (101-ish words)

    More often than not, when I look at a grant application for artists/arts organizations, the grantor is looking for not only exceptional art, but it must be sustainable, promote equity and civic participation, be inclusive, tackle issues of climate change/race/gender/sexuality, challenge boundaries and change perceptions.

    Why can't I just create art for the sake of art? Isn't that the purpose of art? 

    A rudimentary Google search of "what is the purpose of art" tells me that art can have five purposes:  ceremonial (ritual/worship), artistic expression (self expression of personal, internal moments, experiences), narrative (tell a story), functional (serving a purpose, like pottery), and persuasive (promoting ideas, philosophies).

    It seems that in our world today, emphasis is not on artistic expression, but persuasive art. 

    I don't want to persuade anyone to do anything. I don't want to be forced into tackling issues that are the hot topics of the 21st century. I want to be who I am, and show what I want to show, and make you feel something. Maybe it'll inspire you, maybe it'll mesmerize you. Maybe you'll get bored. Maybe you'll get angry. Is that not enough? 

(195 words) 

News v. The News (101-ish words)

    It’s “the news” when in paper format, but it’s just “news” when it’s on your phone. I hate reading news on my phone. It’s the most uninspiring way to ingest the written word. The lack of width of columns leaves you scrolling down constantly, which is such an unnatural way to read. Or maybe this generation will find the “scroll read” the more natural way of reading. Huh!

    And then there's the physical, visceral connection between you and the written word. Studies have shown that the tangible connection leaves a stronger imprint in your neural networks. Take that digital!

    When a singular device is the conveyor of good news, bad news, connects your entire world of people, documents your years past ... it becomes a complicated relationship. 

(126 words) 

Being (101-ish words)

    I watch my son's latest YouTuber who sets a goal to attend 4 NBA playoff games in 48 hours. From San Francisco, he flies to Miami, and then to Phoenix. Back and forth he zig-zags across our continent.  We want to be everywhere. Those of us who can't do it physically, we virtually go there with the detailed videos of such YouTubers. 

    Everything, Everywhere, All at Once. That really says it all, doesn't it? The title, not the movie. I am of perhaps the minority who just did not understand what there was to like about that film. 

(98 words)

One hundred and one words

    In an attempt to both write more, and to give credence to the philosophical musings and mini-monologues I run in my head about subjects from the mundane to the extraordinary (mainly mundane) -- I draw inspiration from a friend's blogposts that begin with a 100 words piece - and begin my similar practice. A hundred and one though, because, you know ... shubh/auspicious. 

    I actually have no idea how much or how little one hundred words is. I suspect that my posts will far exceed the said amount. I may have to rename this title with an '-ish' as a suffix. As I type this, I haven't used the word count tool yet (assuming this archaic interface even has such advanced word processing features. That's right, I said "word processing"). The other day I uploaded a bunch of music/video files in a G-drive folder shared with my team, and included a document in the folder called "README." Does anyone remember these?? I realized only after posting it that the Gen Z's shared on this folder would be thoroughly confused as to my choice of document name.

    I went way over 100. 

    And it didn’t have a word count feature.  

(198 words) 

Losing Lahaina

 My heart is heavy - grieving with sadness, anger, hopelessness. Even as I type, I feel a lump forming in my throat, and my vision blurring with the tears that well up in my eyes. As I get ready for my morning routine, I grab my Wakine backpack, and am reminded of the shopping mall, next to the Lahaina Safeway where I bought it, and have treasured it since. I wear a pair of shorts from a small boutique in Napili, which is, thankfully, not burning. I grab my favorite baseball hat - and am reminded of my beloved hat shop, "Chapel," on Front Street. Yesterday I watched images of shops burning on Front Street, and saw the Chapel sign, just mere feet away from the flames. By the time this video had aired, Chapel was long gone. 

I am reminded of West Maui multiple times my daily life. I was married in Maui, have celebrated so many anniversaries, birthdays and holidays there, and in my young adult life, I bought a small vacation home in Ka'anapali (one beach over from Lahaina). It was one of the first significant financial investments I made - with the intention that even if it didn't end up being a profitable one, it gave me the excuse to go out there. It did end up being a profitable investment, and has been a considerable source of income for me and my family for the past 14 years. 

During the pandemic, my parents were "stuck" for two years in their new beach villa in Ka'anapali. "Shelter-in-paradise," we joked. Having my parents living in Maui solidified that it was home. I called it my "maiyka," a term used in Hindi to describe a woman's maternal home after marriage. 

Married in Maui

I have countless memories of Lahaina; more and more keep pouring in as I mourn its loss. The great, historic banyan tree grove amidst the downtown shops - hundreds of years old, magically weaving one into another, making it indiscernible to know which was the original tree that spawned the others. The submarine trip I took my 4 year old on, where he stared with wonder at the deep blue waters, an abandoned sunken ship transformed into a reef, and the abundant sea life around it. My son's first horseback ride. A whale watching trip on Christmas Day, that was great for the first 45 minutes, and nauseating torture for the remaining 2 hrs and 15 minutes, where both my husband and son puked off the side of the boat. This morning, I chose my son's t-shirt for school - bought that same day after the tour, a keepsake whose profits contributed to the preservation of the honu, or turtles, of Maui. 

My son's first trip to Maui

I remember being dropped off the Front street by my husband, so that I could roam the shops at my leisure. For anyone who knows me, I detest all shopping (except for groceries). To me, it's a waste of time, or perhaps, a luxury not afforded to me in my daily grind. But on vacation, I love to shop. The majority of the clothes I wear were purchased while on holiday - and thus the daily Maui wear I find myself wearing each day. I did my Christmas shopping there two years ago - purchasing a beautiful shelled ornament, Maui Jim polarized sunglasses (matching him & her!), custom hand-painted surfer towels that don't get sand stuck in them, and fold down to the size of a hand towel. My awesome braids from a street side vendor; countless meals at our favorite restaurants - FuLin, a family owned Chinese restaurant; Frida - Mexican food right on the water - it felt like you were sitting on a cruise ship, but right on top of the water. Getting bored during my mom & husband's shopping binge, and walking over to the garlic knots restaurant for, well garlic knots, and a local beer. The discovery of an Italian restaurant on the far end of Front Street, Kapena, which translates to "Captain" in the Hawaiian language, run by the retired owner of the "Trilogy" boats, which dominated tourist boating in the 90's, when we first discovered and fell in love with Maui as a family. And Island Cream - by far the best ice creamery in all of the land. 

My son's first time on a beach at Kihei, also suffering from fires. 

But this is just my loss. A rather superficial loss (though it feels like so much more). The real loss is that of the tens of thousands who have lost their entire homes in the matter of hours, even minutes. I don't think it's possible for me, sitting here, safe and sound, typing away at my computer on a beautiful sunny afternoon in Mountain View, California - to understand what it means to lose your home. It's your home. If I'm able to recount so many memories of a place that I  merely visited - how many memories does one have of their home - of their lives? Your home, and your hometown are a part of you - they become a part of your identity. And I say this applies even more for the people of Hawai'i. Unlike my city life, the people of Hawai'i live connected to their land in a way that we only see amongst outdoor enthusiasts - the adventurous rock climbers, backpackers, skiers, scuba divers - and others I cannot relate with, due to my lack of proclivity to "dangerous" sports. I've seen locals track upcoming storms by observing the movement of the clouds. I've never once looked at the movement of the clouds - I've never even thought about the fact that they do, in fact, move. I feel ashamed of myself when I discover that I hadn't even noticed the beautiful full moon, lying low in my backyard sky. I can barely see any stars from our house, and there is no awe for nature felt in my daily life. The Hawaiians live simple lives, compared to our Bay Area hustle. They don't live in big houses with big backyards. Their land is the island - not a fenced demarcated square behind their house. Lahaina struggles with a growing homeless population, as land prices sore, and tourism takes over the island. It is with a tinge of guilt I take pride in my Hawaiian home - knowing it is the ultimate symbol of capitalism, built off the sacrifice of those who once called that same land their home. I justify my guilt by saying that we are bringing tourism and jobs to their economy. 

My awesome braids

And then the anger that I feel. For our self-created destruction of our world. It is a matter of time - a "when" and not an "if," that we experience a natural disaster of insurmountable magnitude in our own hometown. Floods, earthquakes, hurricanes - any one of them could leave us homeless within hours. And I know you're probably saying that California would never get hurricanes. But no one thought that Texas would freeze over winter. Like I said - it's a "when," not an "if." 

Then I wonder - but isn't this the natural order of human life on earth? Natural disaster, and surviving? I think of the natives, who lived on this land long before technology ruled the earth - how they would migrate from one safe place to another. It's not that their uprooting was any less emotionally or physically traumatic - but they knew how to survive off the land, and slowly build a new home in another place with their tribe. Not only do we have no idea what it means to "live off the land," but our society doesn't allow for building a new home from nothing. You need money, insurance, a job, health care, and other countless resources in order to live life in the present-day. Time and time again, I am reminded of how far we have come from our natural, evolutionary selves. We've made ourselves the top of the food chain - destroying everyone & everything that comes in our way - including our own planet. 

I don't know what else to say. I'm sad, grieving, knowing that a beautiful paradise has been destroyed. Knowing that tens of thousands of people will live in a lifelong trauma of their loss, creating a generational trauma that will continue to effect our people for decades to come. I feel helpless, and hopeless about our world. When will we change? Will we ever? Or perhaps this is the modern-day "survival of the fittest," which should aptly be renamed "survival of the richest." 

Beswitched

The following is a retelling of a dream I had. I often have such vivid dreams, which I remember in a very visceral, deep level connection upon waking. I always tell myself, "I should write this down," and of course I don't. 

This time I forced myself, upon awakening from this reverie, to stay in bed and recall the sequence of events of the dream. I reviewed it a couple of times, and then began my day - telling myself I would write it down. 

24 hours later, the writing flowed like a lustrous stream of consciousness from deep within me. Here's to more writing in 2023! 

p.s. the switch of POV was subconscious as I wrote, and it felt fraudulent to change the perspective when it didn't feel right. The POV switch is both in terms of she v. I and the fact that I seem to bounce around timelines of how old I am. 

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"You have to go. There's no choice." 

She grunted and moaned, as her mother set aside a mint green lace sari, encrusted with fine work. She put a heavy, but tasteful, kundan diamond and emerald set next to the sari. It was gorgeous. She didn't mind the dressing up, most of the time. When she felt like it. But when she really didn't want to be somewhere, the shringar felt even more laborious. 

It was a gala. Some random thing that she had been committed to by her mother, and she was expected to show up, play the role of who she was expected to be. Yet every fiber of her being was dreading the whole experience so much. Even the delicate lace on the sari felt like 100 lbs of weight on her shoulders. 

"Go, take a shower, get ready," her mother instructed. 

Sometimes there were gaps in her memories. Where she would find herself in a place, with no recollection of how exactly she got to be there. Like how in Inception, that would tell you you're in a dream. But this was no dream. This was the frightening reality of her daily life. 

And so she found herself, hiking up Bancroft Avenue to the open public showers. It was a beautiful warm afternoon. Bathing naked out in the open seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. As she stood there, naked, under the streaming water, she suddenly noticed the audience she had, gathered in park benches around the showering area. Not just nature's creatures, but people - and people she knew. She was overcome with shame - feeling the heat arise in her cheeks, and tears form in her eyes. She gazed down at her hips, curvier than when they used to be. Her ass, large and "voluptuous," as some might euphemism it - but to her - fat. She drooped with the heavy weight of her breasts - once small and perky, but after breastfeeding a child, they had morphed into ... well, whatever normal breasts were supposed to look like after birthing a child. 

She looked back at her "audience." They comprised of some unknowns, and some guys she knew back when she went to University here. But they didn't even turn once to look at her; carrying on, engaged in their conversation. But she knew they saw her. She was right there, point blank in front of them, in her full, wet nakedness. Why hadn't she realized one is supposed to wear a bathing suit when bathing in outdoor public showers? 

Lost in her reverie of shame & self admonition, she didn't notice when her friend of yesteryear snuck up behind her, and covered her eyes with his hands, "Guess who?" she was relieved to know she was covered in a towel by now. Another lost moment - when did she put it on? 

She knew exactly who it was. He had been a dear friend in her college years, a few years younger, and therefore, friend zoned by default. But he was undeniably hot. The majority of the Muslim guys she met were hot. It was unfair. "Born on the wrong side of the border," she and her sister would sigh and longingly lament. 

One time a friend had suggested, "He's like a younger brother to you." She didn't know how to respond to that, and gave a forced smile and nod. 20+ years later, she wishes she had responded, "I don't think so. If someone put a gun to my head and said I had to fuck him, I would. If he was my brother, I would choose to die." The truth is, I didn't need a gun pointed to my head to fuck him. But I think that should be a fair metric to use before labeling someone "like a brother to me." 

She made polite conversation with the now mature man version of the man cub she once knew. Though his "guess who" antic made her question if his maturity was limited just to his physical appearance. She excused herself, almost thankful for the pending gala, if only as the perfect excuse to walk away. 

"That was the first time we met. You were telling me about that perfume... it was by that Italian guy..." I suddenly realized the blonde girl was speaking to me, as she matched me stride for stride across the bridge. 

"Gianfranco Ferrere?" I asked. The name of the maker of my favorite perfume from 20+ years ago popped in my head, as if it was still my daily wear scent of choice. It made her wonder if the perfume "Gieffeffe" still existed, or if Gianfranco was still alive. 

"Yes! That was the one. That's how we first met," she announced to the others walking slightly ahead of us on the narrow bridge. Somehow this light-hearted memory of my youth brought lightness within me. I wanted to stay in this moment, in this feeling. When they mentioned they were going to the shops to look for a randomly obscure item, I joined them. Anything to delay the dreaded event that lay ahead. 

We perused the shops, and I was disappointed to discover that they quickly found what they were looking for - a patch. Yeah - one of those she on patches that you see on Girl Scouts vests. With their quest over, I resigned to my fate of getting ready for ... the gala. Even thinking of the word made my head hurt. 

She got in her car and began driving. And that's when it became painfully obvious to her - all the ether she had been inhaling had left her like a drunk driver - unable to navigate the streets - constantly paranoid & consumed with fear that she would hit someone or worse. She found herself jammed into what could only be described as a divider of sorts. A small triangular formation of road blocks, with her car lodged perfectly in between. Sure, it was in the middle of the road, but it was safe and out of harm's way. It was better off left there than with her behind the wheel. And so, the logical decision seemed to be to abandon the car and go by foot. 

She started the climb back up Bancroft. In retrospect, I have no idea why I chose to go up Bancroft when my apartment was just three blocks to the right (don't ask me if it was east or west. If it was to the right, it must've been west, bc the map in real life always ends up being reverse of what you see on a compass. In actuality, Bancroft runs east to west, thus making my apartment north of Bancroft. But 20 years ago, I didn't have that acumen. I barely have it now). 

I watched a woman with a stroller, struggling up the hill. Her infant in the stroller, and her toddler pulling her low tricycle behind her. As we approached a gap in the road, a strange tourist attraction of sorts. It was a slightly inclined wooden ramp, followed by a small gap revealing a basement of assorted goods one might find in a pawn shop, and then a small hop over the gap to the other side of the ramp, now descending back onto the sidewalk. 

The woman managed to get herself, the stroller, and her two children safely across the gap, but I watch as her daughter lost grip of her tricycle, and as if in slow motion, it rolled into the museum of odd knick knacks. Perhaps that was how the museum had formed in the first place. 

The girl looked up at her mother, tears swelling in her eyes. 

"Do you need help getting the tricycle?" I asked. Here was another chance for me to delay my impending doom. The woman looked warily at the situation, biting her lip, assessing the practicality of it. "Honestly, I had just accepted the tricycle as gone." 

But I volunteered to crawl into the basement. Another lapse of moments lost, and I found myself trying to make my way back out, my body barely fitting through the high enclosure, tricycle hanging below me in my left hand. Turns out there was a wooden flap door in the gap, and it had been slammed shut. No handles, no clasp, no light. I was trapped inside. But that family was still there, right? They wouldn't leave me abandoned in this dark basement .... How long had I been here? I tried to calculate how long the oxygen would last me, quickly realizing I had no basis on which to make that assessment. 

And before I could really panic, I saw the bright sunshine and even brighter smile of the toddler, holding open the wooden flap, ready for her tricycle. 

They carried on, and I was left with my doom - the ever present gala. I sighed and continued my trudge up Bancroft. 

I was looking for a taxi, and there was a taxi stand up the road. My mind was too hazy from ether - I couldn't figure out how to make it home on my own. 

And then I found myself in the car of a trusted friend. We chatted - I felt safe. She was on her way to the other side of the Bay, but a detour of a few blocks wasn't going to hurt.

"Make sure we don't miss the turn," I reminded her, knowing all too well how one gets on autopilot when chatting with friends. 

And, of course, that is exactly what happened. In normal circumstances, that would not have been a big deal, but we had reached the point of no return. The only way forward was onto the Bay Bridge - a 7 mile bridge with no U-turn point until Treasure Island, 5 miles down. Plus you had to pay toll this side, and sit in the traffic to just do that. 

"Say, why don't you come to this gala with me?" The thought of having her by my side made it so much more bearable. 

She contemplated, pausing before replying "I don't have anything to wear. Besides, I really should be getting to..." I didn't even hear the rest of her sentence because my body had slumped into dejection. 

The rest is gone from my memory. My guess is that I made it back to my apartment, dressed in my green lace and silver filigree sari, and drowned myself in my sorrow, all whilst bearing a smile on my glossy red lips, and eloquent banter with aunties and uncles whose names and who their spouses were, I had meticulously catalogued in my mental Rolodex.