The New Orleans experience

I have come to intimately know about some cities in the US, one of them being New Orleans, Louisiana.

Let's get into it.

Weather

The Gulf coastline is known for its hurricane season in Fall, and heavy rainstorms around the year too. Summers are especially hot & humid, while winters could be cold, but not freezing. Always check out weather prediction for your weekend and pack accordingly before the trip.

Touristy stuff

• Parades (Krewes): New Orleans is most famous for its Mardi Gras season between early January to early March (beginning of 40-day Lent) which is the parade season. Though the last week of the season have the best parades and hence the most drunken revelry, other parades can be fun too. Look up online parade calendar if that's your main draw to the city.
  Throwing beads from the floats and collecting them on streets is a tradition. If you see someone celebrating a birthday, there is another custom of pinning a dollar on their dress/shirt.
  Parade website
  
  
• French Quarter: The most popular neighborhood of the city is French Quarter and the street is Bourbon St. Best way to see the area is on foot.
  Free foot tours
  
  
• French Market / Mississippi riverside: Walk along the river and watch one of the biggest ports in action. The market has many options of food & drinks, plus sovenirs.
  
  
• Cemeteries: In addition, due to the high groundwater levels, the cemeteries have tombs above ground which make them more ornately designed and attractive for tourists. Please refrain from taking selfies or general raucous laughter while visiting them.
  
  
• Voodoo tours: Popular for ghost and dark magic enthusiasts. Never did one.
  
  
• Streetcar: St Charles Street Car takes you on a route showing huge mansions on both sides. 
  
  
• Parks: For more natural view, The City Park, Audubon Park and other parks are spectacular. The huge spanish oak trees and snapping turtles are easy to find, but I never came across an alligator yet. Kayaking in the Bayous (creeks) is a popular activity.
  City Park
  Audubon park
  
  
• Lakes: The city is split into Parishes, similar to counties. The huge Lake Pontchartrain has one of the longest bridges over it connecting two parishes. It also has a boardwalk or beach areas to enjoy the waters. There is no "ocean" beach in spite of proximity to Gulf coast, so this is the best you get. Do not attempt swimming since alligators/snakes are always a possibility.
  Boardwalk
  Fountain
  
  
• Swamp tours: (maybe away from city) Never done one, but look fun. You sit in special boats, some with big fans, which take you through the bayous/swamps and spot wildlife like local birds and alligators. You may also get to hold a baby alligator in hand.
  
  
• Plantations: (need to drive outside the city) The cotton plantations from the Antebellum era can be roughly split between Anglo (English owner) and Creole (French/Spanish owners). The former have huge white houses with front streets flanked with oak trees, while latter have colorful houses. Be respectful on premises as you will see the housing for slaves and their conditions here. Some places have Victorian era clothes that you can wear and pose in for a sepia-tinted photo.
  I have been to a creole one called Laura Plantation:
  
  
  
• Aquarium and Zoo
  Zoo
  Aquarium
  

Drinks

Drinking on the streets is encouraged, so every place offers a to-go container for alcoholic drinks.

• Coffee with Chicory - Similar to indian coffee, ask for Cafe Au'Lait which is milk coffee. Black not recommended. Cafe Du Monde is known for it.
  
  
  
• Daiquiri - The only place in US which has drive-thru for the alcoholic drink Daiquiri. It's a frozen cocktail you can pick up at any chains like New Orleans Daiquiris or others.
  Sample location: NO Daiquiris
  
  
• Hurricane - Popular cocktail from Pat O'Briens.
  
  
• Monsoon - Popular cocktail from Port of Call
  
  
• Sazerac - Popular whiskey-based cocktail with a museum Sazerac House dedicated to its history
  
  
• Barq's root beer (non-alcoholic)
  
  
• Abita brewery beer - mostly Amber Ale / Purple Haze
  
  
• Other cool bars:
• Blacksmith shop bar: 
• Courtyard bar: 

Food

My most favorite of all American food is the cuisine of NOLA, which can be roughly split in Cajun (French/Acadian origins, fancier) and Creole (African/Carribean/Indigenous, homestyle). History goes that British/Anglo-Americans drove away French from eastern Canada who came to settle here instead bringing their food styles.

Items to try:

• Potato chips - Zapp's brand - Crawfish tators and Gator Dill flavors are unique
  
  
• Fried Green tomatoes / fried pickles / Fried okra
  
  
• Beignets - fried flour puffs with powdered sugar - found everywhere, but Cafe Du Monde is popular.
  (Crawfish beignets is the savory seafood version)
  
  
• Crawfish -  Absolute delicacy and must-try in whatever form. Freshly available in first half of the year, and crawfish boils are popular at house parties where they add corn / sausages / potatoes and local spices. Restaurants or local fishermen may have it, in season.
  
  
• Fresh/charred/fried oysters - Oysters in any form
  My favorite: Katie's 
  
  
• Po'boys - stands for "Poor Boys" and is a sandwich with a soft long bread (almost like Indian Pav in taste) filled with lettuce/tomato/local seafood.
  My favorite: Parkway Bakery
  
  
• Gumbo - A stew that comes in many forms but my favorite has seafood, okra, rice in it along with local sausages.
  My favorite: Gumbo shop
  
  
• Etouffee - Less thick than a stew, and mostly contains seafood/sausage with the holy trinity of New Orleans - onions, celery, peppers.
  My favorite: Adolfo's
  
  
• Muffuletta - A huge round burger-like sandwich with lean cuts of meats and olive salad. It's okay to order and eat a quarter/half of it due to size.
  My favorite 1: Napolean House
  My favorite 2: Central Grocery
  
  
• Jambalaya - A fried rice like dish with unique blend of veggies, seafood and meats.
  My favorite: Coop's Place
  
  
• Beans & Rice - Usually kidney beans with sausage & trinity, but on New Year's Eve, locals make white-eyed-peas with pickled pork & cabbage.
  
  
• BBQ Shrimp & Grits
  My favorite: Russell's
  
  
• Fried chicken
  My favorite: Gus's world famous
  
  
• Boudin balls (meat and rice balls fried with breadcrumb cover)
  My favorite: Mambo's
  
  
• Meats: Andouille sausage, Boudin sausage, Tasso ham, Hoghead cheese (mince meat in gelatin)
  
  
• Fried alligator bites (alligator tastes like chicken almost)
  My favorite: Pat O'Briens
  
  
• Baked seafood pies
  
  
• Fried catfish
  Willby's
  
  
• Collard greens (contain bacon bits)
  
  
• Packaged sweet pies / cakes from Hubig's or Haydel's bakeries.
  Check out Doberge cake with half lemon & half chocolate flavors
  Also pineapple, coconut cream, lemon, apple pie (look like empanadas)

There are many fine-dine $$$$ establishments in the city, but choose with caution as some are more about the show than actual food.

My favorite was Commander's Palace (reservation may be needed). Their turtle soup was fabulous, along with the rest of the courses.

Galatoire's , even though popular, was quite disappointing and I would not recommend.

Explore groceries like Winn Dixie / Lakeview Grocery / Dorignac's for local fare.

Music

New Orleans is famous for its Jazz scene. While there are websites to track all live music locations every day, you can't go wrong if you are on Frenchmen St.

Live music schedule

• Spotted Cat
• Cafe Negril

Shopping

Voodoo dolls, Masquerade masks, local packaged meats, pies, LSU football team paraphernalia, clothes with the Fleur-de-lis sigil, or purple-golden-green colors.

When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Lost Neighborhood

The bell rings, around 7 am. You open the door and pull in the newspaper stuck outside the door handle at 6 am by the Paperwala. Now it's the Doodhwala (milkman), with his big aluminium cylinder full of buffalo milk. You run to him with a vessel and ask for half or a full liter, in case mom plans to make some sweet that day. He pours out the required quantity and you give him a card. He writes the date, the amount, and hands it back. Sometimes, he is all smiles about the buffalo who just delivery a calf and he was able to get some chikacha doodh (colostrum). Everyone home is excited, licking lips in anticipation for kharvas (milk flan) that mom will make with china grass (agar agar).

The bell rings again. You rush to the door and see no one. You understand implicitly that it's the Kachrawali (trash collector), who rings the bells in all apartments and offers first-open-first-door-served services. You carry the little trash can out to her, along with a separate paper bag with organic scraps. She handles them in due order, and you close the door quick to ward off the smell.

The corner store Paanwala (shopkeeper selling paan) with the basic amenities. Stern face, shapely mustache, white full-tee baniyan and checkered lungi. You ask for half a dozen of eggs. A lit paper bag made from an old newspaper, wraps around 6 eggs that you hold delicately and put it in your patterned cloth bag. You call for Wibs bread. Half or full? You say Full, hoping for the delectable pavacha sanja (bread saute) if leftover. Sliced white bread, in a paper bag with blue & white stripes with a red logo. Sometimes mom is planning to cook chicken or mutton (being a Sunday), and you instead demand paavchi laadi (a slab of soft baked bread). You add it to your thaili, hoping to cushion the eggs. You give him a note, he doesn't have change. You pocket the Mango bite candy he gives you instead.

Every day, the stale newspapers goes in a stack that grows. One Maharashtra times and its puravnya (supplements), one Times of India with the hip Bombay Times. You ensure that you cut out the actors from the infamous Page 3 that is then folded inside, so that you avoid getting a yelled at. After all, it also includes those hard-earned ones for which you were sent out around the corner to fetch, when the delivery boy missed your apartment for some odd reason. When the stack gets heavy enough, it gets neatly tied with sutli thread. You lug it to the Raddiwala (the wastepaper collector) who balances the load on a metal scale with some hexagonal weights. You tilt your head a bit to verify that he doesn't have a magnet underneath the other side for "cheating". He gives you some cash and you're on your way.

You are handed a huge aluminium cylindrical can, full of some grain, in a strong cloth bag. You manage to drop it off at the local Girni/Chakkiwala (miller). A man in white, literally coated in flour dusting, peeks out at you. The machine slaps around rhythmically while he asks you to line up your dabba next to other containers, in their own multicolored cloth bags to recognize the owners. He'll follow a strict first-come first-served policy, but you still request him to do yours earlier, while you stifle a sneeze. He nods, you run back home prepping for a second visit soon to collect it.

It's an auspicious day. You are sent to the Fulwala (street florists) to get garlands for the Gods in your home temple. You notice the marigolds among other white flowers, hanging on a makeshift rod next to the fulwala. You ask for the price of each, and based on the intricacy, you get the cost. You also ask them to throw in the red hibiscus for ganesh, or whites for Shiva, or others based on the festival. Sometimes, a gajra (flower braid), but it is usually your dad who gets it for your mom, keeping the subtle romance alive. They wrap it in dried banyan tree leaves with a tiny white string, that you know your dad will carefully unwrap to save the string. The Bhajiwali (vegetable vendor) is squatting nearby and you ask for the usual cilantro, lemon and ginger. You coax them to throw in some green chillies for "free". You count out the money and hand it to them.

Your mom gets a call, mostly on the days of the week you aren't a vegetarian. Maasliwali calling about her fresh catch. She is downstairs, right opposite your window, but outside the building premises. Majority of the building members being fish-eaters have strong-armed the Jains and other vegetarians into allowing her to work from a distance. We have a little conference inside the house about which fish to buy based on the prices she quotes. She starts hacking and cleaning the ones you agreed upon. You go down and stand next to the lazing street dogs, patiently waiting for the innards that she discards. You hop on from one leg to other, to keep the flies at bay. She puts the pieces in a black plastic bag, that reminds everyone about its meaty contents. The only other time you see that black bag, is when someone brings the alcohol. Black for non-veg -- food or drinks, it is known. You run home, eat a hearty meal and do one more round to the garbage dump downstairs to throw away the fish bones right away, lest they stink up the house.

You run along to the Kiraanyacha dukan (neighborhood grocer). Big sacks of grains, legumes and pulses line up the entrance. You notice those bags of chips, Peppy catches your eye and your mouth waters. You ignore the feeling, and ask for an assortment of different items. He scoops up the grains with a little aluminium spade into thin bags, and weighs them on a counter scale. While he's at it, he reminds you of other things you may want. A toothpaste? A scented soap? The smells accost you, one after the other. At times, he knows you and your spending habits. He'll bring up the chewing gum that gets you a cricketeer card or a WWF wrestler card. You go through his stack and pick the one you don't have. Other times, he asks you your grades at school and if good, he yells at his son working in the back, trying to set an example.

You hear a loud booming yell. It's the occasional Kabadiwala (scrap collector). You have a little pile of scrap lying underneath a cupboard or in a corner, which you carry downstairs. You try to negotiate to the best of your ability, based on the items you're giving away. Sometimes, it's a Kalaiwala (utensil refurbisher) and you get sent out with the vessels which have lost their sheen. There is flaming coal, there is tin coating, and there's a lot of aggressive rubbing. Then there is a Dhaarwala (knife sharpener). You stand clear of the screeching sound and the sparks as they press the pedal to get the wheel going, pressing the dull knives skillfully on it.

=================================

We order our heirloom eggs, A2 milk, multi-grain sliced bread, sourdough baguette, vegetables - some chopped, clean fish fillets, 20 lbs of grains & flour on Instacart -- all wrapped in multi-layered plastic packaging.We segregate our trash in colored containers and leave them out for the garbage trucks. We buy new knives and vessels on Amazon when the old ones get discolored. We pine about the need for a community & a third place while we binge-watch TV shows that friends tell us or doomscroll on those tiny addictive gadgets.

When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Masseuse

There is a scene in the movie Zwigato, where the wife of the gig-economy worker strapped for money, tries to make ends meet as a personal masseuse. In the hustle-bustle of the big city, she runs after her bus and tries to reach in time for her appointment. Asked to use the service elevator (read: lower class) in a posh building, she is welcomed into the house by a lady arranging her tarot cards. Her daughter, the intended back ache patient, takes one look at her and refuses to get a massage from her citing her sweaty saree-clad condition -- all the while communicating in English. The mother sends the masseuse away lying about the reason for cancellation, pushing some minimal bus fare in her hands.

My thoughts dwindle. A recent memory.

Rushing out from the colorful quiet bylanes, we are suddenly greeted by bright lights, flashy souvenir shops and scantily-clad white people. Ah, the tourist-infested beach town of Goa is here. Cash exchanges hands and we grab a juicy parking spot by the entrance of the resto-shack. A beautiful thatched place on sticks with round hanging lanterns, and the muted sound of distant ocean waves. The evening is just getting started with a trickle of customers arriving.

We're seated and place our orders for some Kingfishers and a Kalakhatta beerita. As we chat animatedly, a woman with a dark complexion, in oil slick hair neatly tied in a braid, gold earrings, necklace and a saree covered in a maroon uniform stops by the table. I barely register her then, and my friends send her off after a few No-thank-yous.

The band starts playing a mix of American and Bollywood fusion songs and we lighten up. The violinist-cum-singer is splendidly serenading the crowd to some unexpected tunes. Nursing my drink, I glance away at a neighboring table where the same woman is now sitting down in the sand with a woman's foot in her lap. I'm a bit unnerved by the audacity of it, so I ask what is happening.

"Oh, she came by before to ask if anyone wanted a massage in our group..."

I look back and then notice her -- either performing a foot massage or a pedicure. I am sometimes uncomfortable with the idea of even a private massage, so doing it in a public place with other people clustered around you -- you have to be the opposite of self-aware.

Suddenly, some Arabian music draws my attention to the front stage and I see a fair woman in a flowing blue dress and flaunting her wares -- especially the ones needed for a belly dance. The jiggling, the suggestive stares, the serpentine movements and the gyrations have some of the audience enthralled. The juxtaposition of these two women -- dancing or massaging -- aka making an honest living, speaks volumes to me. As we applaud for the dance, I spy the hair strings of another customer getting intricately fine-tuned with beads by our maroon masseuse. We shuffle away soon after, as I am torn between my embarrassment of getting a public service from this woman who looks so out-of-place for this swanky establishment and the "altruistic" desire to get something done from her, so as to help her... make ends meet.


When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Heads, hung in shame

He started walking with us, in an apparent mood to chat. I was out with a friend on one of our regular hikes in Rancho San Antonio Park, commonly known as PG&E trail because of the power lines the trail follows. We were just completing 8 miles of rigorous workout early morning, a bit tired. He was older, pudgier, and had a thick accent which I couldn't place. He didn't talk about the weather, about the sunny day which had dawned after a long bout of rains for the El-Niño soaked California. He didn't comment on how green the hills were, neither complimented about the sturdy backpack my friend carried, nor joked about my mud-crusted shoes.

He casually commented on how many Indians are coming to the Bay area, how they are everywhere. He spread his hands like -\_(--)_/- pointing at other hikers. We smiled, he didn't. Then he said how the Americans are losing jobs because of that. I got defensive, "It's not like that". He continued as if he didn't want any debate about this -- "Indians are CEOs now, they are taking over." I again tried reason, "Indians are just handling the affairs, Americans are still the owners of those companies". Why was I trying to appease this petty man? I'm not sure. Maybe it is that gene of servile conduct towards our British overlords. Maybe it was self-preservation, I was concerned, he may be a "gun-toting" American. If he can wield his biases as swords against us, could I not draw out my pre-conceived notions in return?

Ultimately, it was the two of us, in addition to the seemingly Indian walkers around us. He couldn't keep up the charade too long and walked away. We breathed a sigh of relief and began discussing him. My friend saw his point, empathized with him, agreeing how it must seem to Americans that we were taking their jobs. Meanwhile I, for no good reason, felt bad to be assumed to be an Indian, presumably on behalf of those first or second generation Indian-Americans and others of the South Asian disapora. As we do with any such encounter, I started day-dreaming about the retorts. What if I had told him I am an American and how did he assume otherwise? What if I had told him the sheer amount of money we pay in taxes, expecting no support in return from any government in power for our needs? What if I had asked him where he was from "originally" since he didn't come across as a blue-eyed, blonde, white American with a clear accent? What if I had reminded him about the Chinese/Asian Exclusion Act, the internment of Japanese-Americans and other such regressive policies which kept the Asian immigration in check over the past century? 

My friend trying to convince me that we were somehow at fault for being on American soil and the locals being righteously outraged about it, was another humiliation I had to contend with. I had this nagging feeling that the lack of unity about Asians is our downfall -- meekly ticking those checkboxes we're pinned in, on hundreds of those forms we fill in for legally being "in status" in this country. Am I Asian? Or Indian? Or Pacific Islander? By rule of elimination, I have to be one of those three, or sometimes two. Ironically, white has no geography. How do we lobby for our rights, for a positive change, for being accepted in a land of immigrants -- if we wage a war of class, caste or color among each other? Will Andre Ang stand for "Asians" or specifically Taiwanese diaspora? Will "Vivake Ramesami" stand for Indians, let alone Tamil-speaking Brahmins from Kerala? Are the second generation Asian immigrants in politics trying to appease their "British overlords" who ruled the land prior to 1776? Do they have an intercontinental gene of servitude? Will my obfuscation of names stop the search algorithms from singling me out as a candidate for a special diet of immigration hassles in future?

I dwelled on these questions, as I drove forlorn back home, only to dive into the warm embrace of social media.

When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Jau De Na Va (Please let me go...)

The song (YouTube link): Jau de na va

Dialogue:

O, chhote saukar, chala khelaila, aaj ravivaarach ahe

Hey little landlord, come to play, it's Sunday today!

Aai, jau ka khelaila?

Nhai mhanla na..

Mom, can I go to play?

I said No right?

Aai.. aai, aai, aai, jau de na.. 

eh..

Mom, mom mom mom, please let me go?

eh..

Me sagla kaam karto na tujha? 

Chaitya!

I do all the work that you tell me!

Chaitya!

Aaj ravivarach tar ai, abhyas pan nahiye, aai..

Nhai!

It's only Sunday today, I don't even have homework..

No!

Yeto na me thodya velaana! Jau de na..

Ja...

I'll come back in a short while.. please let me go..

Okay, go!

(music build up while playing dagad ki maati game )

Aye, chidi nako khelu!

Aye leka, tethe chalna, kaila bhandna karu nako, chal lavkar

Hey, don't cheat!

Hey boy, let it go, don't get into squabbles, come let's go..

(music with aye...oooo)

Song:

Madh kiti goad, goad goad...mmm...

Jhadavar jhu, jhu, jhul... mmm..

Honey is so sweet sweet sweet... mmm...
On the tree swing swing swing... mmm...

Kaadivar munglyachi circus gol gol gol..
Tol jaun chaak hoi gol gol gol gol gol gol gol gol... 

On the twig, the carpenter ant circus goes round round round...
Losing balance, the tire goes round round round round round round round...

Tractor var chakkar maraichi duur duur duur...
Kaagdacha vimaan udta bhuur bhuur bhuur...

Roaming on the tractor far far far...
The paper plane flies vroom vroom vroom...

Aai mala khelaicha jaichay, jau de na va...
Nadi madhe pohaila jaichay, jau de na va...

Mom, I want to go play, please let me go... 
I want to go swim in the river, please let me go...

Majha sagla abhyaas jhalai, jau de na va (2)...
Me tujha sagla kaam aikto, jau de na va...

I've finished with all my studies, let me go please (2)..
I listen to everything you tell me, please let me go...

(music) 

Bhur bhur bhur, bhur bhur bhur (2)..

Vroom vroom vroom, vroom vroom vroom (2)...

Roj sakali uthaicha..

Komdicha ghar ughdaicha..

Piluchya maage nachaicha, thui thui thui thui thui...

Wake up early morning everyday...
Open the home of the hen...
Dance behind the chick, (dance sounds)...

Redkucha loab karaicha..

Chakachak anghol karaicha..

Patapat shalela jaicha tamtam madhe bui...

Caress the calf...
Have a sparkling bath...
Quickly go to the school in the three-wheeler...

Vargaat comics chi majjach lai lai lai..

Kachya jamba boranchi goadich lai lai lai..

Saabanache rangit rangit fugge udvu lai lai lai...

Haa dagad ki maati khelaila potte jamvu lai lai lai...

In the classroom, the fun of comics is lot lot lot...
The sweetness of raw jaamb(rose apple) & bora (indian jujube) is lot lot lot.. 
Let's blow a lot of colorful soap bubbles... 
Let's gather a lot of friends to play rock or soil ...

Aey... Aey...

Music: AV Prafullchandra

Singer: Jayas Kumar

Lyrics: AV Prafullchandra

Translation: Myself

When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

It was the eve of American independence day in 2008. Barely a year in this country as international students, we received some somber news that shocked us to the core. A few of our university seniors and batch mates had been in a terrible car accident. Two of them had died instantly while the driver lay comatose in the hospital. Over the course of the year, we processed the uncomfortable details of the court proceedings and the final verdict. The driver, who had survived, was sentenced to 12 years imprisonment for involuntary manslaughter of his best friends.

Over the years, I occasionally went back to that period via online searches, trying to make sense of the events and hoping for some closure. An early pardon for good behavior, a deportation to his home country, anything. The deeper I went down the rabbit hole, the more disillusioned I became with the law enforcement in this country.

On the night of the accident, as two of them lay grievously injured in the front seats, the first white patrol officer to arrive on scene made heroic attempts to pull them out of the car wreck. Unable to do so alone, he radioed for help. The second white officer, of a higher rank, allegedly refused to help him save them on the grounds of the two being "dirty (expletive) Indians".  The next day, when the good cop called out the sergeant on his behavior in front of all colleagues, he was placed on leave for insubordination. Not to be outdone, he filed a whistleblower suit against the department that chronicled him being harassed, ridiculed and pressured to retire. He won a settlement of $250k in this particular case that ran for 3 years with support from fellow officers who served as witnesses. Consecutively, the entire police department became engulfed in a whirlwind of political machinations. The two factions, the good cops vs the bad cops, ultimately became a part of another lawsuit that the latter won. The bad cop had dozens of internal affairs complaints against him about racial profiling and uncouth language, and half the department tried to brush them under the carpet. Ultimately, he was let go off by the PD and currently works for TSA at Newark airport.

This story remains my personal example and a stark reminder of what I could expect from the law enforcement agencies in this country if my fellow Indians or I ever find ourselves in a dire situation. Luckily for us, the closest encounters we've had with the police has been unfair treatment over traffic violations, which isn't surprising in retrospect. We are all too familiar with another chilling video of an Indian grandfather being slammed to the ground by a white officer in a neighborhood in Alabama. While the victim struggles to walk due to partial paralysis, the perpetrator walks scott-free today.

As this nation rightfully roils over the gruesome murder of George Floyd and the 'Black Lives Matter' movement gathers steam once again, a tiny portion of us brown spectators who have no say in partisan politics, are secretly rooting for justice for George along with many like him; and an end to systemic racism in the institutions that are here to protect us.



When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

To consume is human, to create divine?

You are born. If your parents and the hospital staff are lucky, you will produce an endearing scream to make their hearts swell. For most part, you will consume - copious amounts of attention, food, colors, smells, sounds, sights. Your senses are working overtime, so are your bowels.

You are eight. You have consumed small books by now, some music that your parents love, some movies your friends told you about. You probably learnt an instrument or became multi-lingual. But you've also produced - paintings in art competitions, regurgitated dances performances from songs you saw on TV, maybe an essay about your favorite animal or a well-navigated goal in your school soccer team.

You are a feisty teenager. As much as you are voraciously consuming media that will align you with your peers' tastes, you are showcasing your angst at the world through a high school band. You are devouring tweets and instafluencing other teens with your peculiar style and thoughts. You may have started caring about the state of the world we're in and try to band together other denizens to alleviate some perceived social evil. And you've been introduced to the adult version of the birds and the bees, so you've begun exploring.

You are in final years of college, planning for a grad school to get that edge over others or eyeing that particularly lucrative job market. You've read the textbooks, may have listened to your professors in classes and argued vehemently over some nuances. You written tedious assignments and exam solutions for good grades, along with buttressing your resumes with extracurricular activities. Maybe a stint at web development for a small-time company, a few hours each week at an elderly care facility, some shifts as a swim-instructor.

You have a stable 9-to-5 job. All you produce is what your work entails and sign off your rights to it. You have unending queues on all streaming platforms, have books you read at a snail's pace, inhale news from 24/7 news and social platforms, join forces with your friends to watch a popular sports event. Maybe you hum a tune once a while, cook for reasons apart from sustenance and strum the dusty guitar. You may be posting your rambling thoughts on subjects you understand partly or sharing pictures of your weekend excursions, if you managed to get up and get out.

You are middle-aged, living an ideal life with your lovely family. You are disciplining your kids, scrambling to keep a roof over their heads and paying off your multiple loans with an even more stable job. You do the dishes, check on the bills, keep an eye on those investments, think of ways to get more tax benefits. You try to watch the movies your friends tell you about, play some of your band's songs, wax nostalgic over the pictures you posted ten years back. You plan a cruise once a year.

You have retired. You have paid off those loans and the bills are taking care of themselves through your myriad of investments. You played with your grandchildren when you could but mostly spent hours trying to understand how the newer technology could connect you with your old self. You occasionally call a friend and dig in each others' memories for the same treasures. You use your well-earned money to plan tour-bus trips to distant places if your health allows it and avoid eating those funny-looking foreign dishes or participating in activities that seem too adventurous.

Finally, you've been fortunate enough to be on your comfy death bed at a ripe old age. You engage in some mental calisthenics over what were your contributions over your span of life. What percentage of your life did you spend in consuming stuff that others produced - be it social media posts, music, art, literature, sports feats, culinary delicacies? How much of the tally is in favor of you having produced masterpieces to the best of your abilities at different stages in your life? Would there be any kind of judgement from an otherworldly entity if those numbers do not look right? Does it matter if you left no tangible mark on the planet, other than your progeny? And if it did matter, would you turn off that all-encompassing smartphone, email-ridden laptop and wall-size flatscreen TV and begin creating original content today?




When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.