Snake Anthony Turns On The Charm

I have had the somewhat peculiar priviledge of having lived long enough in all four corners of the country to be acquainted with, at least superficially, all manner of regional quirks. While I don't claim to be an authority on the subject, it is not unusual to find me vociferously defending the docile ways of a Kannadiga to an aggressive Bihari or explaining the working of trade unions in Kerala to a born and bred Mumbaikar. I've always prided myself on having the ability to appreciate both sides of the story, quietly listening and patiently responding to the sometimes bigotted viewpoints of the other party. But (yes, of course, there is a but), there had to come a day when zealously protecting the jovial ways of Delhi-ites would initially attract severely disapproving glances and finally result in complete dismissal by the friends of the boy I am dating.

We are two hours into a lovely garden party last Sunday evening in namma Bengaluroo. This is, as it were, my official introduction to the inner circle of R's friends. Naturally, I was prepared to be an object of curiosity and I met eager eyes looking my way with a radiant smile and a 'Hi, I'm Snake Anthony, nice to meet you'. (I had been told categorically that my socially inept ways would be frowned upon, especially given R's permanent role as the life of the party.) The evening is progressing well, punctuated by an even number of Mojitos and walks down memory lane (I stayed behind, not knowing the way). It would be a fair assessment to say that R's friends had found me suitably charming and worthy of him by this time.

The DJ, at this point, a restless North Indian youth, unhappy at gazing an empty dance floor, abandons Boney M numbers and turns on Himesh Reshammiya. Conversation stops abruptly and there is a collective look of horror around me. 'Oh god, I hate this Punjabi music', someone remarks.

'Really? I kind of like it' I say immediately, doing my characteristic seated jig. 'I don't know what it is about Punjabi music that really strikes a chord in me...'

R shoots me a look I can't decipher. Oblivious, I continue, 'You know, ever since I studied in Delhi, there is part of me that is Delhi-ite. I resisted it for so long and finally after two years it the culture had seeped into me insidiously. Now when I go back, I feel strangely at home.'

'How long were you there?'

'Not long. About three years.'

'I think North Indians can be so uncivilised... even their music can be...'

'Really? I see what you mean but as community I must say they're the only ones know how to be truly bindaas, you know...'

'Bindaas...?'

'Chilled out. Relaxed. Letting your hair down!' I do some clumsy gestures indicating unselfconsciousness unselfconsciously. 'The North Indians really know how to do it! That's why their music is like this. They really know how live life. Don't you think?'

Only now I begin to notice a distinct level of discomfort around me. Someone gets up to go tell the DJ 'to turn of this rubbish and play some English music' to which Nidhi says with a sideways glance at me, 'Yeah sure but we have a Delhi-ite among us.' I smile confusedly at this comment.

In the car I ask R, 'So, did I make an impression? Did they like me?'

'Yeah, I'm sure they found you nice.'

'Just nice? But I was lovely!'

'Of course you were, baby.' I sense tentativeness in his tone.

'What, is it something I said?'

He sighs. 'Maybe you can keep your North Indianness a little quiet, that's all. Afterall, you actually aren't North India, if you remember.'

'Huh? What, what's wrong with it? So what if I feel North Indian?!'

'Don't worry, baby, we'll work on that...' he says and pats me on the head.

Hot

I see the world in terms of Hot. I have eyes that wander, that glance at you sideways when you aren't looking. Why? Well, because you might just be hot for a split second and I don't want to miss it.

The Downside Of Free Guinness In The Office

I get many perks at work. I get to wear jeans and flats, listen to music and take leisurely lunch breaks. I also get alot of freebies - tickets, electronics, bags (essentially, everything our clients make and we have a whole range of them, and everything our vendors gift us in order to get our business). Quite fun, you say.

Today, Guinness sent us several crates of their draught. Rebecca came by to hand the cans to us. And each of my tank mates (yes, we call the office a tank and yes, we are often referred to as fish) smiled and helped themselves to a few cans, saying, 'I'll take this for my father.'.

Cest la vie. In Singapore.

Everyday Discoveries

• My boss is a Scribbler. Yes, a Scribbler. He called me in for a chat and while he spoke, he unintelligibly noted down everything for my benefit on half a ream of paper.
• DJ Shadow was here in Singapore on August 5th. No, I didn't go. I'm not the most informed person, evidently.
• I can do Excel sheets.

Mid Autumn Night's Dream

Eat moon. Watch cake.

St. Ives

Divine Intervention

What else I am to make of getting turkey curry for dinner tonight after I wrote this the other day? Cooked in coconut, that too.

And I Thought It Was Only A Bird

For a variety of reasons that I will spare you the trauma of reading, I have been finding nodding off to sleep a little hard these past few days. The super student in me refuses to admit exam stress. After all, that how ordinary people feel. Instead, she insists there is some sort of cosmic imbalance in the universe that is refusing to let my brain shut down. But last night, worried, she secretly made me look up tips on inducing sleep. I ignored the usual ideas - brandy, hot milk, waking up early (it was too late for that), etc. - but was rather perturbed by this:

Get up and eat some turkey: Turkey contains tryptophan, a major building block for making serotonin, a neurotransmitter, which sends messages between nerve cells and causes feelings of sleepiness. Note that L-tryptophan doesn't act on the brain unless you eat it on an empty stomach with no protein present, so keep some turkey in the refrigerator for 3 am.

Disturbed, I turned off my laptop. I fell asleep immediately.

'That Was Smooth, SA'

I wonder if by any stretch of the imagination, this could qualify as behaviour caused by 'exam stress'. I was visiting a friend at another student hall this evening. I got into the lift when I was leaving and I noticed a thirty five odd year old looking man with a trendy haircut and a faded leather jacket. He smiled and asked me, 'So, exams over?'

'Not yet.' I replied. 'They only begin Wednesday. You?'

'I'm the warden of this hall.'

'Oh.'

Awkward silence. I rolled my eyes uncomfortably as I do sometimes.

'Err.. well, I don't live here. And actually it's the first time I've been here too.' I justified.

'I often speak to students in the lift.' he said, giving me no indication of what that meant.

So I offered, 'Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't know who the warden of my hall is. I mean, I know of him but I've never really met him.' I waited for a few seconds but did not think. Instead I continued, 'I've emailed him... once, I think. Yeah, but I don't know what he looks like.'

'Bradley. I know him. Young guy.'

'Like you.' I said immediately. 'I mean, I mistook you for a student, after all.'

Finally, after an eternity the lift doors opened on the ground floor. I fled.

Media Panic

new media paradox Silverstone digerati postnational network community Castells self regulation racism Rantanen broadband Press television Milanovich ethnicity gender value chain analysis technology geopolitical supranational Saussure determinism determinism determinism Mansell Voip open software convergence development society experience inequality IPR audience public sphere web Adorno globalisation Hall Said Foucault media postmodernism Kabeer cosmopolitanism representation Harvey migration Appadurai panic deterritorialisation Bourdieu space placelessness communications Baudrillard time Innis space McLuhan resistance Horkheimer power Tambini Habermas displacement virtual place digital divide information culture political economy production distribution consumer Marx money capital labour qualitative postdevelopmentalism state Stiglitz radio public service broadcasting people individuals choices film analogue switchover

The Relative Humour Value of Exam Questions

Here is a question from P's Roman Law paper:

Six months ago, Julian's slave Castratus was persuaded by Drusus to go with him to a men's club in Rome. Castratus, who had formerly lived a sheltered life, has developed a taste for the entertainment on offer. One night he goes there on his own. He begs Primus and Secundus, two senators, to thrash him. They do so. Castratus returns to Julian's villa, but the wounds from the thrashing are so bad that he is unable to work. Julian calls the doctor, Medicus, who puts a home-made ointment on the wounds. Castratus is allergic to the ointment and dies. Shortly afterwards Primus dies, having made a will in which he left a legacy of a hundred gold pieces to Castratus. Julian, seeing Secundus in the forum, shouts after him that he is a pervert and pelts him with rotten fruit. Some of the fruit misses Secundus and hits Tertius. Discuss.

And here is a question from my Theories and Concepts paper:

Media imperialism is dead. Discuss.

Green Green Sky

The shivers that ran down Axl's spine were far from ordinary. They would start around the back of his neck, trickle across his scrawny shoulder blades and down his poky spine, lingering at his tail bone. All this while playing the bass on stage for Markett, one of the new modern jazz outfit in Kobenhavn.

Today they were doing a nifty improvisation of their signature Green Green Sky and her eyes were, for a change, not glued to her kaleidoscope. Instead she had on her glasses but what Axl couldn't see were her ipod earphones hidden in her long hair. She was listening to Ben Harper's Bring The Funk. She nodded her head rythmically. It was cycle of 16 beats. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Boom. 1-2-3-Bang.

The Copenhagen Jazzhouse was filled this Saturday evening. Some had spent their day on their boats on the canal. Their linen jackets said as much. Others like her had vaccumed the house, done laundry and filled in a new job application today.

'Thank you all for a lovely evening. We'd like to end with a cover of Jeep on 35... ' said Valentin. The audience made noises of appreciation. Uh-one-two-three-four...

Axl was the Scandanivian father of peace, not Axl Rose, as he often explained to foreigners like her. 'Who would have imagined that!' she had replied nonchalantly last Friday. 'I need a drink.' The shivers had extended to his stringy arms as he handed her a scotch on the rocks. 'Can I tell you a secret? I really don't much care for jazz.' she said, scrunching up her nose. Axl didn't know how to respond. 'It's a little noisy, you see. Nevermind, how come you play bass? I would think it's quite cumbersome. You know, the whole big whale of a thing...' she asked. 'Well, I...' he started to reply but Valentin had swept her away with an I-want-you-to-meet-these-people gesture.

Jeep 35 trudged the terrain of Markett and arrived in style. Scofield would be proud, he hoped. Or at least their fans would be. It was hard being a musician, most certainly. It was hard trying to be something more than ordinary. It was hard handling the shivers when she wouldn't even listen.

Axl watched her from the corner of his eye. She was smiling at Valentin and gave him the thumbs up sign as he walked off stage. He beamed back.

Boys Are Dumb And Get Angered Easily

This afternoon, P and I got in a bit of an argument on the train from Kings Cross to Cambridge. The last few times he has visited me over the weekend, the passengers have had to get off midway, take a bus part of the way due to weekend work and then get back on a train. It has obviously been an annoyance both to him and to me, also because I have never faced this inconvenience on the weekends that I have been to Cambridge.

So we boarded the train. He fished out his lengthy notes on criminal law and I my extra sweater to prop my head against the window and away we went at 1638 hours. A few minutes into the journey I heard the following announcement:

'This train is for Cambridge, calling at Finsbury Park, Stevenage, Hitchin and Royston. Those passengers heading up North are requested to take the chartered bus at Finsbury Park.'

P nudged me awake, carefully put his criminal law notes back into his bag and got up as the train approached Finsbury Park.

'Why are you getting up?', I asked puzzled.

'We have to get off here. Bloody weekend work. This is the reason why I've been late getting into London so many times.'

'Huh? We don't have to get off. This train is for Cambridge.'

'No, the guy just said we have to get off here. You were sleeping.'

'Err... no. He said people going North should get off here, not us.'

By this time, the train came to a stop, two people got off and I kept sitting. The doors shut and the train proceeded.

'We'll have to get off soon, I'm telling you.' he insisted.

'Ok, whatever.' I said dismissively and nodded off.

An hour or so later the train pulled into Cambridge railway station. We got off and I said, 'See, I told you the train was for Cambridge. I don't know why you thought we had to get off.'

'Maybe this time we didn't have to but the last few times, I have had to get off and take a chartered bus!' said P with gritted teeth.

'Oh god, P! What's the big deal?' I asked.

He ignored me.

I muttered under my breath, 'Boys are so stupid and get annoyed so easily...'

As we walked to his college, I looked into the window of the Tshirt store on Bridge Street. There was a manequin wearing a Tshirt that read: Boys are dumb and get angered easily.

I walked in and bought it.

Make That One Year Please

We have been rolling for a year now.

Thanks everyone.

They Call It 'Being Tagged'

In the spirit of this delightful blogging tradition of tagging, That Armchair Philosopher has invited me to share five unknown things about myself:

1. If one is fairly judged by the company they keep, I fear that this little snippet paints me in a somewhat... unstable light:

A friend (let's call her Fatma and let's make her a Nehru scholar at Cambridge) recently said to me over drinks, 'Snake Anthony, I've been seriously troubled by this dream I had last night.'

'What happened?'

'Oh, it was so vivid...' she shuddered, 'I had six fingers. SIX, Snake Anthony, SIX! It was so frightening. I couldn't decide which was my middle finger that I could stick up at people!'

2. As a little girl, I fancied myself as an air hostess or a secretary because the two most remarkable and inspirational people I knew - my father's secretary and my mother's best friend - were in these professions. As I grew older, I came to understand that it wasn't so much the glamour of these jobs that I fancied but the dedication and passion that these two women brought to their work. I am not quite sure what I will be doing 9-5 once I graduate but I know for certain, I will always try to be as enthusiastic and committed as they are.

3. I amuse myself by conversing with media theorists in the margins of their pdf readings. 'How wonderfully vague' and 'Easy for you to say!' are some of my more frequent scribbles. But like I mentioned in one of my previous posts, McLuhan's prophetic writing silences me:

'When we lose nature as a direct experience we lose a balancing wheel, the touchstone of natural law. With or without drugs, the mind tends to float free into the dangerous zone of abstractions.'

from The Global Village: Tranformations in World Life & Media in the 21st Century (1989)

4. I confess that I have been setting back the feminist movement by a few decades. Yes, it is true, I cry at airports and the results are miraculous - inexpensive tickets suddenly appear and several kilos of my luggage over the weight limit are suddenly dismissed. If all my attempts at a mainstream career should fail, do watch out for The Snake Anthony School of Airport and Other Tricks.

5. And here, a spurious one for good luck, as one of my Philosophy professors would say: I ate for lunch a smoked ham and cheese panini and large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

There!

I tag Jerry, Basho, Young Thos, Scritch and Jon.

It's... How Do You Call It?

At the height of essay writing frenzy this week, Snake Anthony and three friends were at Leon for lunch one sunny London afternoon. They chose the Tuk Tuk salad, the chicken wrap, the lemon ginger and mint quencher, the Morrocan meatballs and organic brown rice and the pea and mint soup with brown pitta.

'So how would you describe this food?' asked Kristen.

'Organic?' said Sharon.

'Just organic, you think?' replied Kristen.

'Well, I don't know. Sorta Middle Eastern too...' offered Bekah.

Intense silence.

'Post-modern, you mean.' said Snake Anthony.

Three heads nodded in agreement.

Too Cool For School

So it appears to be acceptable to quote All Along The Watchtower in academic discourses on cosmopolitanism..

if you are Homi Bhabha, Dipesh Chakrabarty and their inner circle.

Much of the Truth Lies in Shadows

We Are Rolling is an anonymous blog for the standard reason of the author wanting her thoughts and expression to be appreciated (or not) for themselves and not for its source. As a result, I have often found it difficult to write about certain things for fear of revealing my identity. But I realise as I approach the first year mark that this cannot carry on forever. I must confess that I have more to write about than inanities like eggs, currency notes or magic beans and would like to share some of my more cerebral thoughts, which sadly, emanate from my academic interests. I am student of Media. There you have it: the truth. Though do not forget that much of the truth lies in shadows. There is more to this facet of me, mired in wanting to be more than a student, a traveler, a woman.

Studying Media is an intriguing 'activity' because every once in a while you'll read something that'll jolt your little world. Marshall McLuhan has been more successful in doing this to me (and I reckon, to many others). You might know him from his famous expressions 'the global village' or the more ominous 'the medium is the message'. For me, as a Media student, the less obvious lines send chills down my spine. Who is the hell is Nostradamus? This man takes foresight to a whole new level! In the early 1960s, McLuhan wrote that print culture would soon be replaced by what he called 'electronic interdependence'. Note, this was the early 1960s; fax machines weren't even used until the 1970s, let alone cell phones or the internet.

And here is what I find most eerie - 'users will simultaneously become producers and consumers' from The Global Village: Tranformations in World Life & Media in the 21st Century, co-authored by Bruce Powers, published in 1989 after McLuhan's death in 1980. I am baffled. How did he preempt the postmodern era of media non-ideology in which YouTube and Amazon and Wikipedia are leaders in this marketplace dynamic? Or, 'communication media of the future will accentuate the extensions of our nervous systems, which can be disembodied and made totally collective'. How did he know of the blogosphere and e-activism and the fact that for an alarmingly large population of the world our cell phones and keyboards are quite simply extensions of our arms and minds?

Much of the truth lies in shadows.

I rest my case.

Untitled

Aniruddha was a little disconcerted to find this email in his inbox one morning:

Dear Aniruddha,

Thank you for applying to the Department of South and Southeast Asian Studies at Berkeley. I regret to inform you that you have not been accepted for graduate study. Our admissions committee has reviewed all of the materials submitted with your application. Its members have the difficult task ofselecting those with the strongest overall records. Equally important is the selection of those applicants (from a pool of well-qualified candidates) who are the best fit with our program's language and literature emphasis. Each of our six language groups must draw from the small allotment ofadmissions permitted our department. As a result, unfortunately, we are not able to accept many talented applicants. We wish you good luck with your academic goals in the future.

- Lee

Perplexed, he replied:

Dear Dr. Amazonas,

I am really surprised to recieve this mail of a rejection of the application for admission, as I haven't applied to the South and Southeast Asian Studies at Berkely in the first place. Therefore, I do not understand this mail and its purpose. A kind clarification would help, if it so pleases you.

Thank you,
Yours sincerely,

Aniruddha

Clarification soon arrived:

Dear Aniruddha,

Please accept my deepest apologies for this error and any distress my mistake caused you. I did not catch this error and am truly sorry for this.

Sincerely,
Lee Amazonas

Musk

With the impatience of his generation

he abandoned his fountain pen.

He chose instead a sip of first flush Darjeeling

because of a butterfly that fluttered past.

Under his pillow, the butterfly kept

some kernels of musk to seep

into his dreams, till warm sunlight

tickled his eyelids awake.

They flocked to the sea one day but

the clouds were debating a storm.

The butterfly laughed at the thunder while

he watched in astonished silence.