2006-09-29 - 3:58 p.m.

Desification

I've had a good time the past few weeks with Jas, Ravi, Amit, Hardjit an da bredrens from Londonstani the past few weeks.

Dear God: Why did you make me such an Indophile? What's my cosmic link to the subcontinent and its diaspora?

Yeah, I know... Orientalism goes by many different names. (On that note, I'm enjoying a new blog, Sepia Mutiny, which I recently discovered.)

Of course, this book was as much, if not more, about current youth culture in the UK. I enjoyed the character Sanjay's digression on his theory of "Bling-Bling Economics":

“— Joke away, Amit, but the truth is you don’t really have any options, goes Sanjay. — Well, of course you do have the option of listening to Radiohead, taking a relatively low-paid job and reading lots of books to make you feel like you’ve got a wealthy mind or soul or whatever. But if that isn’t the path you choose then I’m afraid this is it, guys. It’s not greed, it’s just the way it is. Believe me, I’ve thought a lot about this, I used to be Mr Ashwood’s favourite dork, remember. But there’s no Marxist alternative any more. The fall of communism, the rise of bling. If this urban scene or society you belong to judged you by the number of books you’d read then maybe you could join a library, big yourselves up for free and give Mr Ashwood an orgasm of his own while you’re at it. But it doesn’t.”

There were also scores of passages that made me laugh out loud:

“He was setting it all up on Hardjit’s bed when Hardjit’s mum came in the room with her tied-back silver hair an matchin silver tray full a samosas, pakoras, glasses a Coke an cups a chai. Aunty always made sure her samosas weren’t as hollow as most aunties made them, her pakoras not too oily, her chai not too masalafied an her Coke not too flat an with slices a lemon an some crushed ice made by their top-a-the-range fridge. We could’ve done without the red chilli sauce, though, and I’m positive we din’t look like we needed frilly pink paper doilies.

— Shukriya, Auntyji, we all said like cheerleaders as she placed the tray on the desk. Each a us then gives it another Shukriya as she handed us a mini-plate an then Shukriya again as she put a dollop a that red napalm in it. Gotta respect your elders, innit.

— Koi gal nahi, Hardjit’s mum replied. — You all boys must be verry hungery after college. So much studying, too too hard, I don’t know, poor beycharay.

She shook her head in that special way that only aunties can. Not up an down but not side to side either. More like a wobble, a really jiggly wobble meanin either she really meant what she was sayin or she’d got rolls a rasmalai for neck flab. All that noddin and wobbling made her light blue sari rub against itself so hard it sounded like some old-skool DJ scratchin vinyl.”

Good times. At some point this weekend I'll heat up the last of the leftover keema matar I recently whipped up. (Yeah, that's right, listen up all you gay desi Krishnas looking for your gora gay Radha.)