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.)