Lecture

I am sitting in my second to last college class this quarter. I teach an Interdisciplinary Writing Link for the English dept and my link is with Asian American Studies. Since my students are taking both courses, I come to the AAS class to find out what they are learning. The professor is a great speaker; he tells jokes and tries to engage his audience of 175 by asking questions. He knows how to pitch his voice to emphasize the important points in his lecture. And I can tell that sometimes, he enjoys teaching. I (sadly) never took the course in college because I was too busy failing Chemistry (why I ever thought I could take on the medical world, I'll never know - some screwed up form of idealism perhaps). I also never took Art History, Sociology, Anthropology or Political Science. I was definitely not well-rounded when I left UCLA. Now, as I finish my PhD this year, I keep thinking about how much more I wish I had learned.

The first day of classes (college or otherwise) were always my favorite. I would buy fresh notebooks and stock my backpack with sharpened pencils, sweet smelling erasers and sexy pens (and the perfect outfit of course). I would sit in the third of fourth row, crack the notebook open and slowly sketch the name of the course, B-i-o-l-o-g-y 103. Prof. Campbell. Spring 2000. And then I would wait, with my knees slightly shaking, for the learning to begin. Would this professor be a fair grader? Would I be able to keep up with the reading? Would I be bored? While the first two questions had multiple answers, the third was almost always a no, usually (Prof. Stuart's Literary Theory course was so uncontrollably boring that my friend and I would spend more time guessing which color sweater he would wear instead of paying attention to his lectures. He had nine of the same sweater, all in various shades of pastel. We went to class to see who won the bet). The over-achieving geek in me loved, truly lovely, school. Some subjects obviously came more easily than others, but I relished the thought of finding out something completely new. I liked being taken into an area of the world that was foreign to me.

I will miss sitting in lectures, breaking in new notebooks, roaming corridors of frenzied students, organizing notes with multi-colored pens, and hosting late night study sessions when I leave academia this year. I've spent the better part of my twenties in school and I have no regrets. When I see my relatives during the holidays, they continually ask, "when are you done?" (Note: I've rephrased the question to sound less judgmental here) Most of the time, I tell them, "this year for sure - you're coming to graduation right?" And while it is no secret that I am genuinely ready to be done with this program, sometimes the real answer is: never, I hope. I like being a student. After being in grad school for so long, I sometimes think that the only people who really understand me are my grad school friends. Only they know what it is like to be reaching the highest level of education and still feel completely inadequate in many ways. They can vouch for the unwavering fear one feels when approaching PhD exams. Only they know what it means to put seven years into something because you love it, even if no job exists for you on the other end. It seems clear to me that many of my non-academic friends and family members find me to be an oddball for doing a PhD in Literature (because, really, what can I do with that?). But being a perpetual student has taught me more about myself than anything else. And for that, I am unconscionably thankful. I know that I can always (and probably will) take courses in the future, but nothing will compare to my years of being a student. So, I'll go to Prof. Jung's AAS lecture as much as I can, because I can. And then, I'll gladly put on the hood.

Diwali

When I moved to Seattle, I knew absolutely no one. I did not have any family here and although I would make great friends in grad school and beyond, I missed many of the cultural rituals I had with my parents. I missed going to the beach and throwing colored powders on friends during Holi. I really hated when I couldn't tie a rakhi on my brother's hand for Rakshabandan. But missing Diwali and Indian new year was the worst experience.

Diwali is the festival of lights and it commemorates the return of Lord Ram (and his wife Sita and brother Lakshman) after 14 years of exile. The five-seven day celebration in October or November (depending on the Indian calendar) takes place all over India as people take holiday to spend time with family, set off firecrackers and make copious amounts of food. Diwali is like Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years all in one. My parents would wake me and my brother at 5am (we were NOT happy about this!) on Diwali and take us to the temple. The gods would be adorned with colors of all shapes and every food imaginable would be presented to them. Kachoris, samosas, rotis, dhoklas, and a thousand pounds of burfis and mitais - thank you lord! We would pray for a prosperous and successful year ahead and then, we would feast. My entire Los Angeles family would be there - friends, relatives, family-friends, etc. I loved the collectivity of the whole adventure - hundreds of people giving thanks, singing hymns, and bowing heads in moments of gratitude. I felt very safe in that crowded environment. One would think that this occasion merits smiles on every face. And this was the case for most people, but I cried every year. I cried because I was sorry that I yelled at my mother or got a B in Chemistry. I cried because I missed my grandparents who could not be with us. I cried because I was so unbelievably grateful that I had this moment to remind me of the treasures in my life. As I looked around the temple, all I could think was: How lucky am I?!

As my first Diwali in Seattle approached, I realized how much I valued my past Diwali rituals. Knowing that I would miss the annual Patel temple run made me feel very empty. The temple was too far away in Seattle and none of my new friends celebrated the occasion. So, I decided to start a new tradition - I asked a few of my friends to join me at an Indian restaurant for dinner. Nine of us crowded around a small table at Cedar's Restaurant and toasted to a new Indian calendar year. As I looked around to see my friends devouring dishes like mango curry, paneer tikka masala and vindaloo, I felt the same communal satisfaction of celebrating Diwali with loved ones as I had in LA. And, I felt at home in Seattle for the first time. I love how young we all look in this picture!

This new Diwali ritual has turned into an annual Diwali dinner for me and my friends in Seattle. As some friends move away, others become part of the tradition. I look forward to it every year - more than my friends probably know. In our busy lives, I am very grateful that we all find time to gather and celebrate my heritage. I'm beginning to realize also that I genuinely respect rituals. I like looking forward to events, dinners, occasions that have generated such warm memories in the past. I like the comfort of repetition and safety of tradition (and repeating tasty bites of Himalayan Kofta isn't so bad either). I like knowing I have a history with peoples, places and holidays. Happy Diwali everyone and Sal Mubarak!

Groceries

It was the name Richards from Texas gave Elizabeth Gilbert when she was in India going through her "Eat, Pray, Love" adventures. He gave it to her because she ate a lot. And by that definition, I probably deserve the name too. It is no secret that I adore food and recently, I've really started cooking quite often - lots of daals, soups, stir frys and the occasional fruit cobbler. But cooking requires a constant supply of groceries and being car-less makes this chore quite tricky. While I don't look forward to the lugging of grocery bags through rain in Seattle, I do love being in a grocery store.

I walk in and the immediate hustle of hungry people hits me. On my left, electronic cash registers beep $3.49 for peaches and $2.19 for yogurt. On my right, the largest display of baked goods imaginable (why do you need to tempt me from the beginning?). I turn left and deposit bundles of apples, bananas and carrots into my cart. Then, some seasonal veggies - delicata squash and maybe some seriously yummy parsnips. I travel down every aisle, even though I make a detailed grocery list. Eggs, tomatoes, oatmeal, spinach, olive oil and broccoli please, with a little helping of whole grain bread and veggie bacon. Generally, I stick to the list but I allow myself one or two crazy, new or unfamiliar indulgences that seem exceptionally appetizing that day (today it was Pom pomegranate juice). I check out what other people are buying and see if its on sale. Sometimes, I mentally yell at my fellow shoppers - No, tall guy in the red shirt! Please don't do that to your digestive track!

I usually leave my cell phone at home when I go to the grocery store. I don't like to be disturbed when I compare the sugar content of pasta sauces. I like to take my time in the ethnic foods section - finding the right salsa for my mood is essential to a happy work week. Who knew that I would find banana flavored Honey Bunches of Oats cereal or Pumpkin Spice coffee creamer when I entered the store for everyday items like garlic and waffles? Do I *need* these items - not really. Will I get them anyway - probably. By the time I reach the last aisle, more than an hour has passed and my feet are a bit achy. Yet, I feel replenished, rejuvenated, and generally very excited about my purchases. I never buy gum at the counter.

I see grocery shopping as an opportunity - to try something new, to discover something unknown, and to generally inspire me to cook. Genuinely, I have a lot of fun doing it. Although, I would change a few things. In the United States, Americans are fortunate enough to have glorious stores filled with a large variety of produce, dairy items and meats. But, I agree with Raj Patel's Stuffed and Starved notion that imbalances in food varieties have created severe obesity in many parts of the world. My corner Safeway could stand to have curry leaves or the ivy gourd (tindora) once in a while. The produce section should be at least half of the store. Also, why do so many of these vegetables taste like all of the flavor has been sucked out of them by mean truck drivers? I rather eat seasonally than bite into a dry, watery peach. So, here is my message: Dear grocery story, Thank you for creating a nice shopping atmosphere, but can you please stop offering me the tasteless tomato and bring forth a less traveled veggy? Also, can you smell like apple pie once in a while?

Unexpected

She has a lot of roles - confidant, therapist, scolder, listener, sister, disciplinarian, ego-booster - but Shubha's primarily role is my best friend. I met Shubha during my last year at UCLA. I was a senior finishing up my language requirements in Hindi and she was a freshman. I don't remember if we hit it off right away (she has a better memory than I do) but she soon became my homework buddy. When I graduated, Shubha and I kept in touch because our lives always seemed to run parallel. When I had relationship problems, so did she. When I needed advice on academic or family stuff, she did too. And now we are both completing our PhDs. We created a bond from sameness.

Shubha is still the only person who "sees" me. She hears the tremors in my voice when I'm worried or scared or just abnormal (occurring too often these days). She can fix my confused states of mind with one suggestion. She can sense the shifts in my life before I can. And she knows all remedies. (And yes, she exists in real life!) I'm beyond thankful for her of course. We often joke about sending each other window-sized thank you cards. But all hahas aside, I feel so ridiculously blessed. It is so incredibly important to connect with people. Not just to talk to them about the weather or wish them luck with an exam, but really take down the various faces we wear and just be completely ourselves - vulnerable, awkward, unclear.

I've always been really threatened and upset by departure. I hate when important everyday things leave my life. I mourned for four days at the loss of some curious george stickers in grade school. I almost threw a funeral ceremony when I had to retire my most comfortable pajama bottoms. And loved ones - grandparents, friends, boyfriends - were unbearable losses. Now its time to count the gifts. The vodka tonic glass is half full right? So many things in my life have found their way to me when I needed them most. I didn't know I needed them, didn't really know why they came when they did, but hindsight (that miserable know-it-all) makes me really grateful that the unexpected has magically (miraculously) found its way to me. Thanks Shubha (yes, I know how inadequate that sounds).

Tea

Sweet embers of mint waft through the apartment as I hurriedly jump into a pair of PJs and end a day filled with grading, teaching, writing, thinking, meeting, standing, walking, emailing, filing, and many many other th-ings. There is something comforting to ending the day with a cup of hot herbal tea. Tonight - Sweet Peppermint as I stare out of my apartment windows to find a sea of Autumn. I like to put on a big bulky cable sweater, sink into my futon, wrap myself with a blanket and sip on tea while watching TV. Instant meditation.

I really disliked tea when I was growing up. At home, it was chai - a very adult and pungent liquid that my parents drank at least three times a day. My young palate vehemently rejected cardamom and ginger and the caffeine made me feel like I'd eaten a pound of Halloween candy. I began to miss chai when I came to Seattle. The colder (than Cali) winters made me crave warmth and I started to make chai just to remember what my parents house smelled like in the morning. Chai drinking became a way for me to return home. It's still has the same effect.

My Seattle friends (and many in SD as well) introduced me to the pleasures of herbal tea. Whereas my Californians and I usually had coffee dates, friends in Seattle would ask to "have tea" instead. I started slow with familiar milk teas like Assam and Darjeelings. Then, I moved on to more floral teas - hibiscus, jasmine, and anything with peppermint. And now, I love them all - blackberry, lichee, creme brulee, earl grey, chamomile, rooibos, and even yerba mate. Tea has become a continual source of indulgence because it never fails to comfort. Now, I seek out tea houses in the area (like the Kuan Yin Teahouse in Wallingford) to spend time chatting with girlfriends or doing some serious revision work over a cup of pink chai. And, for a young woman who lives alone, a cup of tea can tell stories, generate peace of mind, forgive the errors of the day, and generally - put a smile on my face. Now back to my steaming cup of peppermint...

Headlights

I live in an old Gothic style hotel conversion in Seattle. The lobby looks like it still lives in the 1930s and my 8th floor apartment is adorned with french doors, parquet floors and ten windows. The view of the university and surrounding streets is magnificent and it changes by season. In the fall, I'm continually floored by the expanse of reds and golds and oranges. In the winter, after the leaves shed from the trees, I can catch glimpses of Lake Washington and the Cascades. And the spring and summer are majestic.

But my favorite view from these windows comes after sunset. The top half of the windows are pitch black from darkness. But the bottom half are my own personal Christmas light show. As cars honk their way down 45th Ave, their headlights and tail lights flicker through the trees, creating a glittery effect that resembles twinkle lights. These flashes remind me of two things: the constant movement of the world and the need for perspective. Even though I live alone, these movements are my companions in a way. They remind me that people and places and things are continually making left turns, fluid to the rules and boundaries they pass. They remind me that there are worthy destinations. And they give proof of the simultaneity of the world. What is the driver in the teal Saturn worrying about as I sit staring at Hugh Laurie on House? What must my brother be doing as I mentally yell at my students while grading papers? How many other people are cooking bread pudding at exactly the same time as I am? There are so many maneuvers in the same moment. I'm just one peon with one set of worries and one set of problems, no bigger or smaller than the flashing lights. I love staring out of these windows.

Namaste

I imagine I will be saying Namaste a number of times, so this one is the first. The beginnings of things are always double-sided for me. The newness invites me in, yet the unknown invites me out. These feelings reside simultaneously in most activities in my life. That means that I've had the luxury of many many beginnings and I hope to continue them. This new beginning (blog writing) has been creeping at the edges of my life for many years. I've often thought about starting a blog - but I was always off put by the public-ness of my private thoughts. Does anyone really need to know what I'm thinking? Am I really that self-promoting to suggest that my thoughts NEED to be out in public? The answer (I hope) is yes and no. I decided, adamantly, to remove the "need" from these thoughts and just write because I like to. I also began this project as a way to keep track of the details. If Oprah is right (and she often is), that love is in the details, than I'd really like to remember them. More importantly, I would really like others to remember them. I would like to remember the small important things, not just in the large rollercoaster moments of life, but in the everyday.

I sometimes wish I had my paternal grandfather's old diary. Dinubhai Patel was a professor of Philosophy and as I began my PhD in English Lit at UW, I wanted to know what he was thinking. Was he as scared as I was? (Probably not). Did he love and hate grad school the same way I did? (Possibly). I wonder what he would tell me about the rigors of this field. I wish I could read his words and let them advise me as I dig deeper into academia. But no such diary exists and its been more than 10 years since his passing. The stories others tell me about Dada usually find two forms. He was frugal and he was ridiculously warmhearted. He loved his students, his family, and his work. He wrote ferociously (I imagine) because he had papers all around the cozy Juhu flat he shared with Ba. Oh! to get my hands on some of his writing. Dada has inspired so much of my work, adventure, and direction in life. I'll write this blog, for me and anyone who might one day wish to carry me on their journey for a while (as I too often carry Dada). So, on this inaugural entry, I wish to say, Namaste Dada.