Snow Problem

It would have been a rather pedestrian (the irony of which will become apparent later) week now that a routine of Physics (adding Physics into any mix of things always makes them a little more funny) and alcohol was firmly established (as Dr. H—said "We will be using ethanol as a solvent, a chemical which I believe that all of you are well acquainted with") if not for the icy fingers of winter wrapping themselves around our necks.

Like "icy fingers" or "winter wonderland", the snow and cold have various cheesy connotations associated with them, not in the least those that incite the babbling madness that overtakes sensible (and not-so-sensible) students and propels them into the frigid death-trap that is a winter night, if only to coo uncontrollably at ice flakes falling from the sky. Such is the overly romanticised treatment that many people give to snow.

While a pristine landscape coated in pure white does lend a hint of beauty to otherwise pallid surroundings, the benefits, if we may call them that, which snow brings to us are not at all commensurate with the immense annoyances they cause. Indeed, snow is a terribly pretty thing, probably the dressiest, flashiest weather phenomenon there is, something like a white grand piano. The first ever time anyone sees snow there is a rush of euphoria at its uniqueness and an element of curiosity, as it is with other new experiences. But thereafter the rationality ends, and I find it difficult to comprehend how people from Scotland, the glacial wasteland of Britain where people are probably now cowering in igloos under an ice cap in the heart of freezing Glasgow, cannot cease becoming a gibbering idiot in the face of white flecks drifting from the sky like some unmanageable dandruff of nature.

And after the first time, it becomes as maddening. Snow is fun to peer at with a mug of hot chocolate in front of a heater, during the weekend. In fact, it does make us feel at peace with the world and that nature is at it's heart benevolent. But apparently snow was designed at a time when people didn't really need to go anywhere, because it is a major hindrance to any form of locomotion short of scrounging around on one's knees. Many of the modern vulgar vernacular must have been invented by people who had to fish around in a foot of snow to even find their bicycles.

But I do exaggerate, as people tend to do with such things like the weather or size of fish/houses/automobiles, and we've only had a couple of inches of snow. One always has to sympathise with the people who have to deal with the real, apocalyptic, life-destroying blizzards like those in Canada, or Russia. But those have turned into so much of a way of life that extremes of snowfall are treated with the same cursory nod that one might give a Burger King cashier. Over here there tends to be a little bit of a doomsday complex. Headlines that scream "Arctic Weather dumps an inch of snow on B--"; an inch? Terrifying, I say.

Nevertheless, because snow is such a rare occurrence over here (almost as rare as Classics students, or my Natwest bank statement) I tend now to look upon it more misty-eyed than I would any other weather phenomenon, which snow basically is, water in its most annoying state.

2
Reflections, like a good cut of meat (or more romantically, like shooting stars), shine for only the most fleeting of moments. After the briefest window of opportunity, any thoughts back to a period are only memory, and that makes them both hazy and quixotic. So it is rather regretful then that I it is only now that I get around to continuing my contemplations about my (by now) rather memorable trip to India, about which I think I still talk, and think, a little too frequently.

People are always the main focus of any trip, even recreational ones. Between the twin attractions of sights and scenery and the locals, we possess different means by which to remember them. Old cathedrals and ancient mountains are best remembered wistfully while thumbing through a glossy photo album, shiny photos, in their jackets, of snow-capped mountains framing smiling faces, and the physical manifestation is the only part that we can remember because we cannot interact with scenery like we do with people. People, on the other hand, are always remembered by what we said to them and what they uttered back to us, more memorably in their broken variety of our language, as well as the unspoken gestures proffered by them. Photos of these people, with these people are superfluous, serving only the function like that of a security guard opening up the wondrous superstore of memories that we have about them.

That being said, I did take a few photos of the Indian village peoples and some with them, but only in a petit mal of touristic energy. Neither can I recall much about the few sentences of garbled English that transpired between me and the average shopkeep, or farmer, or housewife. Much of the store of memories lie in their actions, which can never be captured without marring their original intent and purpose.

Our intent however, was clear right from the start. At its very basis our aim was to help these people because, obviously, someone thought that they needed assistance and that we were equipped to provide such a service to them. This seemed like a straight-forward enough transaction, if we may dilute the meaning of that by introducing a financial term to it. However, early into our trip, the distinction between the benefactor and the beneficiary started to blur.

We made our foray into the village late morning, having heaped our dinner plates at the lavish buffet of urban pleasures that B-- had to offer - running water, electricity, Star World, and so on, in view of the "deprivation" that we would soon be suffering. As we ventured further from the city, the rural transformation accelerated until finally we were travelling on sandy, pot-holed roads. Naturally, this being all scenery that we would see again countless times, we tossed it to the back of our heads.

There had always been some sort of expectation that, being foreign and unique to these villagers whose worldview was so insular that they had never seen any non-Indians before (though some had colour televisions, which was surprising), we would receive a specialist, nearly super-star treatment, as if we were demi-gods and the like (this is a favourite analogy). And indeed we did, being mobbed by small children and wizened old men alike, clamouring to know our names (and indeed, only our names due to their limited grasp of English) and all wanting a piece of the action. Imagine what you would do if a god or deity (of your choice, or none at all), were to come to your neighbourhood - there is always a host of reactions; stunned awe or a frenzied dash to touch him (or her, for political correctness' sake) or perhaps something else. This was a whole gamut of emotional outpouring that we saw, a cross-section of the reactions of a whole peoples to a singular event and we could not help but to somehow be touched by such a plain, wholesome outpouring of emotion that simply could not have occurred in the urban settings we were accustomed to.

However, unlike us, who tire so rapidly of something novel in the face of a host of other, ever more inventive things to toy with, such a fountain of fascination never ceased to flow even in the rather long span of time that we spent there. In later days it proved to be somewhat of an annoyance, even a hindrance. But initially, it made us feel terribly good, that feeling of appreciation that we all crave, to feel 'special', particularly for those who are not naturally pre-disposed towards friends; a yearning for human interaction.

I felt a rush of joy upon encountering such a situation, naturally. I don't think that if anyone were to bring about Middle East Peace, international nuclear disarmament and a cure for AIDS would he shake as many hands as I did in that time. But at the back of this I was wondering about our roles being turned on their heads.

TBC

The Last Meal
It is heart-wrenchingly ironic that, shortly after writing a completely flippant and grandiose article about food I was to be wracked by a bout of stomach-ransacking gastritis, as if a cautionary tale against future gastronomic (and probably literary) preferences. Either because I was basking in smugness about the perceived humour (henceforth deemed absent) of that article or because the lining of my stomach was bathing in syrupy, tissue-destroying acid, I was unable to materialise some of the writing ideas that were bobbing around in my head, for example finishing off the undoubtedly important and enriching reflections on my trip to India.

In fact, such a literary impasse ground on my nerves even more as I read the blogs of people (something that, to me, is like perusing pornography ? done by many, vehemently denied by all) whom I knew and found, amongst the customary pedestrian occurrences of their lives, certain gems of articles of profuse insight and thought-provoking issues that no doubt showed off their status as mavericks in this field. I, on the other hand, had purposely chosen to depart from heavy, leaden articles that debate the history and philosophy of material life, pieces that people scan through and nod meaningfully at, as though they were surgeons peering at an X-ray film, or people fingering their chins, gazing at some work of Picasso's or Monet's, and thus made whatever writing I have done so far seem facetious and unimportant.

Much as I would like to return to such a style, I've realised that I probably haven't the moral or psychological calibre to bear the brunt of such (close-to-)daily ruminations that weighs on the spirit like a sack of coconuts and casts a pall on the outlook like a December sky. Invariably it induces us to negativity, somewhat an old friend, but like some of my old friends has drifted further away, a negativity that, while is not nihilistic, tints our perception. Hence I have tried to be positive, an attempt which entails the embrace of triviality, in my writing while still trying to deal with certain pertinent (and definitely more personal) issues. As I like to think of it, pondering the meaning of one's life and alter-lives (like dreams, or the lives of others) reminds me of generals standing around this massive map of the world pushing mini-models of battleships and tanks to and fro, theoretically deciding the fate and course of the lives of millions, but not actually doing it.

While I still do my fair share of such things (pushing model submarines in the swirling ocean of the mind), just not on paper, it seems to readers of my old writings that I might actually have lost the plot (or, having actually lost the plot it is only I who have such a perception that others are thinking that I'm only knitting with one needle, or am just one fry short of a Happy Meal). Well certainly on demand I am sure I could conjure up something but it would not be the same (as people always say, even though they are equivalent), and, amongst other blogs in the same vein of trying to match meaning to matter this could be totally refreshing if it were aiming to do so, like a can of Fanta Pineapple.

You may take this as evidence that my writing has gone out to lunch whose quality is collapsing quicker than a Nigerian Viagra pyramid selling scheme. Indeed, in the bristling thicket of excellent writing from my peers this is like the gristle in your hamburger. However, the products of madmen have always held certain merit, like that of van Gogh or Virginia Woolf, and while I do not lay claim to such a similarity, I needed to churn this out to reset the glut that has elapsed since that last article, that still leaves a foul taste in my mouth, like that left by an inferior cigar.

Orient Excess
"I guess we ought to be glad the fucking Japanese don't provide UN food aid often."

Some people look forward to a meal at a Japanese restaurant with Dickensian zeal, but others absolutely detest Japanese food, its philosophy, and the very molecules that comprise its originators. Such was the pacific gulf that scythed through my brother and I as we were treated to lunch at a very respectable Japanese establishment.

Such restaurants may often be divided into two types (or classes even, with all its associated connotation) – there is the sort with the entire Zen philosophy, of minimalism and simplicity (which are unfortunately often also flawless excuses for non-existent portions and charging for the ambience) and usually situated in more upmarket places patronised by those, with the requisite wallet thickness, who appreciate the value (indeed!) of such painstaking efforts. Then there are the more folkish restaurants emphasising more on the general aspects of Japanese food, i.e. the food itself. Often set up to cash in on the unflinching devotion of the public for things Japanese, such restaurants mimic the function, and not the form, of Japanese cuisine, but of course there has to be the imitation of the setting itself, for without the Japanese style décor to eat in one would feel rather cheated and unsettled, for, even if tatami mats and paper screens don't contribute directly to the taste of the food, to eat, say, in a room with plain walls and normal tables would be like eating foie gras out of a grimy tin can.

Though I enjoy the pleasures of many aspects of Japanese culture, which are multi-various, I've always suffered from what I like to call "Nanking Massacre Syndrome", that is, being a Chinese we should not embrace the vile ways of Japanese running dogs and instead bathe away the shame of our forefathers with the blood of our Japanese enemies! In more rational terms, it means that I've been afraid to publicly and totally embrace the seductions of Japanese culture because of the massive enmity between them and us the Chinese. Of course this is totally feudal and anachronistic that even my grandmother, bless her, who suffered interminably under the Japanese boot, enjoys Japanese cooking in her capacity as a seriously good chef. Still, I didn't overcome the syndrome despite the tendrils of Japanese influence creeping further around me (altogether a rather uniquely Japanese image in itself, albeit one of a rather dubious and shocking nature) in culinary, literary and artistic terms. Even though this influence became rather obvious after a while (being caught dead with a volume of Murakami's) I was always reluctant to profess anything more than a limited fascination for it.

Of course I wouldn't talk about something as mundane as a visit to eat the unfortunately-named and hence enormously popular Japanese paper steamboat if it didn't have some significance of sorts. Because, unfunny and inconsequential as it may seem, like a click of the fingers to awaken someone from a hypnotic trance, the words of a waitress (it is rather odd how the nicest of restaurants often have some of the ugliest staff) induced me to snap out of my syndrome. The words themselves are forgettable, but it led me of course to realise that we can have our choice picks of the overflowing global cultural smorgasbord without feeling guilt like having a Pizza Hut buffet on the Atkin's diet. My concern, about historical undertones, amongst others, though inseparable from the culture itself, does not limit us from plucking and enjoying what we adore about it like juicy ripe fruits from a bush. In fact, it is how most cultures have been built up; taking things from here and there, from friends and foes, because the aspects and facets of cultures are, in that sense, without creed or nationality, which we tend to try and impose on any, every iota of it.

So, breathing much easier now, I relished every bit of fishy goodness, and with a renewed vigour, felt a lot more open and earnest about my inclinations towards the bits and bobs of Japanese culture that I enjoy and constantly draw from. Of course, my brother was bubbling in his anger like the gentle pieces of tofu in the stock.

1
Only the inimitable Theroux could have uttered the words "Travel is only glamorous in retrospect"; for all its terse veracity it is often quoted whenever people talk about their trips and holidays. This fact of deferred appeal was also what led me to resist compiling a "blow-by-blow" account of my trip, something that I, in all my ineffectual verbosity, could easily have accomplished, to no end, and the reading of which would be like the consumption of a large round of bland, stringy bread. Much as the progress of a slow fire renders the toughest cuts of beef (already, the absolute deficiency of meat during the trip is beginning to show up in the more unexpected fashions) into tender, juicy (and I could go on forever) chunks of delight, the passage of time smoothes the puckered surfaces and files down the barbs of annoyances during a trip while bathing the pleasures in an even more golden light. It is difficult then, after that trip, to look back upon it without some measure of wistfulness, and that is the radiance that I expect to have as I translate my thoughts.

I had, rather hastily in fact, signed up for the trip in a rush of altruism, to want to make a difference somewhere, for all the usual reasons that volunteers have. I am also glad that never once during the run-up to the trip did I waver in the belief that the trip was for a good cause and that all efforts during the period would have to be directed towards this aim, and not towards any other which, while it would not in the context of recreational travel, would be comparatively frivolous. In fact I might have been overcompensating a little by bringing only the minimal necessities and a token amount of money, in anticipation of the frugal existence I would be leading, and barring circumstances, I would be forcing myself to lead. It was the preparation of the ground such that the maximal of psychological and intellectual benefits could be reaped from such an arrangement – this was the ultimate goal. The situation of the village being a total backwater would also aid in this, that, in the course of helping others, one would have to put aside one's trivial needs and wants in order to achieve that altogether more gracious and dignified end.

But as I think back now, I do think that such an expectation was terribly selfish to have. It was true that our lives were stripped of almost all material comforts that we almost mandatorily afford ourselves, things like running water, flushing toilets, beds and the like – technically unnecessary for survival, but not for a cushy life to be led. Often the greatest inspiration arises from the poorest of conditions, like so for Pythagoras, or van Gogh or Edison. But that is also a consolation for those who are deprived of such luxury because it leads them to think that austerity is virtue. In stark contrast to the subject of the fifth commandment, I too, lacking these conveniences, thought in that way. Somehow, in this perceived zero-sum game, massive and enlightening revelations were awaiting me as I eked out a rather (but not the most) basic survival-existence.

As the days progressed then, I began to drop such a pretentious assumption, for, one day, whilst playing with tops with the village children, and staring in disbelief as my top flopped to the dusty ground as the children performed amazing spinning feats with theirs, that no, we are selfishly accepting such an ascetic lifestyle for terribly selfish reasons, that is, as above, in the hope that it would help us think and succeed in self-introspection, but also, less obviously, it was like buying back the childhood, or the past that one never got to experience and could only gaze upon through the medium of old books and stories of elders, in the Dickensian way that the matchbook girl gazed through the frosty windows of the rich. Or it was like how people who have made it big, in the dregs of their lives, trying to barter their wealth for the return of the youth that they never did get to enjoy because it was exhausted in constructing their prosperous and secure futures. So while through the work of our forebears we need not lead lives such as this, of having to draw water from a well or plucking fruit from a tree, we still look upon such a lifestyle with anticipation because it is such an attractive respite, an escapist fantasy to the polar antithetical equivalent of the largely similar lives that we lead currently. And because such a transaction could easily be completed by exchanging it for some money and perfunctory service it seems like such a narcissistic and mercenary thing to do.

This of course was a hit on the well of altruism that was slowly filling in the course of our service, because then it lost its innocent sheen of wanting to help others and took on the unfortunate connotation of being done for a reward, non-monetary, but still contrary to the spirit of volunteerism. Naturally, the harder one worked, though the more one would feel that it was worthwhile, but also the more that one would suspect that the exchange rate for the wonderful things that were happening to one was being augmented.

Such a feeling abated after a while, because then the lifestyle melded into the things that one would consider "normal" and any comparison to the "original" was then minimal. It was now not one of the ways, but the only way. Simplicity is something that is rather difficult to explain; there is just something about working like a dog under the broiling sun for the better part of a day, then bathing in cool well water and then to sleep at 8pm that tingles the mind, and leaves it ready for the repetition of this the next day.

TBC