Burma, CPM, and Football Trippiness

On occasion, people ask me what it’s like to live in a state run by Marxists. In many ways, I hesitate to answer because you’re never quite sure what it is you’re actually seeing in India. People far more intelligent than I have made a mess of trying to explain this country. For every diction, there’s a contradiction. And you never quite feel good about yourself, or sure of your footing, because really, it’s bigger than you are. Continue reading →


Calcutta Dining. It’s Chilli.

I appear to have made an unconscious decision to sear a hole through my gastrointestinal tract.  Or so it seems when I think of Calcutta and my favorite meals.  I don’t want to offend, but I’ve never been a fish favorer, and though Bengali cooking is pleasant enough, it doesn’t hold a candle to Andhra’s repertoire of dishes, particularly when it comes to spicy intensity.  I long ago killed my taste buds and chances of recognizing subtle hints of thyme in a chicken breast, or that twig of rosemary in lamb, and I’ll thus forever be a fan of big flavors.  So in no particular order, some of my regular, perhaps dull fare.  Note: I get plenty of dal makhni, luchis, aloo dum, and mishti at work functions, so please don’t scream “You’re missing out on Indian food you dumb-ass FSOwalla! Continue reading →

The Bored Generation

Reading someone’s blog recently I was chided for having an internal debate about whether to read Hari Kunzru’s latest novel, My Revolutions.  Frankly, the debate is still on; can’t tell if it’s the subject matter – revolutionaries in the 60s and 70 – or an unwillingness to wander down the Brit desi road again right now (too much attitude).  It thus happened by chance (nothing happens by chance anymore, does it?) that a Kunzru short story recently appeared in the New Yorker. Continue reading →