Tag Archives: dhillon
The “Miss Representation” Trailer, Crazy Feminists, and A Hillarious “Got Milk” Advertisement Campaign That is Not Sexist At All.
Got P.M.S.? Get Milk
A hilarious advertisement campaign by the “Got Milk” folks gives hope to men who have to deal with the erratic behavior of their wives/girlfriends due to their P.M.S. symptoms. The campaign is called “Everything I do is Wrong” and promotes an understanding of this mental disorder as well as garnering sympathy for the men who have to live with the repercussions of it. The premise is not just opinion. It is scientific. According to a study, milk (and other dairy products) help to calm down the craziness of women during their time of the month. One of the ad campaigns shown on the left features a bloke with disheveled hair, and a befuddled expression, as he carries several cartons of milk in his hands. It sends the positive message to little girls and women all over the world that with enough milk, God willing, a woman can someday be president of the United States. Maybe even a doctor.
There is a video clip from CNN that I can’t embed, but here’s a link to it: (http://youtu.be/65GUEKn0duQ). What I found particularly interesting in the video is the way this topic is being discussed. There isn’t an ounce of outrage from either of these women. This is a perfectly acceptable advertising campaign and is just “hilarious.” And the only people who would have a problem with it are those silly “feminists” and “women’s rights groups,” who live out in the Amazonian jungles and are completely separated from reality. Other videos covering this story showed reactions of women from various walks of life, and none of them were offended either (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=US8fzDbUFNM).
Is George Clooney too fat to act?
Don’t ask me why I know who Coco Rocha is. Just accept that I do. What I admire about her is that she is one of a very tiny number of successful supermodels who have spoken out against the culture of eating disorders in the modeling industry that has largely contributed to our perception of beauty. And by extension, the perception that women and girls the world over have of beauty. Coco has said that after a trip to Singapore where she ate up a storm (it’s Singapore, how can you not!) and gained a few pounds, she was given the advice to lose the weight because the look that year was anorexia. But whoever gave her that advice didn’t want her to be unhealthy, so added, “we don’t want you to be anorexic, but that’s what we want you to look like.”
I remember reading an article in college ten years ago about young girls in Fiji developing all sorts of eating disorders shortly after American television was introduced to the island in the 1990s. In countries like India and Korea and Pakistan and I’m sure plenty of other countries in those regions, skin products contain bleach. You heard me right, bleach, so that everyone can look beautiful like the actors and models on the telly.
Our daughter, Kavya, is a little under two years old now and has no concept of gender roles. She takes things she wants and declares an item, regardless of what it is as “mine.” She will wear whatever we give her: onesies, dresses, skirts, trousers, jackets. She has no problems letting out a massive belch and then laughing so hard she almost falls off the sofa. She also has some slick bhangra moves, which was traditionally a Punjabi dance form performed exclusively by men after a good harvest. While there are plenty of co-ed Bhangra teams today, there are still many who still believe moves like the “dhamaal” are considered too “vulgar” to be performed by women. The counterpart is an equally slick, but thought to be more ladylike dance form called the Gidhha. The completely unnecessary video below was taken when Kavya was about two months old and it shows you where her loyalties lie. The video is flash based. Sorry iPhone and iPad users:
For now, we can monitor the shows she watches and the books she reads. But it is only a matter of time before she is introduced to an explosion of pink with barbie, princess lunchboxes, dolls, tea sets, the notion of prince charming coming to rescue her, and who knows what else coming at her from every direction, including from her classmates. It isn’t that I have anything against princesses or the colour pink. I just bought Kavya a pink tutu and a tiarra. She is, after all, my little princess. What I have a problem with is the lack of balance. And as annoying as I find Dora the Explorer, she really is the only female protagonist in children’s shows that is normal, does things other than wave a magic wand and isn’t pink. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s also nice that she shows people that brown children exist too. Once Kavya is introduced to Dora, we will unfortunately have to completely refurnish our flat with Dora merchandise though. Speaking of which, if you find the Dora the Explorer with the message of empowerment too boring, just buy your daughter a Dora the Princess doll so she can comb her hair and make her look pretty.
Anyone who knows even a little bit about me knows that I am a massive bhangra-head, especially for old school hits. The catchy Punjabi song, “Gal Ban Gaye” by Sukhbir, from the 1990s that I have bhangra’d my head off to many a time without paying very much attention to the lyrics (below) makes it fairly clear:
“Munde bhangra paunde te kudiyan gidha pavan” (0:24)
“Munde car chalaunde te kudiyan pedal javan.” (1:24)
These lines literally translate to:
“Boys perform the bhangra and girls perform the giddha”
“Boys drive cars while girls walk.”
This of course is not exclusive to Punjabi music videos. Don’t get me started on the sorry state of the current Bhangra music scene, which is getting pretty much every single one of their cues from American hip-hop videos, complete with the sexed up “hip-hop honeys” and sunglasses in a nightclub (cheers for that tip, RDB).
Birpal Kaur was one of the subjects of an L.A. Times article on Sikh women and their relationship with their kesh/hair. The entire L.A. times “A Decision On The Razor’s Edge” piece situated Sikh women, not within their own spirituality and relationship to their faith, but within the context of their potential husband. After all, how can Sikh women ever find a husband “who is attracted to a hairy-legged, mustached woman?” It’s not like the French ever get married. That quote pretty much sums up the tone of the L.A. times piece. In Birpal Kaur’s rebuttal post on The Langar Hall, “Separate But Equal,” she explores this cultural double standard; Sikh males aren’t warned that Sikh women won’t find them attractive unless they wax their eyebrows, cut/trim/shave their facial hair, or wax their chest and legs. Their turbans and facial hair are a sign of masculinity. Ironically, the Sikh religion is probably one of the only religions in the world which gives equal rights to women in no uncertain terms within the religious text of the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh Holy Book.
There is a fantastic documentary called “Miss Representation” that I encourage every single one of my readers to watch. It will make you think about the role media plays in shaping the minds and values of grown adult women starting with little girls, around my daughter’s age. Here’s an official excerpt:
“the film explores how mainstream media contribute to the under-representation of women in influential positions in America and challenges the media’s limiting and often disparaging portrayals of women, which make it difficult for the average girl to see herself as powerful.”
Here is the trailer:
If a woman is raped in America (and most of the sane world), she doesn’t have to produce four witnesses to the rape or face being prosecuted for adultery. Sex trafficking is not a publicly accepted part of our “civilized” society. Women can work in almost every profession men can work in, except for military combat. They can, however, guard a combat vehicle unarmed in a combat zone, which is much safer. So, comparatively, women in America are free. And in this post women’s liberated land of ours, there is outrage against overt forms of sexism and of course, violence against women, including rape. But both the subtle and no so subtle messages we have allowed our media to put forth (and that is being emulated around the world) we have somehow accepted as a part of our ethos. This documentary brings up a simple, yet deep rooted question: Why?
“Ghazal King,” Jagjit Singh is Dead, But His Ghazals Live On
Tonight, my father-in-law, Kamal Charaipotra, posted, “my buddy is gone” on his FaceBook wall. He had been out all day, so had no idea that his “buddy,” world reknowned “Ghazal King,” Jagjit Singh had died of a brain hemorrhage this morning in Mumbai. My wife, Sona Charaipotra, had to break the news to him when he came home. Earlier today, when she called me to tell me about Jagjit Singh, she was on the verge of tears. In California, my father, Pashaura Singh Dhillon, a Punjabi poet and singer, was also upset when he heard. Thousands the world over are tweeting and writing heartfelt messages on FaceBook and other social networking sites. Celebrities, politicians, media personalities, and people from all walks of life, particularly in Pakistan and India are voicing their sadness at his death. It doesn’t feel like a celebrity or the “Ghazal King” has passed away. It feels like a family member we had assumed would be with us forever, is suddenly gone. He was 70 when he died and I’m sure many are wondering how he became so old without us noticing.
Growing up in Iran and New Jersey (U.S.A.), Sona and her sister, Meena, have heard most of Jagjit Singh’s ghazals, which they can sing verbatim and with much vigor. But they don’t listen to his music on a daily basis the way their father does. They listen to a mish-mosh of hip-hop, pop, grunge, old Bollywood, new Bollywood, “pop” bhangra, and sometimes Jagjit Singh as the only classically rooted singer in their collection on iTunes.
My father-in-law is not exactly a connoisseur of poetry. He doesn’t own any poetry books in any language, but has quite a lot of manuals for installing electrical wiring or DIY plumbing. He has sentimental value for his old Hindi records and record player he refuses to throw out. He appreciates good poetry that is sung, occasionally that is recited, but not enough to go to their live performances or buy their cds. He finds the ghazals of Ghulam Ali and Pankaj Udhas, too slow and doesn’t connect with their poetry the same way he does with Jagjit Singh’s. And it isn’t simply because he uses modern instruments. It’s much more complex than that. He owns every single one of Jagjit Singh’s collections. Even the repeats and “best of” collections. He has been to countless Jagjit Singh live shows, and remembers playing “Ahista, Ahista” with such frequency in the car, that Sona used to sing along in Iran before she was 2 years old.
The first concert he went to was in Iran and when he came to The United States in the 1980s, he would drive for hours and brave traffic, just to go to packed auditoriums in places like Long Island, Washington D.C., Washington Square Park in NYC for the worst seats all the way in the back, just to catch a glimpse of the man and to hear him sing his heartfelt tunes, live.
My father, on the other hand, is a Punjabi poet and singer, who lives, breathes, and writes about poetry (view post for an overview of terms used in Punjabi poetry) and is much closer in age to Jagjit Singh. He has stacks of poetry books on the shelves in Urdu, Punjabi, and some, though not many, in Hindi. Like Jagjit Singh, my father is a traditionalist and yet a modernist at the same time. He believes in the purity of the message and the artform of the ghazal, but he isn’t a “purist” or elitist that uses overly complex literary language as to not be understood by the general population. Nor does he have anything against the use of modern instruments (most of my dad’s poetry is accapella anyway though) to enhance the poetry. While he does own many of Jagjit Singh’s cds and dvds, he also owns collections by old school classic ghazal singers like Begum Akhtar, and more modern singers like Ghulam Ali, Noor Jehan, Attaullah Khan, and countless Punjabi singers of the ghazal from both sides of the border. He watched many of Jagjit Singh’s concerts and interviews on the BBC, and has a deep respect for the man. He was truly saddened when he heard of his death because of what it meant to the world of the ghazal and the end of what he called “the era of the ghazal.”
Jagjit Singh With His Turban
My father respected Jagjit Singh for coming from a humble Sikh family and making it in an industry wrought with competition, and for popularizing the ghazal to the masses, which had until then been only accessible to the elite. He even understood why Jagjit Singh shed his Sikh identity by cutting his beard and hair after he was ridiculed for trying to sing a Gujarati song. He wanted to be “mainstream.” These were issues my father faced (and Sikhs everywhere continue to face). My father faced these issues, not as a singer, but as a landcape architect in many parts of the world where he was judged before he even opened his mouth. My father respected Jagjit Singh for his achievements and the values he espoused as a human being and a singer.
It has always been a source of curiosity to me as to what makes Jagjit Singh so enamored to a cross section of people of different faiths, generations, economic and political backgrounds, and even people in Pakistan hold him in high esteem. And it wasn’t because he stayed under the radar and didn’t voice his dissent on issues. He has come out against the Bollywood film industry as a whole, against its “item numbers,” and the values music shows mimicking American Idol espouse. He has talked about the complete lack of variety in Punjabi music and how it has become completely vulgar in both its lyrics and content of its music videos. His view on shows like Indian Idol and Sa Re Ga Ma Pa was that “If you bring competition into music, the soul is lost.” And he knew plenty about soul.
He even divided Bollywood when he questioned the talent of A.R. Rahman and the “poetry” of Gulzar. Of ghazals, he said that intrinsically “good” ghazals will continue to be popular despite not being played on the radio or in films. Interestingly, there were some who claimed that there simply was no place for a ghazal in Bollywood, and Pankaj Udhas, who owes a nominal amount of his success to being a playback singer in Bollywood predictably came to their defense. He argued that A.R. Rahman had tremendous talent and could easily write a ghazal. Of course, he hasn’t and probably never will. Why does he need to? Not that this makes him any less talented. A.R. Rahman undoubtedly has an incredible voice, but Jagjit Singh’s point was that while A.R. Rahman’s singing ability and the musical composition is catchy, the lyrics/”poetry” of what he is receiving such accolades for are vacuous and are mimicking western musical melodies. “Jai Ho, Jai Ho” is really as profound as the “poetry” gets.
Jagjit Singh’s impact on popularizing the Ghazal genre is unquestionable. Before Jagjit Singh, the ghazal was performed in intimate settings at mushayras for the elite in both India and Pakistan. It was laden with literary vocabulary steeped in old Urdu that the average person found too complicated. This highly refined and nuanced form of poetry was not supposed to be understood or accessible to the average person. But Jagjit Singh saw it much differently and brought soul to the Ghazal combined with poetry that anyone could understand.
He had an incredibly melodic and soothing voice that prompted some psychiatrists in metros of India to prescribe his ghazals to de-stress. For a man who sang such heart-rending songs, he had a great sense of humor that often came out during his live performances.
He made the decision to stick to ghazals in 1972 when he went to perform in East Africa. His group told him to gyrate his hips a little and sing the super-filmy song, “mere sapnon ki rani,” which he did well, but afterwards he famously yelled at his group and told them he was not going to sing these silly filmy songs, and would only sing ghazals. And he stayed true to his word. Even the songs he’s done for Bollywood films like Arth and Sarfarosh have all been ghazals. And instead of relying on just classical music instruments like the sitar, he incorporated modern instruments like guitars and even synthesizers into his ghazals.
What many people liked about Jagjit Singh, aside from his silky smooth voice, was that he didn’t come from a long lineage of singers, or have connections in the music industry. His beginnings were very humble in this regard. He was born in Sri Ganganagar, Rajasthan, to Amar Singh Dhiman and Bachan Kaur, and raised Sikh. He was on-track to fulfill his father’s wishes that he be an Indian Administrative Services (IAS) Officer. After graduating from Khalsa High School, he went onto studying science at Government College, and eventually received a degree in history from Kurukshetra University in Haryana. His father saw singing talent in his son and let him study singing under the tutelage of very reputable musicians, starting at 12 years old. He studied many forms of classical Indian music like the Khayal, Thumri, and Drupad.
Jagjit Singh moved to Mumbai to pursue a singing career without any contacts, no “godfather,” or any real plan. He shed his Sikh appearance by shaving his beard and cutting his hair to be more “mainstream,” but still held onto his Sikh values, which came out especially after the death of his only son, Vivek, in 1990. He met his wife, Chitra, when they both sang jingles for advertisements and for private events like weddings. His first album, “The Unforgettables” created quite a splash and was criticized by ghazal purists, but loved by the people, who he intended it for anyway.
Jagjit and Chitra Singh with their Children
Chitra became extremely depressed after the devastating loss of their son in 1990 in a car accident, and they did one final album together where they bore their souls before she quit singing publicly. Her grief was private. But Jagjit Singh shared his grief with his listeners. He turned to religion and sang Hindu Bhajans and Sikh Gurbani as a way to deal with the pain. He wrote incredibly introspective ghazals that delved deep into the human psyche. And just a few years ago, in 2009, Jagjit Singh’s adopted daughter from Chitra’s first marriage (Monica Chaudhry), committed suicide.
Jagjit Singh is much more well known for his ghazals in Hindi and Urdu, and while many have heard his ghazals in Punjabi, he is not particularly well known for them, which is a shame because they are very beautifully sung.
He has sung ghazals from the Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikh Holy Book) to help him cope with the loss of his son, and he has also sung Punjabi folk songs. But what really shows his comfort and ease with the language is the way in which he renders the haunting words of Shiv Kumar Batalvi’s, “Maae Ni Maae.” This is not an easy poem to pull off without really understanding not just the Punjabi language, but the language of poetry, the meaning behind the words, and the intense amount of emotion that it hides behind. Here is a direct English translation of the first stanza:
| Maae ni maae | Mother, o mother |
| Mere geetaan de nainaan vich | My songs are like eyes |
| Birhon di rarak pave | That sting with the grains of separation |
| Adhi adhi raateen | In the middle of the night |
| Uth ron moye mitraan nu | They wake and weep for dead friends |
| Maae sahnu neend na pave | Mother, I cannot sleep |
(check out the full translation here: http://www.apnaorg.com/poetry/suman/17.html)
Watch his rendition for yourself:
One of my favourite ghazals that he sang five years after the death of his son captures the universal message he tried to convey throughout his life and that we still see the truth of today. “Main Na Hindu Na Musalman” from the album Mirage. The first lines are incredibly simple and yet so powerful. “I am neither Hindu nor a Muslim. Just let me live.” It reminds me of the human rights message of Guru Arjan Dev’s shabad in the Guru Granth Sahib (page 885):
“koee bolai raam raam koee khudhaae ||
Some call the Lord ‘Ram, Ram’, and some ‘Khuda’.
koee saevai guseeaa koee alaahi ||1||
Some serve Him as ‘Gusain’ (Jesus Christ), others as ‘Allah.’”
I wrote a blog post not long ago (link to the post) on the death of Sardar Gursharan Singh, also influenced by the poetry and universal message of the Guru Granth Sahib. He dedicated his life to bringing street theater – “thada” in Punjabi meaning “platform” to the people in Punjab. And that’s how I feel about Jagjit Singh. He was a revolutionary in his own way, both in terms of bringing the genre of the ghazal to the level of popularity it enjoyed in both Bollywood and at sold out concerts in Pakistan and India.
According to Jagjit Singh, popular Bollywood songs – what he refers to as “item numbers” – shouldn’t be called music because they lack any kind of lasting quality or art. They have been made popular through radio air time and being played on the television. He has also said that Bollywood music and movies used to be an extension of literature, and now are devoid of any art. And I completely agree with him. Jagjit Singh’s ghazals from decades ago are still incredibly popular, not because of the media playing his music over and over, but because they were and still are artistic, poetic, honest, and transcend any time period because of their emotional honesty.
Jagjit Singh’s death is a tragic loss to the world, and especially to his wife, Chitra who must be devastated by his loss. And his death symbolizes so many things to so many people. He impacted the lives of people from all political, ethnic, linguistic, and religious persuasions. Even across national boundaries. Some focus on his contribution to the world of poetry, others to how his emotive voice shaped their experiences of life. My wife grew up with his voice, and my father-in-law connected with the values he represented, as well as the emotional honesty he brought to all of his songs. His ghazals will live on for the simple reason that they are well written, beautifully and powerfully sung; in short: they are good based on any criteria. They will reach many more generations, including my daughter, Kavya, who will be singing along to “Ahista Ahista” soon enough. I leave you with an interview where Jagjit Singh talks about the integrity with which he conducts himself and how he chooses the ghazals that he sings:
Summer of Fun . . . and no Writing!
Me and Kavya Bhangra-ing On the Beach
This Summer, I had big plans to make amends for my word count of about 0 since January. Needless to say, my New Year’s resolutions didn’t pan out quite as well as I had hoped. I’d like to say it’s because of my work and duties as a father and husband are exhausting. But the primary reason is pure laziness. I had a tiny bit of a bump in the road with my story and rather than sit there and work through it like a proper writer does, I opted to take the approach a muppet would: to go muppetting about and do anything except my writing. Some of it was indeed legit stuff: tidying the flat, grading papers, working on syllabi. Those sorts of productive things. And when I couldn’t be bothered with that, but still didn’t want to face the mess of my novel, I went on FaceBook, which was the beginning of the end. Then there was Twitter. YouTube. And channels on the good ole telly.
Over the Summer, time has been the culprit for my not writing, and I really am a victim this time. Really. Alright, not really. But it is taking much more effort for me to focus because we’re on “holiday” to visit my Mum and Dad in Central California for a month. Before that, Sona’s cousins came to New Jersey for a visit, so of course, we “had to” go to Point Pleasant, chill out on the beach, and scarf down deep-fried oreos and chocolate covered potato chips. Here in California, Sona still has freelance assignments she’s doing, my Mum is at work till 5pm, and my Dad . . . well, let’s just say he’s easily distracted when he gets a phone call or gets on the computer. So, essentially, me and Sona are balancing doing our work with watching Kavya, and our writing has taken a massive backseat.
Tandoor in Back Garden of Central California
Added to the mix are fresh berries, fruit trees, chickens and roosters strutting about, a tandoor and a barbeque (sometimes used to cook the aforementioned chickens) in the acre and a half backgarden of my parent’s home, not to mention a paddling pool, and a shaded patio. So, even if sitting indoors with my laptop open was an option, you can see what a struggle it would be to choose that over a paddling pool. Oh yeh and then there’s that daughter I’m a father to. I love the quality time I’m spending with her, but she is quite knackering. Sona and I are absolutely shattered by the time my mum comes home. And Sona has erratic assignments that she has to do on top of all that, so it’s difficult for either of us to have a solid writing routine.
So, while Sona does her interviews or watches her shows for work, I end up playing . . . I mean taking care of Kavya, This involves a lot of bhangra, running, splashing, tickling, changing of nappies, combing of hair, attempts at putting rubber bands in Kavya’s hair (my wife doesn’t appreciate my artistry in styling my daughter’s hair).
The Challenge
Starting this week, both Sona and me have been trying to get a routine going for our writing. I drop Sona at a Starbucks in the morning and then hang out with Kavya for two hours, sometimes roaming through various shops and the bookstore. Other times just dropping Sona off and coming home and playing in the paddling pool with her. Once we just parked in a shady spot, Kavya took a nap for a good solid hour, and I worked on my outline in my notebook.
Speaking of outlines, I haven’t fully crossed over and embraced the outline, but I am definitely seeing the merits in it. So far, I’ve been doing what I found out is the “skeleton outline” through Scrivener. Basically, I write a general gist of what is going to happen in a scene. The “cons” in this type of outline, I read about in a novel writing book I glanced at while at the bookstore with Kavya, is that it isn’t very thorough. This I can attest to, but it does allow flexibility, which you can see how well that worked out for me and my writing process.
The other type is one I don’t think I’ll ever use for creative writing: the “structure plus.” It’s too analytical. You basically have to know what the purpose of a scene is, and also who exactly is going to be in it, and what some of the lines will be. I wish I could have it all mapped out like that, but just not my style.
I’ve started fiddling about with a hybrid between the two for my own notes. I’ll still use the Scrivener notecards describing the gist.
So far, this hybrid has really helped me shape things up by breaking down the structure. One of the problems I was having was figuring out what happens after a secret is revealed in my novel. At first, I thought the partition of 1947 or 9/11 in and of itself is a catalyst for something. And it very well might be, but that’s not the type of story I’m writing. What I’ve found helpful is to use screenplay structure to break it down. Screenplays are obviously much more rigid in the sense that turning point 1 must occur by page x, or Act I and Act 3 must be 30 pages each, and Act 2 must be 60 pages. Fortunately a novel is more flexible, but can benefit from this structure.
There are three acts or parts of a story: Act 1, 2, and 3. Act I introduced the status quo (characters, setting, current situation, etc). Act 2 complicates things, and Act 3 gives us the new status quo/offers some form of a resolution.
Once I thought about my story in these terms, it made my objective with the outline a little clearer, but I still didn’t know how to integrate some of the historical facts into the narrative, or breathe life into some of my characters that I initially thought would be minor.
My only time to write is late at night, even though I have to be “on” starting relatively early in the morning. I am awakened to Kavya pointing at my stomach and saying “tidoo,” followed by wild slaps and hysterical laughter. So, no snooze button available there. My strategy, for now, is to write a paragraph or so for the crucial parts of my novel, including some transitions, and logistical bits. I’m giving myself four weeks to hammer it out. Then I’ll worry about word count.
Day 1 for me officially starts tomorrow: Thursday, August 11, 2011
Four weeks from tomorrow: Thursday, September 8, 2011
Sona already has a pretty solid outline, so is zooming along. Here’s her post on her Summer Writing.
Wish me luck! And wish Sona luck as well =)
Ding Dong, Osama bin Laden is Dead.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past three days, you’ve all heard the news: Osama bin Laden was killed in a hail of gunfire, his body buried at sea in a well orchestrated CIA operation over the weekend. Moments after the news was official, it was a very bitter sweet moment when my wife and I saw people of all colors celebrating the death of Osama bin Laden in cities all over the United States. But none brought it home more than watching people rejoicing in his death at World Trade Center.
It brought back a lot of painful memories that didn’t just involve this one man. Aside from feelings of utter panic, helplessness, and a tremendous sense of loss for human life, brown folk, especially Sikhs, were suddenly viewed of as different. We weren’t included in the “us” and had become the “them” unless we could prove otherwise by elaborate displays of patriotism, which included waving the flag, belting out “U.S.A.” and in some cases, wearing a turban made out of the American flag.
It wasn’t a shock that the first hate crime victim after 9/11, Balbir Singh Sodhi, was a turbaned Sikh, but it was still a devastating blow. And just recently, Arizona Rep. John Kavanagh introduced a bill wanting to remove Sodhi from the state’s 9/11 memorial because he wasn’t a “9/11 victim.” Thankfully that bill was vetoed, but what I’m concerned with is that this bill was even introduced. And it was clearly attempting to remove the name of a man who didn’t look like “us.” Can we expect more instances where brown folk, Sikhs in particular, have to prove how American we are? Better stock up on those flags.
Goodies and Baddies: Creating Complex Villains and Heroes
Navdeep Singh Dhillon: An Unintentional New Father
Ever since my wife started her MFA in creative writing at the New School last fall, I’ve been spending a lot of time hanging out with my daughter, who just turned one a few days ago. I watch her three nights out of the week, and I’m often asked how I get any writing done when I’m watching her.
The answer is simple: I don’t.
Initially, I attempted to balance the two, which did not end well. I was exhausted, didn’t get any writing done (I calculated once that I’d written 7 words, including pronouns, in five hours), and didn’t feel like I’d spent any time with Kavya. So, I decided to embrace spending time with my daughter properly, and a rather brilliant way of thinking about my writing (pat on back).
Call me a horrible father, but two of our favourite activities, regardless of the season, is to stay indoors and watch youtube, or something on the telly. And yes, we eat at the sofa, crumbs and all, much to Sona’s irritation (“I don’t know why there are crumbs on the sofa, Sona. Maybe YOU put them there from that pizza you had earlier in the week!”). We do, of course go out for excursions to New York, the mall, out for dinners, the park, coffee shops, museums here and there, and the bookshop (an absolute must). But this is what we end up doing when it’s time for papa to “work.”
Maula Jatt, the best film to come out of Lollywood
And what do we watch? Movies. Television Shows. British Soaps (Eastenders yip yip). We also watch plenty of old school Bhangra videos that don’t feature scantily clad girls dancing around men wearing sunglasses inside strobe lit dance clubs. I’m raising a fiery Punjab di Sher Bachiye (little lioness), not a piece of furniture.
The reason I call this “work” is because that’s how I view it. Before Kavya, I never actually watched television for anything other than entertainment, and relied on novels, short-stories, and plays for sources of inspiration and narrative structure. Now, I still use those forms when she’s asleep (nothing beats a Shakespearean villain/hero, and nobody can create tension through dialogue and minimal description like Flannery O’Connor or Ernest Hemmingway). But I have come to truly appreciate the 3 act structure and A/B story of writers behind the television shows and movies I am drawn to. My novel has finally gotten off the ground, and I am attempting to create characters that move beyond stereotype, and have real depth to them. I tried reading some Shakespeare while watching Kavya, but she tried to eat and rip up the pages of his plays. Even e-books don’t work because then she climbs onto my computer and beats the keyboard and screen with all her might until she’s shown something more visually alluring.
