As Awful as Bad Comedic Timing

People’s obliviousness by ignorance or choice or otherwise to awkward situations really annoy me. A bit like when a lame-ass comedian gets his comedic timing on an offensive joke all wrong leaving half the audience with irate half-smiles, the other half getting up to leave when one sad loser starts guffawing making people more uncomfortable and more flippin’ aggravated.

The past week has been a boiling pot of little issues that have been mounting, mounting, mounting like the lava building up in a volcano before it erupts into a Vesuvius type state of pandemonium. This has also been fuelled by numerous other academia related bouts of panic.

Bah Humbug! I hate exams, essays and the like

Image (c) Doug Savage’s “Savage Chickens“

It’s Almost Summer

The past week has been hectic- essays (still more to complete!), an absolutely disastrous slide test (5 images out of a 148 long list- where the hell is justice, I ask?) and impending exams (ARGH). I am sustained by the promise of warmth (although the 4.5 days of sun have finally kicked in), seeing all those wonderful people whose company I’ve been so deprived of, some good old Sri Lankan cooking and just that wonderful island feel of home. Summer plans are hazy: internships of the humanities variety are hard to come by in Colombo :S So once back, will need to figure something out- something other than the vegetating variety that is

So until, I actually have time and at least one mildly interesting thing to say. Here’s some summery pics of St. Andrews (just as proof that it’s not always miserable :))

A View of the Town

Into the Blue

Dali Rock (we named it!)

Horizon

A Dawn Dip in the North Sea

Going to a nearly six-hundred year old university (est. 1413) has its pros. Pros which are quite easily forgotten when they dissolve into 95.5 days of rain and 4.5 days of sun (as Bronte very rightly pointed out earlier today after the sun and rain had swapped places for the fifth or sixth time today). But apart from the fact that we have a medieval castle and cathedral, a centuries old chapel, a spectacular quad, traffic-stopping red academic gowns and a pretty amazing beach- incidentally, featured in Chariots of Fire (although the aforementioned 95.5 days of rain and gale force winds make it quite impossible to enjoy the West Sands)

Another pro, must be the weird and quirky St. Andrean traditions which include the infamous debauchery of Raisin Weekend (involving raisin strings/receipts, massive Fresher’s shaving foam fight in embarrassing costumes that are certainly documented for the sole purpose of future embarrassment), cursed inscriptions on the pavement you’re not meant to step on unless you want to fail your degree and of course the famous May Dip (details of which I will be reposting from an old post to save myself the hassle of thinking up new and witty things to say about the tradition and you from having to open another window).

The first of May begins with a frigid bang at Castle Sands where those who have stepped on the PH on the pavement outside St. Salvator’s Quad, attempt to curb the risk of flunking their degree, by running into the North Sea at sunrise- starting about 3 am that is. The PH marked on the cobblestones outside the quad are the initials of Patrick Hamilton a young man martyred during the reformation. He was executed on that very spot for promoting the protestant cause back in 1527. The Book (the survival guide to St. Andrews) reveals that the weather was so awful on the day of his death (bad weather in St. Andrews? This IS news to me ) that it was hours before he finally charred to death but was assured salvation it seems by something he saw that resembled the face of an angel on the tower.

So yes the PH on the pavement is cursed and it is the first thing anyone in St. Andrews will tell you when you are an unsuspecting fresher strolling along during Fresher’s Week- DO NOT STEP ON THE PH- they say you flunk your degree; that’s right certain exam failure it is. But, it’s also true that most of the student population has stepped on the PH at some point or the other (I actually don’t think I have so far- at least after I found out about the whole PH thing anyway because I tend to be silly superstitious like that) so the only way to reverse this otherwise irreversible curse is to partake in the May Dip. Hundreds of students embrace this unknown realm of morning (that doesn’t exist for many, other than the occasional 9 o clock lecture they manage to crawl out of bed for or of course a relative all-nighter) by running into the freezing cold, pneumonia/bronchitis inducing, did-I-mention-frigid? North Sea at the crack of dawn. All this happens amidst bonfires, fire jugglers, inflatable boats drifting on the bathing pond bit, rather disturbing streakers, hot chocolate, abandoned shoes, a flurry of blankets and towels at Castle Sands and it was good fun.

Last year, Le Fey sought some karmic balance by partaking in this St. Andrean insanity at the crack of dawn as Bronte and I watched on contemplating the impossibility of us ever running into the frigid waves of a positively Arctic North Sea. This year, Bronte and I post-degree change decided that we were in need of some Karmic cleansing and decided to at least dip a toe in the water and the morning itself did not go too well. At half three in the morning we venture out into relatively mild weather commenting on our fortune, when ten minutes down it starts POURING. And when I say POURING think monsoon, not simply the usual St. Andrews drizzle. So we reach Castle sands generally pretty miserable and looking like we’ve already been in the water and had a full on “sea bath”. The site was a stunning jambalaya of all the activity and buzz mentioned before depsite the shifting rains and chilly winds.

And being soaked anyway, the water didn’t seem as ominous as it did from a drier perspective. Thus, we decided that Karmic cleansing was a must with an imminent two years at honours and we were certainly soaked enough already…

A knee deep wade into the North Sea, was all we could handle. Twice. That certainly counts as having engaged in this fantastic St. Andrean ritual as far as I’m concerned and that feeling of accomplishment was a little more than a temporary high. So here’s hoping that Bronte and I have cleansed our karma and luck enough to get us through imminent exams and two years of honours with less rainy days both literally and metaphorically.

Would I do it again?

For sure!

(ps- forgive poor picture quality as result of phone camera, poor weather and little or no sun!)

Humanities for Dummies

I suppose it’s strange that Sash (who shall henceforth be known as Zissou on account of a private joke) and I, have our profound conversations on life, growing up, university, jobs, film and everything else between peppered with scrabble moves, each weekday morning (well pre-class in the morning for me in any case, for her it’s more an escape from the post-lunch stupor at work). The kind of long winded discussions people have over coffee or post-dinner at good old fashioned sleep overs. Time differences, location differences, occupational differences aside each morning has become the continuation of on-line scrabble or some random topic or the other. Provided that I haven’t overslept/have reading or essay to do and her boss isn’t on the warpath or walking by her desk too often always indicated by a hasty “DR” (Don’t Reply). Zissou is known perhaps for her sense of humour above all, and plays a mean game of Scrabble (I still OWN pictionary!) and possibly is the reigning champion of wisecracking.

So this morning’s post-weekend discussion went something like this-

Zissou- Oh I watched the Nanny Diaries… I think I finally get what you’re studying!

Me- What Anthropology? I like to think that with a degree in Soc Anth, someone would aspire to be more than a nanny! Despite that, good movie overall.

Zissou- So what is it that you dropped?

Me: What? Art History?

Zissou- Yeah…

Me: If we’re talking movie references, Mona Lisa Smile (*despite the absolutely appalling ending which got my feminist side wanting to shake some sense into that stupid girl- I know Bronte… it was a reflection of the time, complemented the context and all that! I mean Yale vs. Husband- how more obvious did it have to be? It’s YALE dammit!)

Zissou- Right… So you dropped Mona Lisa Smile, to major in the Nanny Diaries? Hahahah

I mean what else could I possibly say? Humanities for Dummies it is- I’m still laughing

So, I suppose the next time someone gives me the strange furrowed eyebrow look saying something along the lines of what-the-flippin-hell-is-social-anthropology-and-how-weird-are-you-to-be-taking-such- a-strange- and-evidently-unprofitable-subject…

All I need say is- “So, have you seen the Nanny Diaries?”

So Little Time!

Soc Anth Essay, Soc Anth Project, Slide Test (A flippin’ 140 odd paintings, sculptures, furniture and buildings!), exams, a generally uneventful but not completely non-existent life! So much to do, so little time!

Shamelessly copied off one of Goya’s Los Caprichos called “The Sleep of Reason Breeds Monsters” or “An Allegory of Stress” as I like to call it.

At least I have a Sri Lankan Summer to look forward to!

The Click That Decides All

I’ve been talking about my degree change dilemma for months now (to art history or not art history that is the question) So much talk and so little action, I think I was starting to sound like a politician. The unpredictability was tinged with a nail-biting anxiety which was getting too difficult to handle and the life plan was looking a little too hazy for it to be okay.

The weeks following spring break have been peppered with all kinds of mentions of honours courses, pre-advising, module clashes, dip downs and dips across- it was getting a bit much. Each department enticing us indecisive types with snippets of hazy information. So Friday, I emailed the sub-honours advisor with a polite enquiry about how to sort out a degree change. Come Monday, there was no response and I was getting anxious. Then this morning something strange happened. I’m looking at the on-line advising and a button had materialised from oblivion “Request Degree Change”. And just then at 10.00 am sharp amidst a msn chat with Sash on one random thing or the other and a game of scrabbulous, I clicked. Without even thinking, I clicked.

It felt like my heart stopped for a tenth of a second and the world shifted a little beneath my feet.

There’s so much attached to this decision, that moment it took for me to click the request button- potentially the rest of my life- academics, employment and all. The threat of eventual regret looms over the click along with the hope of promise that I have found a calling in life.

Following an awkward and unexpected encounter with the advisor and the mini kerfuffle poor Bronte and I were subjected to by the department secretaries and course coordinator, the situation grew slightly more complex. And the regrets were flooding in along with an indescribable apprehension of adulthood and all those life-changing decisions which lie ahead.

I return home and find a confirmatory email from the advisor waiting, indicating the validation of the degree change. Perhaps I’m naive to expect everything to have fallen into its place, exactly as it should at this very moment. But despite that twinge of consternation associated with dropping the subject we spent time defending and that fear of where this chosen path leads and what obstacles clutter its curving course, for that very short pocket in time it felt right- just reassuringly right.

So fingers crossed for two years worth of defining moments- I suppose nothing sums up this feeling than Incubus’s amazing Drive.

Lost in Translation

Not about the movie (I disliked it quite a lot along with Marie Antoinette but I liked The Virgin Suicides which you should watch given the opportunity- I had a Sofia Coppola train of thought going on there in case you failed to see the point of the ramble)

As I mentioned, the Soc Anth department felt it rather clever/appropriate to give us second years on the brink of honours an opportunity to do our own 3000 word mini-fieldwork project. Which at first I was quite excited about, then suffered a long wave of apprehension and anxiety on the talking to random people part, then lost further sleep over what I was going to do until I settled on my original idea based on a group of builders working on a house in Colombo with regards to superstitions and whatnot. Spoke to a couple of them over last break, thinking it might make an interesting (eventual) dissertation topic (because sometimes I’m keen like that) and turned out conveniently that my little investigation paid off rather well. So chatted some more and filled in the gaps and now have more or less something to go on which doesn’t involve a coffee shop or golf. (which pretty much sums up this odd bubble I call home during most of the year)

So going through the notes involved in order to impose some sort of theoretical coherence into the jambalaya that it was, it struck me that translating wasn’t the nicest/easiest thing to be doing between Sinhala and English. I’d call myself bilingual having studied in both languages for long enough, but saying that direct translations of things were dodgier than I thought.

The first moment of this strange realisation was during the little Sri Lankan cricket shindigs last year, when we couldn’t figure out between the four of us what inspiration was in Sinhala (inspire not in the breathing sense, but in the artistic sense). So after much  pondering and the help of  on line dictionaries which only suggested the inspire-breathe definition, we settled on @p]xím which actually brings to mind influence, rather than inspiration. That mental block ended there and was soon forgotten until I pulled out these notes and think to myself, how on earth do I even begin to translate this?

Firstly, the differences between academic and colloquial Sinhala are much broader than we appreciate. If anyone had the enlightening misfortune of having to do Sinhala Literature for O Levels, along with the pages and pages of unnecessarily complicated things like sNÝ, you might relate. If not you’ll just have to take my word for it. Perhaps, it’s the sheer lack of having to translate the things we would discuss socially in one language or the other, which leaves me slightly stumped because even words we take for granted in Sinhala, you can’t always translate as easily as you’d like. So I draw out these sheets of paper with semi-formal interview transcripts in Sinhala and make an attempt, only to realise that despite being “proficient” in a language, how little of it we actually know, unless you do several degrees in a given language and then decide to research etymology/linguistics and things or are on a dictionary committee or something. Even then, do you get to the point where you can say I know absolutely everything there is to know about Sinhala, English, French or click talk?

It’s amazing if you think of language which has been constructed entirely by humanity itself, but we within our lifetime will never fully grasp its complexities.

Just some food for thought there… Before I go settle down to do a little more translating.

A New Year Wish

The build up to Sinhalese/ Tamil New Year consists of some of my most precious, colourful childhood memories. School holidays would have started, as would have the koha with its constant call and the monkeys raiding the mango trees. My athamma would have started the kavili preparations always consulting me on what I would like in particular and always asking when I was going to learn these things. I would ask her to write it down on a notebook and leave it for me. I suppose she was trying to prepare me for an inevitability which I naively expected never to pass. The smell of Kavum, Aluwa, Kokis, Undu Walalu, Rulang Aluwa, Mung Kavum would be wafting in the air for a week and I would be nicking Kokis from the basket and Mung Kavum dough before it’s battered and fried. Being of mixed origins, Avurudu day itself would be a flurry of activity with a lovely combination of folk, buddhist and hindu rituals. The build up to the milk overflowing from a pot and the splendid avurudu kavili spread that would always follow.

Three years ago, I would be brimming with the anticipation of the nonagathaya setting in, polishing off the kavili made by my athamma, heading out to the temple with family, squabbling with my sister over the last of the lunumiris. (considering our rather unhealthy taste for the stuff with or without kiribath) And of course the highlight of loud fire crackers echoing across the neighbourhood at auspicious times and the nightly fireworks spectacle which would follow.

Three years later, I’m some 6000 odd miles away, in the middle of a deadline weekend writing an essay on why Hitchcock was actually a chauvinistic ass who played out his twisted fantasies in film. It’s been two and a half years since my grandmother passed away along with any celebration of new year. Home and those past new years seem too distant now.

If you are fortunate enough to be with family and friends celebrating Sri Lankan new Year or even alone somewhere in college or at work thinking back on new years past, it is a very special time of year where you reflect back on happy memories and hope for all the very best for the coming years.

Here’s hoping you have very wonderful new year!

Subha Aluth Avuruddak Weva! Eniya Puthandu Nalvazhthukkal!

The Art of Polite Refusal?

I’ve been to 2 schools from kindergarten to IB. The schools were poles apart in form, attitudes and sensibilities and I love them both for very different reasons- reasons which are as divergent as the schools themselves. I was in one school from 1991-2004 (pretty much most of my life from play school onwards) and in the other from 2004-2006. Both changed my life equally, both got me to where I am today.

Academics and policy aside, perhaps one of the most significant element in the school experience is those you share it with. Some of my friends I’ve known since kindergarten, some since fifth grade and others a few years but all special. And in the time since I’ve left my first school (it’s been a long 4 years now) I’ve been good at maintaining the links with those people I love very much and who have in more ways than one completed me and been there for me. I still hang out with those people who’ve known me all my life because of this unspoken collective history we share with only those who were there and we couldn’t possibly explain. I think its that significance of sharing pivotal moments. These friendships long or short, are still strong. However, on the subject of people there are always the others.

The Others… We’ve all had to deal with the Others. They too have been a part of this experience which shaped us, perhaps even in the same class since pre-school but never friends per se. Conversations are usually polite, sometimes frosty coated in obligation and good manners. There’s an understanding that we indeed do not get along hence we’ll be less than friends, but not enemies. Some of you may understand what I mean, but somehow the social relationship can only be defined as acquaintances despite having spent 6+ hours a day in close quarters, five days a week for something like 12-13 years. It’s strange, I suppose but simply falls under the category of an understanding created by a nod, smile or polite hello. This is very practical, works well in school. It’s a social choice- you simply do not share the same circle of friends and are not expected to give any of the others an update on your life or listen to a recap of theirs. One is not expected to always make polite conversation with those in the “acquaintance” category. The real world, however in its interfering glory takes a toll on this delicate entente, just as it does on everything else.

Now, two or four years later you bump into one of the Others when you’re buying mangoes in the supermarket or wasting time ambling around Odel contemplating a clever justification for yet another bag (as one does), you are expected to speak!

X- Ah hello… Long time no see…

y- Oh my god… hello hello… Yes men, can’t believe we left school 2 years ago no?

X- Yeah men… So what are you up to these days? (Even though X honestly doesn’t care)

Y- I’m working at Bank Z men… What are you up to? (Y doesn’t care either)

X- I’m in uni/doing CIMA/CIM/design (take your pick really)

Y- Ah that’s cool…

Awkward silence ensues.

X- Sorry men I have to get going… I’m meeting P in a bit.

y- Ah how is she these days? Yes I need to get going too… See you around then.

X- She’s good men- in uni… Nice seeing you after so long.

Y- For sure… Keep in touch (Lie)

X- Sure (Lie)

I mean honestly, what else can you say?

So the Others of the first school are organizing some sorta shindig over break to which I guess, we’re expected to show up out of politeness and school-spirit or something along those lines. This I can see as 2-3 wasted hours of polite exchanges deviating very little from said model. Of course, it’ll be nice to catch up with the people in between this acquaintance and friend category, but dare I subject myself to this charade for a couple of hours I could spend with people whose lives I actually care about… Turns out I’m not alone in sharing this sentiment. Drama Queen (who will be absent with a conveniently valid excuse) suggests that we could make an evening of mocking people (face it, that’s what these things are about omg-fat-thin-fair-single-not single-what-is-she-wearing?!-bank-uni with a liberal sprinkling of gossip and back biting until you end up wanting to choke yourself or end up in a solid, impenetrable circle of friends wondering why on earth you bothered to show up in the first place, and then hatch plans for the great escape) ‘Make an appearance and ditch’ suggests LeftBrain. ‘Let’s just all go out to dinner’ throws in Picture-Posey. ‘Let’s just not go- big deal’ pipes someone else.

This will also mean we will have to deal with the can of worms of the impolite collective absence. Aiyyo, what to do? Is the only Sri Lankanism which encompasses this dilemma.

So where can we learn this art of polite refusal?

The Avurudu Kavili Epic: How NOT to Make Kavum

The two St. Andrean Sri Lankans on spring break, got talking about Avurudu (Sri Lankan New Year) and decided that it was only appropriate that we make an attempt at making a couple of kinds of Kavili (sweet meats as they are called. Usually made with rice flour/treacle/and lots of sugar) So Kavum and Aluwa were the chosen ones, in this far fetched attempt to put together a little Avurudu spread which would also be Practically-Perfect’s introduction to a less creolized form of Sri Lankan food. (She has endured our cooking before and has been too polite complain)

Plans were hatched out. Recipes- or rather believable recipes were hard to come by online. One Kavum recipe involved blending rice, sugar and no treacle and the Aluwa recipe had no rice flour in it! So we sort of knowing the basic tenets of Lankan kavili decided to substitute and get creative. We already had some pol toffee (coconut rocks). Rice flour was available at Tesco along with sugar and condensed milk. Treacle was an issue. Turned out that treacle was one of those misinterpreted Sri Lankanized words which meant something completely different to what it actually was. Like saffron and turmeric. We should have been looking for palm honey/palm treacle which turned out wasn’t available. Hot Chocolate braved the health food stores (who promptly informed her that treacle is far too unhealthy) and then Tesco where she found black tar treacle. It would have to do. And the menu for the St. Andrean Early Aluth Avurudu Celebration was carefully constructed:

* Kiri bath

* Lunu Miris

*Cashew Curry

*Kavum

*Aluwa

*Pol Toffee

A Rather decent spread, don’t you think? On Sunday we convened rice flour and treacle ready. The Aluwa was fairly straightforward seeing as there wasn’t much involved. Chuck in some rice flour, condensed milk, vanilla and sugar and hope for the best. Turned out sort of ok- except that it stayed chewy.

Kavum of course was the monster which needed confronting with a lot of effort, practice and a set of skills that we cullinarily challenged academic types lack. So our recipe included rice flour and treacle nicely mixed up and left to sit for about half an hour. Except that the batter looked like dough marbled with tar.

So we decide to get a little adventurous. We mix up some Muscovado sugar and water and add it to the mix to no avail. So the whole notion of palm honey considered, coconut milk seemed like a good idea at the time too. Which sort of worked out, resulting in a batter of the right consistency, about 15 shades too dark

Hopeful, despite the radical difference in colour. Frying the “kavum” turned out to be another can of worms altogether. How do these people actually managed to get into a roughly circular shape for crying out loud???

But the picture would lead you and us to believe “hey it’s not going that bad really…” Until you see what the end product looks like and wonder if we have some kinda grotesque sense of humour.

Need I really say more? Quelle disaster? An embodiment of our wounded or rather epically shattered pride. But it didn’t really taste too bad albeit severely burnt.

Of course, having tarnished what little we had as a culinary reputation, I feel it’s necessary to redeem ourselves with a picture of the final spread which actually turned out well- not bad at all. We were quite prud of the end result.

So here’s an early wish to all of you celebrating Sinhalese and Tamil New Year this weekend.

Subha Aluth Avuruddak Weva! Eniya Puthandu Nalvazhthukkal!