Funny Thing, Nostalgia

Funny thing, nostalgia. 

Hits you without warning

Late at night, first thing in the morning

Or sometime in between

Funny thing, nostalgia

From a song you just heard

From a written or spoken word

Or a picture you might have seen

Funny thing, nostalgia

Those memories, they burn

Of days for which you yearn

But now have long passed

Funny thing, nostalgia

For moments you now lack

That you can't really get back

No matter how much you ask

Funny thing, nostalgia

You're in a new time, a new place

Putting on a different face

Than you did way back then

Funny thing, nostalgia

Those moments are always there

Tucked away somewhere

And even though you can't, you can feel them again

Golfinger.

I never liked golf. I remember making fun of my dad and asking him why he didn't play a "real sport".

But lately I've been getting interested, and figured out that the game is a lot more skillful and challenging than it seems. I've wanted to learn how to play since last year, but then life got in the way. (Gosh, I sound like one of those old farts who play gol...I mean...well...moving on...)

So when a friend invited me to a driving range last week, my hands began shaking with excitement, and I was beside myself with euphoria, and...just kidding, I said "Sure, okay, why not?"in a very casual manner. 

This isn't just any driving range though. It's the Chelsea Pier, an immense multi-storeyed netted structure sticking out into the Hudson River, giving you a beautiful view as you, well, in my case...suck at golf. 

I stepped up, took my stance, kept my knees bent and my elbows straight...and missed. More than a few times. Got frustrated, contemplated giving up, and then decided to try one more shot. 

And it happened. I swung, and watched it go sailing through the air in a perfect arc with just the right elevation, landing about 50 metres away. 

I'm talking about my 9 Iron, of course. The ball stayed at my feet. Got a few high-fives from bystanders for that one. 

But the nice people at the pretty driving range gave me a new club and I managed to actually hit the ball a few times with it! 

So all in all it was a good maiden golfing thingy. My number one takeaway - Launch your first club into outer space, the second one they give you will work wonders. 

Maybe next time I'll use the 5 Iron. From what I understand, that one goes even further! 

A Dream Deferred - The Young India Fellowship Experience

As of half an hour ago, I made my final presentation at the Young India Fellowship. After a year full of intensity — whether it was the discussions and deliberations both in class and outside, the desperate all-nighters with a term paper due the next morning, the late-night team meetings or the late-night parties — it ‘s all over. Finito. “Done.” as my BBM status says. “No more of that”, as Othello says at the end of a play we studied, analyzed and dissected in one of my most memorable courses of the year gone by.

I don’t know how I expected to feel at the end, but I wasn’t prepared at all for how I’m feeling now.

I don’t feel the sense of joy and euphoria that I felt when I gave my last school exam and ran out with my friends yelling “Freeeedooooommm!”

I don’t feel the sense of quiet relief and reluctant nostalgia I felt on my last day of college, where my sadness at leaving was soon overtaken by excitement and anticipation of what lay ahead.

I just feel kind of weird. I wish there was a better, more eloquent way to describe it, but there really isn’t. In fact, as I type this, I find myself sifting through my emotions to find a match. You’ll know the result by the end of this post.

Throughout the year, we dealt with the confusion, exasperation and sheer desperation that come with studying a different set of subjects every six weeks, and submitting a coherent piece of material to be evaluated by the end of each course. Team meetings often descended into arguments, individual assignments were a mad scramble to get shit done before the deadline, and presentations were sometimes very painful to put together and talk about in my sleep-deprived state.

Still, even through the toughest, most infuriating assignments where I was literally tearing my hair out, not once did I even begin to wish I was somewhere else, or doing something else. It was stimulating, it was challenging, and it was exhilarating.

I can state with complete conviction that you would be hard-pressed to find a more intellectually stimulating environment than the one that YIF provides. I was always struck by how easily a discussion on where to go after class, or what was for dinner in the mess that night, or even the usual lighthearted banter would descend into an intense debate about Marx and Gramsci, or the issues of rural migrants, or the ‘real’ definition of an entrepreneur, or the lack of sporting infrastructure in India…you get the picture. You name it, and I’ve probably discussed it with my fellow Fellows over Maggi and chai.

Every moment at the Young India Fellowship was a chance to learn, an opportunity to grow. In the past year, I have absorbed more knowledge, formed stronger bonds and broadened my horizons more than I did in the twenty years that preceded it. I have learned to question. I have learned to push the boundaries. I have learned how to learn.

But most of all, I think what has made this experience so hard to let go of, and what makes me wish more than anything I didn’t have to let go of it at all, is the sheer force of 154 (and counting) hopes, dreams, aspirations and inspirations that give me the confidence and courage to follow my own. It is a force that propels each of the Young India Fellows forward in their quest for making a difference, and the thought of not being in the direct presence of this life-changing, paradigm-shifting force is rather terrifying.

I think the biggest testament to the impact that the Fellowship has had on me is the fact that I don’t want to leave even though my next destination is the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism.

I got my letter of admission from Columbia a few weeks before the offer from YIF, and much to my surprise, I found myself asking my dream school for a one year-deferral. It took some persuasion, since they only grant deferrals for medical emergencies or ‘exceptional academic opportunities’, but they finally agreed.

And one year later, the only thing I find myself thinking is that ‘exceptional’ is an understatement of exceptional proportions. 

Run, Rishi, Run!

There is an episode of the iconic sitcom Seinfeld, where Elaine (played by Julia Louis-Dreyfus) hosts a marathon runner named Jean Paul. Jean Paul is in New York to participate in the marathon, his first race in three years after the trauma of sleeping through his marathon event at the Olympics.

When Jerry (Seinfeld) finds out that Jean Paul’s undoing was a faulty alarm clock, he vows to leave no stone unturned in ensuring that the Trinidadian runner makes it to the race on time. Distrusting Elaine with such a huge responsibility, as well as the ‘wake-up call guy’ at the hotel, he brings Jean Paul back to his own apartment and sets him up on the couch with multiple alarms set to 6.50 A.M.

But as always, Jerry’s neighbour Kramer ruins everything. The first disaster occurs at 4.02 A.M when the new heat pump on his hot tub blows all the fuses in the building. As a result, Jerry and Jean Paul both wake up at 8.45 and are forced to rush like maniacs to the starting line.

In spite of starting over an hour late, Jean Paul produces a superhuman effort and emerges as race leader going into the final bend. With barely a hundred metres left for victory, it seems certain that he will beat all odds and banish the demons of his past.

Enter Kramer, yet again. Standing near the finish line with Jerry and Elaine, he is holding a cup of scalding hot tea that he hopes will bring his ‘core temperature’ back to normal after his hot tub-related woes. Mistaking the tea for a cup of water, Jean Paul grabs it on his way to a photo finish. The camera only shows Jerry, Elaine and Kramer grimace while a scream of pain is heard in the background, but I’m sure you can imagine the result…

I’m glad I didn’t watch that episode of Seinfeld before running the Delhi Half Marathon on Sunday, 30^th September 2012. I didn’t need faulty alarms and cups-of-tea-that-resemble-cups-of-water adding to my concerns that a) I hadn’t trained enough and b) I am too fat to run 21.097 kilometres at a stretch. 

Fortunately, unlike Jean Paul, I managed to wake up on time and get to the starting line by 6.55 A.M.

What follows is a somewhat detailed account of what was going on in my head as I ran:

1 km

I’m pumped up, raring to go. I can feel the excitement building as I begin a steady jog within the sea of fellow runners. I decide to pace myself, and tell my friend Varun not to slow down for me. A little ways ahead, I see some guy sprinting at full speed and then waiting for his buddies to catch up. “Good luck to you, sir,” I think as I smirk to myself. I plod along resiliently.

2km

I decide to walk for a kilometre. No, I’m not tired already. Really! I’m just conserving my energy. I swear. Oh screw it, you’re not going to believe me anyway. It’s true, though.

Somewhere between 3km and 4km

I’ve just resumed my steady jog, and am feeling pretty good about myself. Suddenly, I see a group of African men running in the opposite direction on the other side of the road, followed by a group of African women. I look at my watch – 7.25 A.M. “There’s probably been some mistake with their registrations so they’re rushing back,” I say to myself. I glance at the marker they’re running past on the other side, and that’s when it hits me: They’ve almost finished the race!

Great. And I was so pleased with myself five minutes ago. Sure, they’re professionals, but that makes it only slightly less demoralizing.

There are random bands at regular intervals on the sidewalk, playing popular numbers. I know it’s meant to get the runners in the mood, but unfortunately these bands aren’t very good. She Will Be Loved by Maroon 5 is not the best running song, and the guy singing Wolfmother’s Joker and the Thief is so bad that I feel like stopping my run just so I can go up to him and snatch the mike away.

Maybe these terrible renditions are part of a ploy by the organizers, to make us run faster just so we can escape the racket. If that‘s the case, then it’s working.

5 km

WATER. Sweet nectar of the Gods, there you are! I’ve missed you.

6 km

Find a nice view. Run behind her for a while, but she’s going too slowly so I’m forced to overtake her.

7km

I encounter the first timing mat. These are electronic carpets on the road, hooked up to monitors that recognize the RFID timing chip that I attached to my shoelaces before the race. Pretty neat!

The two beeps I hear as my timing is recorded are music to my ears. I look at my watch, where I’m running a timer of my own. About 55 minutes to finish one-third of the race. Not bad at all. I pick up the pace slightly.

Suddenly, I see it in front of me. India Gate. I’ve been in Delhi almost 6 months now, and still haven’t visited the iconic landmark. What a way to finally see it up close, eh? I stare at it as I run past, briefly glancing at the inscription on the top. I turn onto Rajpath, and my favourite stretch of the race begins.

I see Rashtrapati Bhavan – the office of the President of India – in front of me. It is quite majestic, with its impressive structure and imposing façade.  As I’m running towards it, I imagine Pranab Mukherjee running a marathon in a vest and tiny shorts. I then imagine his predecessor Pratibha Patil running with him, and wonder who would win that race. My immature mind also adds Manmohan Singh to that hypothetical test of athletic prowess. I chuckle to myself and keep running.

8 km

Stop to pee. Lose a precious couple of minutes, but a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.

As I run forward, I see Kshiti, another friend of mine. She started a little before me, so I’m quite pleased that I’ve caught up with her. Her cry of “Holy s**t, you’re here already!” as I run past her, makes me smile.

I take a right in front of Rashtrapati Bhavan and see the Central Secretariat metro station. Maybe I could take a metro to the finish line. Hmmmmm.

I see something called a cooling tunnel. It’s a sort of long canopy that has sprays of water that are supposed to refresh you. I run through it, but don’t feel anything. Whatever. Keep running.

10 km

Beep beep. Yay.

11 km

I run past ‘Transport Bhavan’. I know there’s a word for transport in Hindi, but can’t remember it. Why wouldn’t they use that? Transport Bhavan sounds pretty weird.

Beep beep. I’ve officially finished half the race. There’s a U-turn here, sending us back the way we came. I’m feeling pretty good. I run on.  

13 km

I’m feeling quite refreshed after having the orange handed to me by one of the volunteers. I see yet another timing mat in front of me as I turn back towards India Gate at Rashtrapati Bhavan, at the 13km mark. Clearly the organizers aren’t superstitious. Neither am I. Oh well. Beep beep.

Catch a glimpse of Miss Niceview again, this time she’s running towards me. She’s still on her way to the halfway mark; thank God I stopped following her.

14 km

As I’m running away from the Rashtrapati Bhavan, I imagine Manmohan Singh running again, except this time he’s trying to escape Mamata Banerjee, who is chasing him with a rolling pin. Chuckle, chuckle. Run, run. 

A slight detour from Rajpath leads me to the Le Meridien. As I take another U-turn in front of the hotel, I see the Ferrari showroom on my left. I resist the urge to stand and ogle the cars, get inspired, pick up the pace. Two-thirds of the race done! Beep beep.

I pass a couple of cops on the side of the road, deep in conversation. I overhear one of them say “Itni daru pee rakhi thi usne”, and begin to wonder what would happen if the volunteers handed out bottles of beer instead of bottles of water. Last man standing wins. Would make the marathon so much more interesting, don’t you think?

15km

This is where the trouble starts. I begin to cramp up, and stop on the side to stretch a little bit. Try to run, twist my ankle, then throw up.

In my current state, I don’t think it’s wise to go on any longer. I really wanted to finish my first marathon, but to be fair I didn’t train well enough. I call it quits. My race is over.

I do feel disappointed, obviously, but I’m proud of myself for running fifteen kilometres! Guess I’ll do better next time, maybe even finish the race!

Just kidding, I finished. Had you going for a bit there, didn’t I?

16 km

I slow down a bit when I reach India Gate again. Unfortunately, this is when the marathon photographer decides to take my pictures. So there isn’t a single one of me running. I swear I did, though. Really!

Another orange stand. I grab one, try to run, give up. I think I’ll walk for a bit. Just five kilometres to go.

19 km

I decide it’s time to go all out. I start running, pushing myself for the final stretch. By my calculations, I should reach just barely within the three-hour target I set myself at the beginning of the race.

Unfortunately, the 6-km Great Delhi Run has also started, and dodging people at full tilt when you’re that tired is rather difficult. I maintain as steady a pace as I can, and my anticipation rises as I near the finish line.

The final stretch

“Only 500 metres to go!” reads a big sign. Faster.

Only 400 metres to go! Come on, just a little bit more.

Only 300 metres to go! No coffee mugs. Thank God.  

Only 200 metres to go! A huge smile breaks out on my face.

Only 100 metres to go! SPRINT BABY SPRINT! I break into a mad run, zig-zagging through the throng of people that are now ambling towards the Nehru Stadium.

I stop a couple of steps short of the finish line, and as a tribute to that wonderful Youtube K-pop phenomenon that I am addicted to, I ‘Gangnam Style’ across the finish line. I hope the TV cameras caught it!

Holy crap, I actually did it. Wow. 21.097 kilometres. I look around in disbelief, waiting for someone to bump into me so that I can wake up from this crazy dream. Doesn’t happen. I really did it.

I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait for my next marathon! Maybe Mumbai? I haven’t been on the Bandra-Worli Sea Link yet, and another run might be the best way to see it.

The Little Blue Booklet

This is a personal essay I wrote for my expository writing class at the Young India Fellowship

I have never voted. Not because I am apathetic towards politics, or because I don’t feel like my vote will make a difference. Not even because I am unfamiliar with the voting process, or find it too difficult to understand and pursue. I have never voted because I am not sure which country to vote in.

I remember my friends walking up to me during the first year of college, with one finger raised high in the air, accompanied by triumphant grins. While at first I thought they were not-so-subtly indicating that they didn’t want to be my friends any longer, I realized they were merely excited about the little blue mark on their fingernails showing that they had cast their votes. An animated discussion followed, and the question of the day – “Whom did you vote for?” – was repeated every time a new person joined in. The conspicuous absence of indelible ink from my fingernails was soon noticed, and I faced a brand new question: “Why didn’t you vote?”

With a sheepish grin, I explained that as a citizen of the United States of America, I wasn’t eligible to vote in India even though I was eighteen. “Oh right, you’re a firang! (foreigner)” came the reply, accompanied by laughter and followed by a momentary awkward silence.

I didn’t really mind the jibe. The fact is that nobody really realizes that I’m technically not Indian until it is made painfully obvious. I look Indian, I sound Indian, and I speak four different Indian languages. If asked to sing my national anthem, I would burst into a passionate rendition of Jana-Gana-Mana. In fact, I can’t even recall most of the lyrics of The Star-Spangled Banner. The only thing American about me is my passport.

They say home is where the heart is, and my heart is firmly planted in Pune, Maharashtra. In the last sixteen years I have lived there, however, I have received periodic reminders that I am, in principle, an outsider. These reminders range from the ‘Nationality’ box in school and college admission forms to trips to the U.S. Consulate in Mumbai, where I renew my passport in a posh air-conditioned office. Meanwhile, my friends and relatives moan about the long lines and multiple visits to the Indian Passport Office, and about how hard it is to get a visa.

However, these are minor, unimportant reminders. What rankles the most is the reactions I get when Indians find out for the first time that I am an American citizen. No matter how hard they try to hide it, there is always an envious undertone that I detest. Sometimes, this undertone seems a little accusatory as well, as if I had a say in where I wanted to be born. America is still perceived in India as the Promised Land, a sort of elite club, membership of which is a privilege granted to the most illustrious human beings. “You’re an Indian pretending to be an American,” is what those undertones seem to be saying.

I wonder whether these people expect me to renounce my American citizenship. Most of them probably feel that I don’t deserve the perks that come with that little blue booklet with the eagle on the cover. While I certainly am not complaining about the perks (who would?), they are not the reason I have persisted with the blue booklet. I keep it because it is the only concrete link I have to the country of my birth. It is like an umbilical cord that I am not ready to cut just as yet, and I don’t know if I ever will be.

One person who understands exactly where I’m coming from is my best friend Karan. Whether it is coincidence or fate I will probably never know, but the first friend I made in India was someone exactly like me.

It was during my first week at Sapling Playschool, Pune that I met Karan for the first time. I had just moved there from New York, because of my parents’ desire to raise me not only within Indian culture, but also in the city where they spent the first 25 years of their lives. I had a strong American accent, and was playing alone in a corner with one of my toy cars. I was playing alone because I sounded different, and four-year-olds can be extremely narrow-minded. Karan’s family had just moved to Pune from Houston, Texas, and he evidently harbored a similar interest in cars. The version of this story that he tells features his mother nudging him towards me, saying, “Look, that boy is playing with a Hot Wheels car. Go introduce yourself!” So he did, and the rest, as they say in that worn-out cliché, is history. We have been brothers-in-arms for sixteen years now, and though we may not always keep in touch, I would trust him with my life.

Karan and I connected instantly, and it wasn’t just over toy cars. We connected because of a shared identity, a shared feeling of being outsiders in a place where we looked like everyone else. Our tacit acknowledgment of a shared past, however brief that past was, is similar to what Amitav Ghosh describes in his essay “Tibetan Dinner”, when he experienced a connection to a Tibetan monk during a gala benefit at a posh Manhattan restaurant. Ghosh and the monk felt connected to each other not just because they were the only outsiders at the party, but because of the past they shared, just as Karan and I did. 

I often think about what my life would have been like had my parents decided to stay in the U.S. While I could go into specifics and bore you for another page or two, one thing that I do know is this: I would have been treated as an outsider there as well. And the reasons for this treatment, ironically, are completely opposite to the reasons that I received similar treatment in the country of my origin. I am not accusing anyone of being a racist, but the undertones I spoke about earlier would still have been present. These undertones would be just as accusatory as the Indian ones, but the accusation in this case would perhaps be of stealing their jobs or looking different from them. However, both sets of undertones merge at the end, like two sides of the same coin, into the same statement: “You’re an Indian pretending to be an American.”

If I am treated as an outsider no matter where I am, then where do I belong? This question has bothered me for as long as I can remember. If I add my mother’s Bengali origin and my father’s South Indian one, then I begin to feel like I might as well be from another planet (although even Martians have the luxury of calling themselves ‘just Martians’). Over time, however, I have realized that my identity is my own, and I can make it whatever I want it to be. If that identity turns out to be an American-Bengali-South Indian-Maharashtrian, then so be it.

A couple of years ago I acquired a PIO card. PIO stands for ‘Person of Indian Origin’, which I guess is as appropriate a label as I am ever going to get. It is also valid for 25 years, which means that I do not have to keep applying for a visa to stay in my own country anymore. I have also decided to pursue my higher education in New York City, so I do get to enjoy some of those perks that come with being a citizen of the ‘land of the free and the home of the brave’. Who knows, I might even vote for Obama to be re-elected if I get the chance.

Made in Japan

 The people of Japan have managed to achieve a near-perfect balance between tradition and modernity, a fact that is clearly visible in its capital city of Tokyo

Every public dustbin ensures the segregation of waste, diligently enforced by the citizens themselves.

Can you imagine this kind of discipline on the Mumbai locals?

Traditional Japanese wedding procession at a local Shinto shrine

The first impression that Tokyo creates is similar to the one created by any big metropolis in the world, and there is hardly any distinction between the Japanese capital and Dallas or Manhattan. However, upon closer scrutiny and prolonged exposure, there are several mind-boggling differences that jump out at any visitor to the city.

The first of these differences that caught our attention was the incredible cleanliness. The streets were spotless, and no matter how hard one tries it is impossible to find a single item of litter anywhere. This fact is even more commendable considering our next observation, which is that there are far less garbage cans than expected, and it speaks volumes of the Japanese people’s inclination to keep their surroundings clean.

Along with this unparalleled sense of hygiene comes an immense responsibility towards the environment. Every single one of the aforementioned garbage cans, though few and far-between, was divided into separate compartments for wet, dry, combustible and non-combustible waste. Moreover, in the midst of the concrete jungle that is Tokyo, there exists abundant greenery in the form of expansive parks, gardens, and even clusters of trees. Nestled in the midst of a plethora of humongous skyscrapers, the beautiful surroundings of the Imperial Palace, which span an incredible 3.41 square kilometres, serve as the lungs of the city, with a variety of trees and vast stretches of lush grass, which are visited by huge crowds on a daily basis. The Hama-Rikyu gardens, built by a Japanese feudal lord in the 17th century and the Ueno Park are the other two major contributors to Tokyo’s foliage.

At Akihabara, also known as the “electronics district”, Tokyo lives up to its reputation as a techie’s paradise, with over 40 humongous buildings packed to the brim with anything that flashes, beeps or runs on batteries, or as the famous James Bond character, Q, would put it, “All the bells and whistles.”

When it comes to technology, the Japanese do not follow any worldwide trends, but prefer to use devices that are suited to their own cultural norms, which are poles apart from what the rest of the planet relies on. As their Kanji script is read from top to bottom instead of left to right, the most popular phones are the elongated flip-phones manufactured by the leading service provider in Japan, NTT Docomo. From what we saw in Tokyo, about nine in every ten people make use of these phones (or a similarly customized variation of them), and this is probably why I did not spot a single Blackberry in the week I was there, and could count on one hand the number of iPhones I saw people using.

The citizens of Tokyo also have an impeccable sense of discipline and public responsibility that borders on the obsessive (albeit in a good way). For example, whenever there is an escalator, everyone stands in a perfectly straight line on the left side, so that the right side is left free for people in a hurry to walk past. Such lines are also a common occurrence on the subway system, where the commuters are seen standing in equidistant lines in front of each carriage (yes, really!). They wait patiently for the people inside the train to alight, and slowly filter in one-by-one without any pushing, shoving or shouting. What amazed us even more is that these rules of public decorum, which are so stringently followed, are not displayed anywhere, nor could we see a single person of authority enforcing them! Try as we might, we could not even begin to imagine the same scene in an Indian metropolitan setting.

For tourists, the language can certainly pose a challenge, but even with the limited amount of English they know, all Japanese people are very friendly and extremely helpful. The desire to create a good impression on visitors is so strong that they will go out of their way to make sure you manage to find your way around. We were greeted with loud cries of “ Ohayo Gozaimas!” and “Kon Nichi Wa!” whenever we entered a shop, and we heard the phrase “Arigato” so many times that we were saying it ourselves by the end of the trip.

The most significant revelation about Japan was that its citizens have achieved a near-perfect balance between tradition and modernity, marching on the path of progress without compromising on their cultural values and ideals. This realization struck me after I visited the ultramodern Tokyo Tower, a modern structure that is modeled after the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and then visited ancient places of worship like the Meiji Shrine and the Asakusa temple, all on the same day. Visiting the famous historical landmark Mt. Fuji and returning by the sleek, progressive N700 Bullet Train (or Shinkasen as the natives call it), created a similar vibe.

The Japanese people have retained every last bit of their rich cultural heritage, and in spite of industrialization and modernization that has made them a force to reckon with in the global community, they have never showed the slightest inclination of mindlessly aping the West, which is something our own country can certainly learn from. Their customs and traditions have not only been preserved, but also continue to thrive today admirably.

My attempt at a movie review- My Name Is Khan

I just went and saw My Name Is Khan, Karan Johar's latest film starring none other than THE Khan, Shah Rukh.

Ironically, I think the entire hype that the Shiv Sena created by rallying against Shah Rukh Khan and threatening to boycott the film was the biggest boon to the producers, and a higher ticket-seller than any publicity stunts they could have possibly attempted.

Rizwan Khan is a muslim from a small town in India, who suffers from Asperger's Syndrome (a variation of autism). He has a caring mother and a perfectly normal younger brother who is jealous of all the attention Rizwan gets. He goes to the US for higher studies, and as soon as their mother passes away, Rizwan joins him there, in San Fransisco.

It is here that he meets, falls in love with, and marries Mandira, a single mother of a young boy Sameer. The problem is that Mandira is a Hindu (I know, cliches galore... but in this modern day and age, the movie plays down the opposition to their match).

Then, in the midst of all this drama, 9/11 happens! Being a muslim in the USA isn't safe anymore, blah blah blah. A bunch of American kids beat up Sameer and he dies. Mandira is heartbroken, and blames it all on the surname she got when she married Rizwan KHAN. She asks Rizwan to leave, and in her fit of anger and grief, tells him not to come back till he says the words "My name is Khan, and I am not a terrorist." to none other than the president of the United States. Khan sets out on a journey across the country, following president Bush to all his various appointments, trying to get a glimpse of the man so he can say the magic words and go back to his wife. Along the way, he meets several interesting people, among them an African American mother-son duo, who he later (somehow in the middle of the whole movie) goes back to save from a hurricane in the small town of Wilhemina, Georgia.

Again, in the midst of ALL this, the presidency changes hands, and Khan finally meets president Obama and says the golden words, "My name is Khan, and I am not a terrorist"

Oh, did I mention he gets the wife back in between? There's just so many "major turning points" in the movie, enough to make one dizzy!

That, in a slightly huge nutshell, is the story of the movie My Name Is Khan.

I'm not trying to belittle anyone or put anyone down, and the acting performances were actually quite good. Also, the film has a nice message, albeit one which seems to flit in and out of the movie from within the many layers of themes it is buried under.

I may even go so far as to say the autism angle might have been used to make the movie seem a little less unrealistic, as it is quite hard to imagine someone with all their mental faculties intact doing the things that Shah Rukh's character does in the movie.

If you do watch the movie or have already seen it, I think you'll understand what I mean.

The movie was...... interesting, to say the least. It showed me that there is a very fine line between a great movie and a terrible movie, as it seemed to continuously jump back and forth across this line, as if with a skipping rope. There were a lot of relevant human themes, too many of them actually, and the fact that the director took this mish-mash of emotional, controversial topics ALL TOGETHER and still managed to produce quite a moving film is rather commendable, in my opinion.

Playing along with the tag-line of the movie, I would like to end by saying:

My name is Iyengar, and I do not do Yoga.