Dreams of Fabric

Most girls who grow up in South India know of Nalli - the saree store. There aren't many television ads or glossy spreads in newspapers for the shop. But knowing that the store has some of the most beautiful silk cloth is information that is exchanged from grandmother to daughter to granddaughter, sister-in-law to mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, somewhere during the years that these women are busy preparing for weddings, the birth of a child or a religious occasion.

With a wedding around the corner, I recently found myself inside the original Nalli store, opposite Panagal Park in Chennai. Established in 1928 by Nalli Chinnasami Chetty, the shop is a wide tunnel, lined on either side with glass shelves of neatly folded fabric in piles. They come in mindboggling variations. Kancheepuram silk, Mysore silk, crepes (not the edible kind) and cottons. Fuschia, indigo, crimson and azure fabric peeks out from behind the glass cases divided by solid wood panels that house them, many of them lined with bold gold borders, and seem to say, "Pick me, choose me."

The experience gained significance as I shopped for a trousseau and was accompanied by my mother and grandmother. Three generations of women in my family draped billowing cloth in front of full-length mirrors in an effort to decide what looked timeless. What cloth would capture the beauty of the moment that we intended to wear it for, forever.

Customers jostle in front of display counters as sales people expertly pull piece of cloth, one after another, depending on specific requests. The mound of cloth builds in front of a client and they begin to fish through pile as they decide what to buy, resisting the temptation to sort though or choose from more. A customer leaving the store empty-handed is a rare sight as the cash registers ring ceaselessly and the smell of money lingers above the payment counters.

Nalli is one of many icons associated with Tamil Nadu's history. Although I may never state what I am about to write here to a side of the family who has appealed to me since childhood to consider the state in more fond terms, I must admit that during this particular visit I found Chennai much more fascinating than I do otherwise. Maybe it had something to do with the weather which was nothing to complain about, bordering on pleasant, compared to the sultry mess that usually greets a visitor and threatens to melt their insides until they leak through every available bodily orifice. Whatever the reason, this time I was paying attention to local attire, thinking about native cuisine and a local history that is several centuries old.

Putting no time frame to my resolution, I intend on returning to Chennai and greater Tamil Nadu willing to discover beauty that I am now convinced exists.

Talk the talk

They say talking helps. They are the chicken-soup-for-the-soul-reading, afternoon-Oprah-watching, possible-therapist-visiting general populace.
I've been talking.
Talking to people.
Talking to myself.
Talking to the walls.
Talking in my sleep.
No, I'm not crazy. I'm just a talker.
I've been talking.
My conclusion: It's all just talk.

Apologizing is what Tiggers do best

When news of Tiger Woods' accident broke, I was trying to carry more bags than necessary through Boston's Logan Airport. At the time, I had London on my mind and the three-flavored chowmein at the Panda Express sort of place in the terminal's food court looked too interesting to pass up. That, and the nearby bookshop. So I boarded my flight, forgetting all about Woods, thinking that the poor guy must have been careless backing his precious SUV out of the driveway, which would explain his knocking into a fire hydrant and then tree. Or heaven forbid had just had one drink too many. Maybe that was what had irked Elin enough to "hit" him, with her weapon of choice - a golf club. Classic. That is, before she felt sorry and helped her discombobulated husband out of the car window. Bizarre, sure, but hey, anything is possible.

So a few days ago, the incident found some closure with a public apology from the man who wields a mean arm on the green. He admitted to infidelity and asked for privacy in true celebrity style. After neglecting this news for several weeks, I had the chance to review it in totality. From the beginning, when he supposedly crashed his car near his home to news of an affair making headlines and subsequent women coming forward with their versions of romping in the sack with Woods. Of course, who can neglect the larger context of Woods' unblemished image that preceded these revelations, making them that much more acidic. Vile. Poisoned.

Opinions on extramarital affairs, monogamy and all things related to marriage are personal, of course. Between a husband and wife, to quote the accused himself. But I struggle to dissociate a person's professional life from their personal one. A person is all that they are. In entirety. A person is not a cafeteria that allows picking of the healthy salad and chocolate milk while passing up the mystery meat.

This particular incident makes me more sad than judgmental. No one is about to send Woods to his room without dinner. His sponsors will grumble at the loss of millions and the tabloids might go to town with photographs of a teary-eyed Elin. But there is a possibility that people will become greater cynics, more suspicious of goodness. Expecting it to explode into immorality or corruption at the slightest provocation or without. For increasing distrust in goodness in a world where there isn't nearly enough as there should be, for chipping away just a little bit more at the sanctity of relationships and allowing to have one more reason to be self-assured, smug, you disappointed, Tiger. It'll be a while before you find your roar. Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Beauty in the world around me, Beauty in all I see

So I'm standing on the shore looking out at sea. All I can see for miles is watery blue until it kisses the wispy blue of the sky. Perfectly. Happily. The yellow from the sun is all that breaks this unending expanse of blue. I can feel the sand under my toes. I can feel the breeze in my hair. I can feel the sun on my face. All this, without being close to a beach.

The earth seems to be shifting from under my feet. All sense of space, time, reality, have lost meaning. The quest for the meaning of life seems overrated.

Because the day begins and ends without alarm clocks or breathing exercises. It's been days since I checked the mail, dealt with the bills or watched my favorite show on TV. Suddenly, there is so much more importantness to fill my time.

I'm journeying, languorously, weightlessly, effortlessly. Sublime.

The wheels on the cars go round and round

There's chaos in the street. Two-wheeled mopeds, bicycles, three-wheeled autorickshaws, four-wheeled vehicles and pedestarians. This space is mine, not yours. Go grab your spot on top of the street median. I will curse your family if you cut in line. That is my birthright. Of course I will jump the traffic signal, what exactly are you going to do about it? My voice cannot be heard above the clamor. It is drowned out in billowing thick black smoke of exhaust fumes. Choking, choking, unconscious.

Brakes screech, dogs bark, dust rises from the tarred road and creates a brown cloud. Cough, cough. Sneeze, sneeze.

Just another day on the road in Bangalore.

Thank You

Thank You. Because there's no other way to say it. Because even saying this is not enough.

Thank You for the strength to make hard decisions. Especially when the difference between right and wrong couldn't be more confusing.

Thank You for allowing me to believe that I can conquer anything, survive much and fear little. Especially at times when I begin to doubt myself.

Thank You for my support system, my wonderful family and friends. I feel less lost with them, as they help me find my way back home.

Thank You for making me someone I'm happy being - Someone who stands for something rather than someone who will fall for anything.

Adieu 2009

So pooh, I didn't get the BBC job. Now the search for a new job in journalism begins.

As I kick back and soak up the Indian sun, here's wishing all of you a wonderful 2010!

BBC

This week I did one of the most thrilling things of my time as a graduate student. I flew to London and back in 48 hours :)

Three months ago, I had just arrived in Washington and thought it might be a good idea to check out job opportunities, knowing that the busy semester would not allow specific time for applications. Out of curiosity, I checked London's options as well and came across an opening with BBC. I began the online application on my work computer, where I had found the posting, couldn't stop thinking about it all day, went home and stayed awake until 5 a.m. and submitted it.

As the days went by, what seemed to be glaring errors on my application jumped out at me. They haunted my sleep along with that growing sinking feeling in my stomach that I had just blown a perfectly good job possibility.

The last date to notify applicants if they had been selected for the next round was Nov. 4, which came and went without a whistle. I had resigned myself to not hearing back long ago.

And then, a message popped into my inbox.

I had been called to London for an interview with two BBC journalists. I had made it to the next round!

Thrilled beyond belief, I booked tickets and counted down the days.

Just back from London and I can't stop smiling.

When I got to the BBC headquarter in White City, I had to walk through a long cobbled pathway, lined with trees on either side. The three BBC letters stared back at me from across the building.

"In London, I'm Ayesha Aleem, for BBC World," I said softly to myself, grinning that I was actually here.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a series of tests brought to a close with the interview, which was my favorite part.

Before heading to the hotel room for the night, I walked through packed Oxford Street, all lit up and pretty for Christmas. The queues at Primark were endless but with good reason.

I'm not sure if I will get this job. But I was among 60 people called for an interview from among 2000 applicants. Only 15 people get through to the program.

If I do get the job, it won't be any secret. And if I don't, I'll always have this whirlwind trip to London to smile about.

Priceless dining

On what I think was the nicest day since I've been in Washington, M and I went for lunch to Karmic Kitchen. Otherwise a a regular Indian restaurant that serves food at a price, the Karmic Kitchen is the same place transformed to a space of genorisity between 12 and 3 p.m. on Sundays. In other words, you can enjoy a fixed-menu vegetarian meal for free! All you have to do in reutrn is a random act of kindness to a stranger.

So M and I ate saag panner, basmati rice, novratna korma, chana dal and naan, without paying a cent. We intend on being repeaters and leaving a better donation next time round.

But pay a visit to the place by Dupont Circle. Whoever said nothing comes free?

In love with Washington

I had the most absolutely fantasgamorical wonderfully beautiful day today.

And I just ran out of adjectives.

So anyone who doesn't want to read about my endless gushing should wait until the next post.

This morning I went to the capital for the House vote on advancing the date for credit card regulation. Congressman Barney Frank, who cosponsored the bill, was managing the debate. This arrangement was likely to elicit some lively quotes.

I could have sworn I entered the capital on the House side. All the room numbers did begin with "H." But somehow I ended up on the Senate side in the press gallery. It took more than half an hour to meet Frank's secretary. But we finally found each other and spent the rest of the afternoon in the press gallery watching the vote on the House floor.

Afterwards, we walked down to the speaker's lobby where I met Frank himself. For all the horror stories I heard of his temper and unreasonable impatience with reporters, he was a perfect gentleman. Addressing me by my first name, he motioned to a sofa where he said we should sit down to speak.

Sit down and speak with Barney Frank!

I could have been in his living room at home for a cup of tea.

I'm smiling as I type this.

Walking out of the capital, Rep. Mike Capuano's chief of staff escorted me in the direction of the Metro station because he was going that way. And again my unknown thoughts were articulated when I said, "You have to let Washington grow on you. It's not love at first sight."

It's grown on me. Flourished and found a friend.

Read my published story here.

The Bigger Picture

We were discussing profile writing in class today, after spending a week poring over the lives of Valerie Jarett, Sen. John Kerry, Jon Favreau and a dentist who disputes President Obama's legitimacy to hold office. Our professors asked us to critique the readings when the words came out of my mouth before I had fully processed them. "The people were bigger than the details of their lives."

And by this I meant, where they were born, who their parents were, where they went to school - yes it plays a part in the grander scheme of their lives. But it doesn't define them. What people do, makes them who they are.

People are bigger than the details of the lives.

Getting it right...fast

Health is an asset. You don't know it's worth until you lose it.

Freedom is a gift. We don't know it's worth unless it gets taken away.

To feel joy, happiness and contentment are exalted human experiences that we too often discount.

The people we love get taken for granted until it's too late.

Seize your life and all your blessings before they slip away like sand through your fingers.

An Evening at the Theater

The class went for the "mandatory" Shakespeare play at Folger Theater. The one Joe didn't attend because of a conflict of interest.

We looked so elegant, all dressed in black and high heels, me in flats to do my feet a favor.
The play was lukewarm, I'm not a big fan of theater. But I like Shakespeare for the writing. Strange?

The play was a Carribean adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing. There were a few funny moments. But mostly it was about sitting in a Shakespeare-stlye theater watching a performance of the master's work.

At the end of the play, we took pictures outside the Capitol. The bright light still glowing in the topmost part of the tower to signal that someone was still in session.

Weekend with the girlfriend

Puneet visited me this weekend. The two of us sprawled out in my uber comfortable room with food and gabbed about life, boys, the works. We walked down the street with large smiles on our faces and had lunch at an Italian restaurant - Cafe Paradiso. She had pasta. I had eggplant timbales or grilled eggplant with tomatoes. Then we watched Grey's Anatomy and ordered pizza. And then we still had energy so we took a walk to Iowa Ave. to visit a friend.

Time flies so quickly when you're having fun.

World wrap

Two nights ago, I went out for Ethiopian food with friends in Adams Morgan. Incidentally, we were a muticultural gathering of French, American, Korean and Indian people, partaking in food of the African continent.

And then the Turkish festival came to town. In a sea of champagne harem pants, sequined bodices, belly dancers and hot purple makeup, Washington celebrated the Ottoman state. Canopied stalls displayed glittery baubles and stuff. But the longest lines were at the shewarma stalls. Succulent meat wrapped in pita, rice-stuffed wine leaves and pickled vegetables. Americans, the Turkish and visitors who weren't either, enjoyed the Middle Eastern fare under the fall sun.

Writers and love make the world go round. Food and Skype brings the world closer.

Saving the planet: Sen. Lautenberg and Sigourney Weaver

I interviewed Sigourney Weaver today. She is as tall as they say in real life. She was wearing high-heeled boots as well. Very polite, approachable and someone who smiles, she puts a rookie reporter at ease. So I stood with my recorder, notepad and pen in the Capitol as she spoke about the ills of ocean acidification.

Read the story here.

Sunny afternoon on bread

Two reporters and my editor took me out to lunch today. We went to a Greek sandwich place a few blocks away. Sitting outdoors, munching on a chicken salad on wheat bread, talking about story ideas and the weather was perfect - sunny, balmy, gorgeous. Another great day in DC.

The National Book Festival 2009

Today, I attended the National Book Festival for the first time. Started by former first lady, Laura Bush in 2001, the festival is hosted by the Library of Congress and extends for seven blocks on the national mall.

White tents held up by silver, metal poles accommodated thousands of readers who had come to meet their favorite authors. I heard John Grisham speak and interviewed authors from Massachusetts for my newspaper.

The highlight of my day was a one-on-one chat with author of The Giver, Lois Lowry. I think back to the fifth grade when Ms. Blake introduced us to the Newbery Medal-winning book and recommended we read it. I remember being a wide-eyed nine-year-old who went to the school library and checked out the book from Ms. Tafoya, the librarian. Ask my nine-year-old self if I thought I would be interviewing the author one day? My answer would have been in the negative.

Books will always be special. Writers and love make the world go round.

Walking with senators

Two days ago, I walked in to work on Monday morning and was assigned to cover a speech about energy by Sen. Lamar Alexander of Tennessee at the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. Aleaxander took questions from the media after the speech when reporters, including me, charged out the doors of the room to ask him questions.

Yesterday, I was at back at the Capitol, accompanying a senior reporter at Gannett. We stood with other press outside the Senate chambers, waiting for senators to enter and exit the room, as they voted on amendments for a bill inside.

I missed Joe Biden, but saw Sen. Lindsay Graham.

I could get used to this.

A Hero is Honored

A soldier from Massachusetts was killed in Afghanistan in 2006. He was inducted into the Hall of Heroes - a space at the Pentagon dedicated to honoring recepients of the Medal of Honor. This is the highest military decoration that can be awarded to a person in service, given for action gallantryin action, at the risk of life, beyond the call of duty.

Sgt. 1st Class Jared Monti was head of a 16-man patrol adn had been travelin for three days when he died trying to rescue a wounded comrade. In the gallery outside the ceremony, a four-month old Jared stared out from a photograph, surrounded by many more of him at family occasions and in uniform for school sports teams.

Jared's parents were present at the ceremony. It amazed me how they could lose their able 30-year-old son and rise above the grief to be thankful that their child had served his country. It's a beutiful sentimen, just not one I can fully understand.

Below is the Politico video of the ceremony at the White House where President Obama awarded the Medal of Honor.