saying thanks

everyone on earth in possession of a television set knows this: in the united states, thanksgiving is a big deal.

i knew it was going to be big too, when i saw, a week in advance, the crowds start to gather on 34th street, near and around macy’s: that giant of a department store. preparations for the annual parade were on, and everyone wanted photographs. bright lights – brighter than usual, that is - started to spring up everywhere, there was tinsel in shop windows, and four-letter words that made their presence felt at every turn i happened to take: sale.

for me, the more interesting thing was an invitation i received to a traditional thanksgiving dinner at glendale, new jersey. the invite came from an american i happened to meet in mumbai through a friend, not so long ago. ‘would you like to go to my sister’s place?’ he asked. and i nodded, curious about this all-american ritual. there were invites from indian-american friends too, but i wasn’t sure about another meal involving curry when confronted with the possibility of being part of something i would have no access to in india.

when it was all over and done with, i realized that thanksgiving simply acts as a fabulous excuse for family and friends to get together. just like diwali does. or id. or, for that matter, a cousin’s birthday. it was just as warm, the wine and turkey notwithstanding. relatives poured in, everyone helped in the kitchen, teenagers lounged in front of the tv, the men discussed american football in staggering detail, the women milled about in groups, and there were smiles all around. i loved every minute of it.

the day after thanksgiving is referred to as black friday. it’s when businesses that aren’t doing too well can move out of the red and into the black. on my way back to new york, a little before 5 a.m., i saw queues form outside department stores along the way.

the family dinners were all over with. shopping in earnest was about to begin.

stuck in a moment

the world’s big cities are lonely places to be in. they look down upon you, all glass eyes and steel arms, complacent in their bright, shiny, silence. they say nothing, when you walk down their bustling streets, your heart quiet in its shell in the midst of the chaos outside.

"i wish i could be as calm as indians are," a middle-aged american man said to me, last night, at a pub called gaetana's in greenwich village -- an old italian place that, supposedly, was a hangout for gangsters years ago. also supposedly, it was a site for hits carried out by the mafia. last night, however, the place was unassuming; the mafia, nowhere in evidence.

"calm indians? are you sure?" i asked. could he mean the american indians? "no, people from india," he clarified. "you people are so quiet, so 'together', i wish i could be more like you."

that's when i began to think about big cities and what they do to you. the minute you leave home, and get to a place far, far from it, the cities take over. that's when you are confronted, for a period of time, with nothing and no one but yourself. when you lose the anchoring of friends and family, and have only your soul for company.

that's when you walk the streets at night, stop by brightly-lit stores, take in a few movies, eat alone at tables by restaurant windows, wake up and sigh, go home to an empty apartment, and switch on your television set, always hopeful that audio and video can compensate for a lack of human presence.

i don't know about other indians but, for now, that explains my being so quiet. shhhhhhhhhh.

make me laugh

imagine, for a moment, the idea of a prehistoric man being invited to step into a comedy club. how would you describe it to him? what would you say – that this is where we civilized folk often gather, paying a price to laugh at something funny together?

the thought struck me a little after i stepped into gotham, on 23rd st, which describes itself as new york city’s 'most elegant, upscale comedy club, dedicated to keeping patrons laughing.' there were a lot of patrons that night, all ushered downstairs to the bar while waiting for the show to begin.

apart from the $20 entrance fee, the rule was every customer had to order a ‘two-drink minimum’ (yes, orange juice counted). three seconds after placing an order, i saw a little card saying that anything ordered at the bar didn’t exactly count as part of that ‘two-drink minimum’. maybe it was part of the act. i could see how other ‘patrons’ would find it funny.

but then, it was time for the stand-up comics. three of them. the last was a big name, tom papa, of the jay leno show and saturday night live. and yes, they were hilarious. really, really hilarious. the american president, habits of the english, racism, immigrants -- everything was fair game. when one member of the audience admitted to being australian, the comic on stage replied, “i’m sorry for your loss.” why? “because you guys have only one celebrity (steve irwin, crocodile hunter) and he just died.”

the thing i liked best was that everyone laughed. and laughed hardest when the joke was on them.

imagine, for a moment, the idea of a comedy club in india. at a place like – shudder – delhi, for instance. imagine the stand-up comic, comfortably enthusiastic in the knowledge that he possesses the power to make people giggle helplessly, taking a dig at politicians. or taking a dig at how religious habits go out the window the minute we leave our country. or a dig at our ridiculous attitudes towards sex on television. or how we tend to worship cricketers who consistently perform badly.

imagine that stand-up comic getting away with any of this.

i like the idea of being labeled an immigrant nuisance who can’t figure out how a laundromat works. i like the idea of dressing like a complete idiot and being refused entry at a swanky restaurant in new york’s meatpacking district. if someone points these things out to me, i intend to laugh.

i intend to learn how to laugh at myself, and take that ability back with me when i go home. if i manage, there’s a good lesson for life.