For some reason, even though Michael and Laura are two of the most chill folks I know, and we spent all day eating and wandering about in the SNOW, I find myself completely exhausted. So, in lieu of writing you a post, I’m going to point you towards a little video that will give you a glimpse into the kind of events taking place in this very apartment a few scant hours ago.

Halloween 2005

If you aren’t sure what a Flying Spaghetti Monster is, or why it needs Noodly Appendages, this might help. Note to readers of faith — that page is intended less as a satire of religion than as a satire of bad science. At least, I think it is. Otherwise it’s kind of a bad satire.

(You ought to be pretty sure what ground beef is, but just in case.)

Since October 8th, my wonderful friend Maham — who is from Pakistan — has been working with colleges in the Boston area to raise funds for the earthquake relief efforts. Last night I went to a candlelight vigil that she helped to organize at MIT, but she’d driven off to pick up some last-minute supplies and I missed her there. Later last night, she sent me the following article, which I asked permission to post here because I have not had the words to talk about this, but Jehanzeb does. Thanks for reading.

By Jehanzeb Noor (MIT S.B. 2004 and S.M. 2007, jg_noorATmit.edu), October 25, 2005

I first left home when I was selected to represent my country, Pakistan, at an international high school in the USA with students from eighty counties. I was fifteen years old. Ever since, I have studied and worked abroad in different countries and now I am a graduate student at MIT. All these years, I have tried to be a reflection of where I come from and what my country stands for. I have talked about my country often and how there is still hope for it. But these days I just stay quiet. It is because I have a broken voice.

After the recent earthquake in Pakistan, I do not even know how different it would feel to lose my own mother. It would probably be the same numbness, the same denial of pain and the same red eyes ready to spill at any moment but forced to hold back. Today, I am left feeling lucky not because my Motherland chose to bless me with abundant opportunities out of a family of limited resources. Instead I feel fortunate now just to have the basics that you and I take for granted - food and shelter, clothes and water. I could have been among the already 80,000 who will not see another day, or among the 100,000 who will cease to live very soon without proper medical attention. The country is also more helpless than ever before.

Today I read that the world has pledged about $100 million of the $312 million asked for the relief efforts. Much to my gratitude, the Turkish Prime Minister Erdogan will visit Pakistan for a couple of days to further assess the damage and participate in reconstruction planning. His nation is expected to help out Pakistan in the most generous ways possible. Major international alliances or agencies will participate soon as well. I am thankful to the international community. And I am even more touched by the compassion of those in the MIT community who have shared this grief and burden. They have donated and prayed. When one hurts, we all do. That is what still sustains our hope in humanity.

But then every few days, I talk to my mother Naila, a schoolteacher in Pakistan. Hers is a broken voice too. More broken than mine. I find out things from her that I cannot find in the news media. Although she still goes to work every day, there is not much teaching going on. The kids in her classes, one after another, bring their toys and clothes to school instead of their textbooks, hoping these will somehow reach tens of thousands of children who have lost all they had and might also lose their lives soon. Perhaps many days ago, these kids saw the same picture that I just looked at recently. The picture shows two little girls, no more than eight years old, standing alone, holding incense at the side of several graves, and trying to understand what death means. I wish their parents could still hear the broken voices of these girls, and find some peace through those voices. The teachers continue to collect donations, but means to send them off to the Northern Areas of Pakistan are very limited. Even more scarce is food and water, medicines and warm clothes.

International relief organizations estimate that aid has still not reached at least half a million of the three million people left without shelter due to the earthquake. Because of the lack of proper medicines for colds and tetanus, and scarcity of food and water, at least 10,000 children will die very soon. I wish that some of you had had the chance to visit this devastated area before the earth turned upside down. You would have found it beautiful and untouched. And I wish you had seen the cute little kids with green eyes and tan skin, dressed in traditional clothes. They would we playing in lush green fields as we speak. Northern Pakistan was not modern at all, but it was self-sufficient in most ways possible, and a cultural entity of its own. Sadly, all our world knew about this region was its face of conflict, refugees and fugitives pouring in from neighboring countries. Now I hope our world also finds out that the same region is facing the worst natural catastrophe of recent times, exceeding the aftermaths of the Tsunami - the needs for which were met within 10 days of the disaster.

As I struggle to use this broken voice of a grieving son I will try to share with you, the voice that is most broken of us all. It is that of Ghulam. She had a poor but bustling family - both her son and daughter were married with several children. Then one day, in a matter of no more than few minutes, their simple life was taken away from all of them, except Ghulam, now all alone at 79 years of age. She recalls, “I used to make fun of my family for getting cold so easily in the winters. I used to tell them how tough we were in the good old days.” A few days ago, Ghulam stood in a queue for winter tents. She was so physically weak that she felt her bones were going to break. Before she could make it to the front, the relief workers ran out of tents. There have not been any new tent shipments to this small village. Ghulam is bracing for a tough winter of snow and rain without any warm clothes or any shelter.

Just in the recent past when the Tsunami and Katrina struck, I made small contributions online and thought it could help. Now, when disaster of larger scale has struck again, I am prepared to do all I can, but that just is not enough. Perhaps if the Parliamentarians, Senators and Congressmen abroad were contacted by their constituents to use their influence and send more airlift equipment, help would reach more people like Ghulam in remote corners. Perhaps if every American, and every other citizen of the world who could afford it, could contribute just $1 each, the $312 million funding appeal for aid could be fulfilled. Perhaps if each of us talked to or contacted our friends and family and asked them to contribute and spread the word, we would build a network of hope and bridge a huge gap between needs and resources. In the words of Ghulam, “I used to be tougher than most but this winter is different. I actually do not know if I would be able to make it all the way to the end. And I cannot really stand in a tent queue again. May be some one will bring me a tent.” Hers is another Broken Voice, most broken of us all.

These Broken Voices are crying for your help. Although their hopes grow dimmer with every passing hour, they have faith the world will care. I do not know what exactly to ask of you, or how much to ask. Just one word comes to mind - help. And when you reflect or pray, please think of these Broken Voices. Soon, the winter will arrive. These Broken Voices have nothing to find hope in this hopelessness. They might not have tomorrow, all they have is now. And these Broken Voices have no one else to ask for help; all they have is you.

Stanford iTunes — I think I may have died and gone to heaven. I am currently downloading a track containing a lecture entitled, “Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers.” Science, art, politics, it’s all there.

Also, I don’t understand nano-technology at all. But woah! Now I want to.

ETA: I am honor-bound to add that the Stanford iTunes interface locks out non-OS X or Windows users (iTunes won’t run on Linux), and that the iPod is the only mobile music player that is compatible with the AAAC files that iTunes uses. Ross thinks this stinks, and after a (very early morning) discussion about it, I kind of do too, even though I am still in my own private heaven over it. At first I thought Stanford wanted to make their media visible to more people, but since you have to go to and click through the Stanford website first in order to access the files, that’s not really the case. Also, Ross thinks that it’s the Stanford server that pays for the bandwidth use of all the downloads, so I guess they’re not using iTunes because they couldn’t afford to host the files. So really it would have been just as good — and fairer to a lot more people — to build a section on the university website where you could download mp3s.

Hmmm. I wonder why they did it?

I decided it was time for a (relatively easy) change. So, here’s the new face of the blog! I think it’ll take some getting used to, but I like how cool and relaxed everything looks.

Hello Aunty M & Uncle Rrrrrross

I went to the malay barber and had a haircut last week! My first professsional cut. It was such good fun. Only for me though. Not for mum who was carrying me throughout and so was showered with my falling hair, or grandma who had to dance around in circles and do gymnastics to distract me so that I wouldn’t fuss. I was a rather difficult customer cos I kept turning this way and that…so a queue formed behind me waiting to get their hair done. The malay barber was the best in the world, looked about 100 years old and was supremely patient. Some customers actually walked out, not wanting to wait for him to finish with me. Harumpf.

In any case, I now sport a cool hairdo. These pictures of my new hairstyle were taken by Auntie Sarah and are strangely unflattering cos the DROOL POOL shows up so much. I dunno why. Sigh

There are more pix of me, including one actually taken in the barber’s chair, but that’ll have to wait. Mummy needs to figure out how to transfer the pix out.

More soon.

love & sloppy kisses
Asher.

It’s hard to describe how windy it is in Boston today — the remnants of hurricane Wilma have blown into town, bringing with them gales that laugh at umbrellas and threaten to gust the little-framed off their feet entirely. I should know: I was out in the bluster and the brittle rain at 6:30am this morning, continually turning and turning about in the squall so that I could keep myself facing in a kind direction (one in which I was not actually having to breathe against the wind). Why did I put myself through this jollity, you ask?

Why, so that I could spend four and a half fun-filled hours in the Boston District Office of the “Goverment Agency In Charge of Aliens Like Me,” of course. See, as of yesterday more than 90 days had passed since I’d applied for my “Permission to Stay Out of Destitution” card, and I still hadn’t heard a peep out of the Powers That Be Weirdly Uncommunicative. This unfortunate circumstance entitled me — lucky me! — to apply for a “Temporary Permission to Stay Out of Destitution While We’re Working On It” card. So I thought I’d go down there early this morning to see if someone would be able to help me.

To make a long story (really. You don’t even want to hear about the evil photocopy machine and the horrifyingly boring 70 minutes that I spent in the waiting room, afraid to read in case I got too absorbed in my book and missed my number) only a very little bit shorter, the upshot of it all is this: An astoundingly merciful Jamaican immigration officer — whose initials, coincidentally enough, were “J.C.” — took one look at my receipt number and told me that

– my application had already been approved, as of September 19th (ARE YOU KIDDING ME) but

– the card hadn’t been processed yet because “you haven’t had your biometrics done.”

“Having your biometrics done,” painful as it sounds, actually involves nothing more complicated than a 10-digit fingerprinting and fancyfototaking, and I knew at once why I bloody well hadn’t had it done yet.

Because right in the middle of the helpful receipt notice I got from the Powers That BWU, the following exhortation appears, formatted exactly as I have copied it below:

“PLEASE NOTE -

USCIS WILL SCHEDULE YOUR BIOMETRICS APPOINTMENT. You will be receiving an appointment notice with a specific time, date and place where you will have your fingerprints and/or photos taken.”

Seems pretty clear, no? Clear as capital letters, as a matter of fact. “USCIS WILL SCHEDULE YOUR BIOMETRICS APPOINTMENT. You will be receiving an appointment notice with a specific time, date and place where you will have your fingerprints and/or photos taken.” I pointed this out to the immigration officer, and can you guess what she said? Can you guess, people? She said — wincing, to her credit — “Yeah… I don’t think they’re sending those letters.”

Yeah, I don’t think they’re sending those letters.

Thanks a lot, UNIVERSE.

So (I ask the apologetic Officer J.C.), if I had totally _ignored_ what The Powers TBWU had said, instead of actually _believing_ what they had said, I could have come in 5 weeks ago and asked for an appointment to have my fingerprints taken by a chatty Chinese lady who squished and slid and scanned my poor little pinky on the glass until it waah waah waahed all the way home, and my “Permission to Stay Out of Destitution” card would have been in the mail last month? And not only that, but my authorization approval has just been sitting there in the database since September 19th and nothing in the system beeped and said, Hey! Send this chickie a notice?

“Pretty much,” she says, efficently looking things up on the computer. “I don’t know why they do this, because it’s really unfair to the applicants.”

No, see, I get it.

They are testing to see how much you really want to stay out of destitution. Makes sense. After all, they don’t want people who’d be happy to be out of a job, idly wasting welfare monies! They want permanent residents of initiative, who’ll really fight for their right to work!

Fortunately, J.C. was not only sympathetic, but in the mood to get things done. She was especially concerned because, she said, without the biometrics information, The Powers weren’t going to schedule an “Are You Really In Love? Prove It!” interview for me and Ross. So she made some calls, printed me out an appointment notice, and sent me (in the spitting rain and driving wind) around the corner to get printed and pictured. She also nearly won my undying affection by telling me that when I came back she would go ahead and make me a “Temporary Permission to Stay Out of Destitution While We’re Working On It” card, since I’d already waited so long. I was about to kiss her feet, but then she checked the regulations again and frowned. She wasn’t allowed to make me a temporary card, because the approval for my permanent card was already in the system. (Which makes it kind of weird, don’t you think, that every time I called or went online to look up my case status, the system told me it was still being processed? I pointed this out, as well, and this time J.C. seemed frankly baffled.)

At any rate, now that The Powers TBWU know what every inch of the skin surrounding my upper phalanges looks like, I should be receiving my “Permission to Stay Out of Destitution” card in the mail within the next two weeks. J.C. even typed an email as I stood there (but to whom?) requesting that my card be sent to the production office A.S.A.P. This, although frustrating, at least gave me the relief of a definite timeframe, barring yet unforeseen colossal screwups.

Poor J.C. She seemed to feel genuinely bad about the whole thing. It seemed to me that half her job is spent dealing with the messes of applicants, and the other half dealing with the messes of the system. She did insist on checking in the computer to see if a date had been set for our “Are You Really In Love? Prove It!” interview, and apparently one had already been chosen this week… even though they’re not supposed to do that until you’ve had your biometrics done. Go figure! J.C. wrote down the date and time for me, and encouraged me to look on the bright side. If Ross and I had come in for our interview without me having first having been portraited and prodded, The Powers would surely have sent us packing rather than admit to a mistake on their part!

P.S. Called work, filled them in. They said not to worry, I’m worth waiting for. True enough. But ladies and gentlemen, now you know. An appointment notice from The Powers is not.

Lots of things have inspired me this weekend. On Friday, I was at the annual performance of Harvard’s South Asian Dance Company, because every year they donate their proceeds to a single charity and this year they chose one of mine. While at a volunteer committee meeting just five days earlier, I’d somewhat inadvertently signed myself up to go to the event and give a presentation about the work we do — mostly because my skin happens to be an appropriate color. I was a little anxious, but Ross and JLove were kind enough to sit next to my nervous butt while I fretted over my notes and frenetic performers gyrated on the stage in front of us. Apart from feeling a trifle ancient (”The music is so loud! The audience is freakishly excitable! Oh shit, that girl’s ribbon fell out of her hair, I swear someone is going to trip on it in a minute and break their heads!”), the evening was a wonderful reminder of how gorgeous human bodies can be while they’re dancing, how much I like techno mixes of Punjabi music, and how much beauty comes from a positive attitude (the most riveting dancers to watch were the ones who were good and looked like they were having a kick-ass time). The best part of the night was when I was making my little speech (easily the least sexy part of the evening. I was expecting everyone to be asleep.) and, upon hearing that we’d helped over 500,000 children in the last five years, the entire audience erupted into claps, whoops and cheers. I have to say, college kids may be loud and annoying when you’re trapped on a train with them, but they can also be awful sweet. So, rock on, Boston-area South Asian dance groups and their supporters! You guys are inspiring.

Saturday morning dawned dark and early, the better to catch the 8am Chinatown bus to Noo Yawk City, where I was meeting one future political leader and one future editor in chief of The Dr. Champion Review of Mitocelloantibodichondrianic RNA — if their current trajectories are anything to go by. And being with Peter and Erica is always inspiring.

Walking down the street in Manhattan, a musician was handing out this tiny magazine — part self-promotion, part just-plain-adorable vehicle for putting smiles on strangers’ faces.

This issue contained a crossword! Ross and I couldn’t finish it between South Station and Kendall Square, but maybe you can help.

So that was inspiring. Why shouldn’t I too be a musician and make a magazine? Apart from the requirement of scraping together a modicum of musical talent, and the tedium of stapling together all those pages, I can’t think of a single reason why not!

Afterwards, we had coffee (or, in Erica’s case, milk) and extravagantly priced desserts at a cute little cafe in St. Mark’s Place, where the wall that Erica and I were seated in front of was papered with images of apples and hung with a large portrait of Scarlett O’Hara. Decorating inspiration!

Today we went grocery shopping at the Super 88, where the aisles full of the most wonderful ingredients are ever inspiring. As a result, not half an hour ago I was eating, with immense relish, a big bowl of tom yum soup — made from scratch — and an equally big bowl of fried rice.

I also saw Jenn today, and despite her stressed out state she managed to inspire me with her determination to transform herself, come Halloween, into the best damned pirate Brookline has ever seen. I wasn’t going to dress up, but now I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t.

Like I said, lots of things have inspired me this weekend.

So according to Einstein’s formula I’m a good 1% of the way towards genius.

P.S. S. and CT, who live in NYC — I am sorry I didn’t tell you I’d be in town. It was really only for 6 hours, and I promise next time I’ll come visit you. I miss you!