1. Jorge Luis Borges.
I’ve only recently been introduced to this amazing writer. An Argentinian postmodernist mostly specialising in short stories, Borges challenged the accepted conventions of language, authorship and the novel. His short stories are amazing in their scope. They read more like philosophical treatises rather than narratives. His stories are often anachronistic in structure and he deliberately challenges the reader to question what is being told to him/her. I’ve only just read two of his short stories: “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” and “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote” both taken from his collection Labyrinths. They’re not entertainment, not short stories for the consumption of the masses, but more like works of art that challenge the reader to think, to ponder and analyse. 

2. Once Around the Block by Badly Drawn Boy
I first heard this song on a ride to an obscure lake. I had fallen asleep in the backseat of my friend Tom’s car, and when I woke, the first thing I heard was this amazingly layered, beautiful music. I didn’t ask him who it was, just sat back and enjoyed it. When the song ended, it still lingered in my mind and I kept turning it over and over like a shiny new coin. Later on, I asked him about the song and he had no idea what I was talking about. I had assumed it to be either Sufjan Stevens or Elliot Smith, and we went through a few of their songs, searching. And then, we happened upon it, it was Badly Drawn Boy (of About a Boy fame) and I was satisfied. Now I listen to it, over and over again. It transports me somewhere, somewhere magical. I wish more music did that. Download it here: Once Around the Block.

3. I Seem to be a Verb by R Buckminster Fuller
I Seem to be a Verb that is difficult to describe. It is Fuller’s collection of quotes, pictures, musings and thoughts. But in typical Buckminster Fuller fashion, it is the innovative way in which he presents it. It is laid out beautifully, illustrated by Quentin Fiore, who also illustrated Marshall McLuhan’s amazing (and very similar) The Medium is the Massage. There is a line of text that runs through the middle of the book, from beginning to end, dividing each page into two halves, the other half which has to be read upside down. It is truly an amazing thing to hold, to flip through and immerse yourself into. When I have more time, I’ll talk in length about this novel experiment. I’ll also try to scan and upload some pictures. If anyone reading this has access to a library that owns the book, please check it out. Its kind of rare and expensive to buy. 
 

4. Lasantha Wickrematunga’s final editorial
Lasantha Wickrematunga was editor of The Sunday Leader, until this January, he was shot fatally by 4 men and died while in the hospital. The Sunday Leader, and especially Wickrematunga, is one of the most respected investigative newspapers in war-torn Sri Lanka. Known for holding steadfastly to journalistic code, to high-ideals and morals, The Leader was, and is, one of the only voices of reason amid the chaos  of Sri Lanka. I first heard about Wickrematunga’s death in January and although I knew of him as an influential journalist, it hadn’t occured to me to read his final editorial. On trying to help Anu out with a project, I revisited Himal Magazine webpage and followed the link to his editorial. I was struck. He went on knowing that he would die. It was a certainity for him. He knew who and how, just not when. And yet, he continued to do what he did best. He exposed corruption, protested government excesses and denounced the militants for casual disregard for human life. It is people like him that inspire me. People who put themselves in the line of fire each day, knowing that they might not come home that night. Why do they do it? He could’ve money, power, fame, a comfortable life abroad, almost anything he desired. Why did he choose to do what he did? He answers: “there is a calling that is yet above high office, fame, lucre and security. It is the call of conscience.”
I hope one day, I’ll be able to say the same.  Read it here.

New York used to overwhelm me. With its skyscrapers that seem to be reaching for the stars, its lights that never go out and the constant swarm of people, always moving, like a torrential flood, New York would overwhelm anyone who doesn’t live here. Its been almost a year since I’ve been here. I don’t live in New York City, just 30 mins out in the suburbs, in between the towns of Bronxville and Yonkers. But I’ve sojourned many a time into NYC and I’ve grown accustomed to it. No longer does it faze me. Now I find myself walking faster than I ever did before, overtaking people, swerving right and left to avoid slow walkers, giving dirty looks to cabs that don’t stop at red lights. I’ve assimilated, the press of the crowd doesn’t scare me like it used to. Now I embrace it, this heaving mass of humanity.

Manhattan
The central island is for the trendy and the upwardly mobile. Here, everything is ridiculously expensive. I’ve explored most of Manhattan, and I haven’t been very impressed. Cities breed loneliness. I don’t remember who it was, but there is a theory out there that predicted that the rise of the metropolitan would not create interaction between the millions living in it, but rather, would cause every individual to retreat into themselves, cocooning away from the rest of the population. And that is what I see here. Most people walk around plugged into their Ipods, buried into the  cellphones or texting on their Blackberrys. It hard to get people to look up, let alone interact with others. 
Sometimes, while passing through Penn Station or Grand Central, there will be a band playing music. Often times, its one of those Peruvian flute bands (that South Park lampooned brilliantly) but often times, it will be a guy playing 5 intruments at once, or a dance troupe or even an acoustic guitarist. These are always welcome, a break from the monotony of transit (not the flute bands, they annoy me, there is no variation to their tunes).

Queens
My interaction with Queens is limited to three spots: Astoria, Jamaica and of course, Jackson Heights. Astoria is where Avinesh lives. And its a quiet residential area, so unlike Manhattan and other parts of Queens. Its fairly diverse and its a great place to live. Often, my sojourns into Astoria have been drunken ones, so forgive me if I skim on the details.
Jamaica and Jackson Heights are immigrant hubs. Jamaica is mostly black people, Africans, Jamaicans, etc but Jackson Heights is a milleu of Indians, Nepalis and Tibetans (I’m sure there are more South Asians in there).  When I first walked into Jackson Heights, I felt like I’d been transported to New Delhi or even Kathmandu. It seemed unlike any other place in New York. Of course, its more dilapidated than most other areas, but the cultural mix is undeniably the best for a Nepali missing home. Walking around, you can overhear snatches of conversation in Nepali and it amazed me. You can eat hot momos for $5 a plate at a cheap fastfood or splurge for a dalbhat at The Yak. Indian restaurants are everywhere too. Everything is undeniably cheaper here. There are Indian grocery stores that stock everything from meat masala to Kurkure. Everytime I go there, its almost a homecoming for me. 

Brooklyn and the Bronx
I haven’t explored much of Brooklyn, except a little of Williamsburg and crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge (very touristy, I know). I hear its a lot prettier than Manhattan and Queens so this next year, I vow to see more of Brooklyn.
Williamsburg is mostly hipster area. Rich white kids dressed in plaid shirts, skinny jeans and oversized sunglasses are everywhere. There’s almost an atmospheric pressure to be ‘cool.’ There are thrift stores everywhere and most hipsters shop at these stores, wearing cheap handmedowns and discarded clothing, even though they can afford so much more. Its cool to be poor.
I haven’t been to the Bronx. I’ve only passed through it. All I know now is only the stereotypes attached to it. Those stereotypes so pervasive that they’ve even travelled all the way to Nepal. I don’t trust television and especially its portrayal of minorities. I haven’t had a reason to go there yet, but I’ll make my trip soon. Once I buy a decent camera, I can photograph, but till then, these words will have to do. 

I don’t feel like an evil alien here. I don’t feel like I belong either, but I don’t think anyone belongs to New York. This is a place of constant movement. This is the heart of Empire. From here, deals worth millions of dollars are made, the rich and influential drive around in limosines, and sometimes an occasional celebrity will be spotted. But its all a farce. This city just has a facade of loveliness, a layer of flash that almost everyone sees through once you live here for a while. New York is not just the flashing lights and Times Square. Its Queensboro Plaza, the hub of a thousand languages being spoken at once, the bum collecting discarded MetroCards and systematically swiping them for a ride, the street musician on Union Square, his guitar case open for loose change, the disgustingly affluent who traipase through SoHo, the mill of students from NYU, Cooper Union and the New School in Washington Sqaure, the Jamiacan lady who announces the train arrivals at a few subway stations, the fat rats running along the same subway tracks, the white cops who will harass you and give you a ticket for sitting on the stairs at a station, its the Puerto Ricans who will try to pickpocket and rob you but flash a gun if you protest, its mass, movement and milleu. New York is everything and nothing, all at once.