One one things

This afternoon the LTTE attempted to murder the Head of the Sri Lankan armed forces. Another stab at inciting retaliatory attacks by the military or some form of communal violence targetting Tamils. The obvious aim is that communal violence and or military strikes will give them a valid reason to go to war and thus saving face with the international community and yet achieve what they so clearly desire; war. This point has been quite blatantly missed by a lot of the media who have focused on attacks on Tamil civillians. What happened in Trinco last week was obviously not good by any stretch, but it needs to be explained within the correct perspective, taking into account the fact that the LTTE has been doing everything in its power to achieve this. The Military has been consistently condemned for Trinco and this is very unfair. First of all the allegations that the army stood by without stopping the violence are not well substantiated and could be exaggerated views. Secondly it fails to recognize the fact that the army has stood its ground despite continuous provocation and loss of its members and thereby exercised remarkable restraint. The media has failed to see this and has simply jumped on the bandwagon of accusations. Again I’m not condoning what happened in Trinco at all and communal violence is fallacious and playing into LTTE hands, but it needs to be understood in this context.

Today’s attack on the General was just taking things one step further. They tried in Trinco to trigger communal violence, that didn’t bear sufficient fruit so they took the battle right to the heart of the army. The army and the government needs to maintain the commendable restraint that they have been showing thus far, despite an attack on its leader. Mahinda Rajapakse made a very good start at this in his address to the nation. He clearly recognizes and states the aims of the LTTE and is refusing, at this point, to play into their hands by retaliating wholesale. “What the LTTE attempts to achieve by intensifying these attacks, while grossly violating the Ceasefire Agreement they are said to be bound by, is to bring about a clash of a communal nature among the Sinhalese and the Tamil people.” He goes on to urge the population to avoid any form of retaliatory action; “Therefore, I make a fervent appeal to all our people not to take the law into their own hands, and in a way give cause for such a communal clash.” Mr. Rajapakse is clearly making the right noises and one hopes this continues but only in a powerful manner, making it clear to the international media and fellow governments the sort of game being played by the LTTE and to make it clear that the government is refusing to play along. Thus far the government propaganda machine hasn’t done enough in this regard. This would ideally lead to greater pressure being placed on the LTTE to return to the negotiating table. The inability of the government to control the activities of the “paramilitary” forces is a quite pathetic excuse for not resuming peace talks. How can the government control the Karuna faction which is in itself another terrorist group using guerilla tactics? If the government could control terrorist groups there wouldn’t be any war in the first place. There is no solution for this problem other than a political solution, and at the moment only one of the two parties is not willing to take their seat at the negotiating table. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who is not being genuine.

A major worry is the security breach in what ought to be one of the most fortified buildings in Colombo. I do not understand why the General’s convoy would travel so close to civillians lining the road and it appears quite miraculous that he survived. The LTTE would have certainly lost a lot of ground in this event if there is no military backlash since they failed to achieve their objective and have clearly shown the international community that they are neither genuine about peace nor the interest of Tamil civillians. Let us hope the army maintains their non-retaliatory stance and that the government continues to look towards a negotiated settlement.

The other day I was having the usual lunch at the dodge Chinese joint with a friend. The place belongs more in Beijing than in Central London with duck and chicken carcasses hanging on display, whetting the appetite and screaming bird flu. It’s well located (just near the museums and the South Ken tube station), cheap, tasty, seedy and always full despite the fact that the staff only bother to serve you in between shouting battles amongst themselves. So whilst happily tucking into some roast duck with egg fried rice, a couple of builder guys came and sat at our table, as sharing tables is the norm in chinese places here. It was all good until one of them tells the waitress “No cock for me today please.” I was shocked, but the girl didn’t seem too perturbed, but I don’t think she understood it bc most of them don’t speak much English. This continued for several minutes including some comments rather less subtle than the pun on coke. As they left, one of them told the waitress that she better be ready at 8 O clock that he’s coming to pick her up.

I was thinking to myself later on that this sort of behaviour is the norm amongst ppl of such a social category. You often get builders, road workers etc. harrassing ppl on the streets and I guess one comes to accept it. This does sound terribly classist, but it is the reality, though a generalisation. Recognizing differences in social class is I think engraved in human nature. Though I and a lot of ppl in my generation tend to consider the caste system to be primitive and massively discriminatory, we exercise the very same discriminations in our mind every single day. The only difference being the caste system uses the professions of one’s ancestors whilst we use the professions of today. For instance, if someone told me I could get married to a girl working in a garment factory, chances are i’d refuse. The role of caste in marriage is the same, the majority of weddings in our grandparents’ (and sometimes parents’) generation were determined by social caste. Today we look down upon the latter but secretly acknowledge the former. I think that I maintain a basic degree of liberalism by rejecting the caste system, unfortunately this makes me a hypocrite. This is not a defence of the caste system bc that system crosses the line by passing judgement on individuals based on what their great great grand parents did with themselves. It is however normal to pass judgement on ppl based on what they do with themselves in their own life. Acknowledging differences in social class is completely normal, and to be blind to it is probably impossible at this stage of human history.

The same applies to things like race, skin colour etc. we are born with a Masters Degree in prejudice. (If you doubt this conduct the following thought experiment, you have a line up of 4 possible suspects of a terrorist bombing, one a short Chinese chap, two a middle aged white guy, three a tall black man, four a bearded Middle Eastern guy dressed in traditional Muslim clothing, what would your most instinctive thought be? Similarly if you were told to name which of the four are likely to have been involved in a television robbery, and which of the four is a millionaire and which of the four is a computer engineer, most of us would have fairly similar initial instincts). I guess the best we can do is to accept that one will be judgemental about one’s differences but to try one’s best to not let that judgement affect one’s decisions and actions.

A totally unrelated but mildly amusing thing that I found out today is the name of those long chairs that you find in walauvvas, the ones characterized by polished wood and a meshwork of cane with extended arms to raise your legs onto with the intention of having an afternoon siesta. They are deliciously named Bombay Fornicators.

I woke up very feeling very antsy this morning. It probably has something to do with my dream that there were bears outside the house and the windows were open. I also dreamt that I was a five year old boy working in a street shop with my ex-military father who was paranoid that ppl were out to get us. One day he saw a hidden camera on the tree in front of our shop and said, “putha, get my shotgun, they’ve been filming us all along”. Thankfully I woke up and didn’t have to find out the outcome of that one. The building has stopped next door and our new neighbours have moved in. I know this bc their baby started shouting early morning. The father’s warning was ominous, “The noise from the building will stop in a couple of weeks, but once we move in I can’t guarantee silence from the baby”. He obviously hasn’t heard of gags.

Anyway I’m trying to lead a balanced life from now. Splitting my time between doing some useful revision and ploughing my way through the big bad essay (dissertation) whilst leaving room for some London fun. I’ve had a deficiency of testosterone of late. Well not exactly my own testosterone but that of others. That sounds terrible. Anyway, point is i’ve not had much male company over the last few months and there were some worrying signs developing. I’ve begun to notice things like girls’ shoes, accessories and make up including the finer points of mascara, to such an extent that my opinion is sought on the compatibility between attire and accessories on certain occassions. I once caught myself saying “Good lord no, not that handbag with that lipstick!” All very butch of course. So it was not with a small amount of joy that I discovered that a school friend of mine was back in London looking for employment.

Last weekend a couple of other school friends were in town so we all met up for some fun and frolic. First things first so we went to some Arabic place in Edgware road for some lunch and shisha. Edgware Road is another example of London’s variety. This part of town is very Middle East/ North African with lots of restaurants serving food from that part of the world. In the night the cafes spill on to the road and groups of men dressed in Arab attire sit around a Hookah puffing away with tea or coffee in a glass waiting to be sipped. The shops are also generally brighter and shinier in typical Middle Eastern style, Arab music drifts across the road and the wonderful aroma of shisha wafts into your nostrils beckoning you to the closest hookah. The population haunting Edgware rd is primarily of Middle Eastern origin so you get a lot more women in full Hijab and men in Arab clothing too, and they all appear to be quite laid back in their approach to most things. Service is no exception here, the mandatory wait for a shawarma is about 35 mins, regardless of whether it has been pre-cooked. But I never really mind bc it’s hard not to be relaxed with some shisha, a comfy couch and leisurely conversation. That’s pretty much the theme for the entire length of the main road and then you turn the corner and you’re in Marble Arch, a different world in the same City, that’s London for you.

Today there was an amusing incident with a waiter, a yoghurt drink and mistaken FOB identity. On the menu card there was something called yoghurt drink with it’s arabic name printed next to it. The following ensued.

Me: Turkish coffee please
Friend: I’ll have the yoghurt drink
Friend (pointing to arabic name): How do you say the word?
Waiter: Yo-gh-urt dr-ink, you pronounced it quite well actually.

Hilarity of course. Both Turkish coffee and yoghurt drink were quite terrible. The coffee was like a double espresso with lots of spices in it and the yoghurt drink, well the less said the better. It was much like the liquidy layer that forms over a pot of curd. It reminds of another day when my friend tried to order a Lamb Liver Shawarma, the waiter didn’t understand him so my friend pointed at the menu, and the waiter goes “ahh chicken?”, my friend just shrugged and agreed to the deal. Food is food after all. But the food on Edgware road is a secondary attraction, the main event is shisha. It is possibly the nicest thing to smoke. Whenever I have shisha it feels like my nose has developed taste buds and that I can smell the sweet taste. It’s incredibly relaxing and soothing, except rose water flavour which is crap. Grape, apple and Strawberry are the solid bets. That cafe was strange though, they had hip Arabic music but the music video playing on the big screen was a soft-pornesque Danni Minogue flick. Worryingly there was a shotgun attached to the wall, but reassuringly it looked like it hadn’t been used since a 12th Century Jihaad.

We decided to watch The Producers in Covent Garden so had to kill time till around 6.30 so we walked around the West End and thought it’s about the right time to see what this Soho place is really like, with no ulterior motives, purely explorational. I always see signs pointing in its direction but have never gone there. The signs were rather misleading, and it took a good half hour of meandering between dodge alleys to see the first indication that we had arrived, Licensed Sex Shop. As my friend pointed out, it was a classic case of Parangaya Soho giya. Whilst keeping a weary eye out for the upstairs windows, where there are rumoured to be scantily clad females beckoning customers to join them, we walked around trying not to look too suspicious. Soho isn’t all its made out to be, at least not at 5 in the evening, and we ambled off. We decided to muck about in a pub until it was time for the show, but after going in we discovered that it wasn’t really a pub but a restaurant disguised as a pub. And a pricey one at that. We split a bottle of the house white, ate the carrots that had been laid out as a nibble and when they asked if we’re ready to order we said we’ll just step out and come back, which naturally we never did. Oh but we did pay. That said, the restaurant looked very good, it was designed for pre and post show goers and the decor was made to resemble a stage set. It could potentially have been very tacky but they had managed to pull it off very well indeed. It’s on Drury Lane just next to the Producers.

Unfortunately the Producers wasn’t doing student discount that day so we decided to watch an average stand up comedy in Leicester Sq. instead. I was coerced into having a couple of pints of beer despite my lifelong contempt of what I call glorified cowpiss. But one must give everything a fair trial, and unfortunately for brewers the world over, the beer failed to give me anything apart from a bloated stomach and very unpleasant burps. We got home late that night and fell asleep half way through The 40 year old virgin. But a good day of much needed testosterone.

P.s. Happy birthday Murali!!

I admit i’m quite a sucker for most traditions. A couple of days ago the Avurudu celebrations were held back home and I was feeling quite sad for most of the day, missing our routine at home. Every year we light the hearth at the appropriate time, dressed in the appropriate colour, facing the auspicious direction and hoping the milk boils over following suit. The hearth is great fun, there’s nothing like some controlled arson. Thaththi then feeds all of us in turn, and since last year Teq beq also gets fed kiribath and gets to drink the freshly boiled milk. Seeya and aachchi then come home and have kiribath, and then we follow them back to their place where we have kiribath, do the ganu ganu (at least until last year when I started earning and felt obliged to do some denu, I distinctly remember getting a raw deal, ganu ganu is more my game). The rest of the day is spent traversing Greater Colombo, relative hopping. Not my favourite part of day, but it must be done. Being the youngest I spend a good part of the day on my knees, bulath in hand doing the rounds. This year I missed the whole do and tried to compensate as best I could by boiling milk over the gas cooker, still facing South and decked in vaivarna clothing (well a vaivarna sarong at least). A few friends came over for kiribath, baila and general amusements, and it did feel quite nice.

Tradition is forever challenged by time and progress. This is good in some instances, but not so good in other instances. Ragging for instance is a pathetic tradition, and the sooner it’s out of the picture the better. But certain traditions play an important role in chiselling the identity of cultures, institutions and even families. These traditions need to be protected and carefully nutured. Just recently I heard that the Oxford University tradition of wearing full sub fusc for exams could possibly be made redundent. There was a vote held to make it the choice of each student whether to wear it or not. That sounds fair enough, choice is good after all, but I would have thought that the end result would be obvious. The average student would rather do some last minute revision instead of spending the last 5 minutes getting into the “penguin suit”. Furthermore, the average student is unlikely to feel all that attached to the institution that he/she is part of, and is thus unlikely to want to contribute to the traditions of an institution unless coersed. But happily enough the result of the vote was in favour of keeping the sub fusc.

I bought a ticket for the first Lords test between SL and England in May, and when the ticket came by post I thought they had by mistake sent me a dozen tickets bc the envelope was so fat. The actual ticket was quite standard (thought prettier than your average) but the rest of the contents were more interesting. It included a ticket holder beautifully adorned with a drawing of the ground, a leaflet detailing the available picnic box sets, and most amusingly a 15 page booklet entitled “A guide for ticket holders 2006″ detailing the vast rules and regulations for spectators. Some of them are quite harsh. Among the items banned are flags, banners, musical instruments, klaxons, rattles, fireworks, fancy dress and oversized hats. But, this is after all Lords, it isn’t your average cricket ground. I think it’s fair enough that they try to maintain the traditions that make the ground unique. If you want to wear big hats and beat some drums, as most of us like to do, we can do it anywhere else in the world. There is a reason that any player in the world would want to score a hundred or take 5 wickets at Lords, it’s because Lords is unique, it is steeped in tradition and it is like no other. Therefore I have no qualms with allowing the ground and the MCC to try and maintain that uniqueness, afterall I’m just a spec in the 219 year history of the MCC.

A lot of ppl can’t be bothered doing the avurudu traditions, most ppl scoff at the requirements of watching cricket at Lords, most Oxbridge students find the sub fusc to be a hassle, but it’s different traditions like these which make the human race interesting. The unique cultural celebrations add a bit of colour to life, Lords is a special cricket ground whose appeal is derived from its adhering to tradition more than others and finally Oxford University is special not because of its education (other than one on one tutes) but because of its rich history and the traditions it clings to. It would be sad if we fail to cling to such traditions and slip into monotonous homogeneity. Each day traditions are lost and the world becomes that much less interesting. I think it’s important to maintain and celebrate diversity, to celebrate that uniqueness with which we’re all born.

I spent the better part of my Sunday at a sikh parade in Southall. A friend of mine, who’s into photographing all sorts of events, called me up last night and asked if i’d like to tag along. Sundays are traditionally dull and bluesy so I thought what the hell, woke up an hour early and met him at Paddington station by 10.30. I’ve never been to Southall and have only heard that it’s very Asian, Indian in particular. This was confirmed by the welcome notice at the station written in both English and Hindi. It was quite nice and sunny so a fairly decent day was in prospect. I nicked my housemate’s camera for the occassion but it was no match for my friend’s hardcore Nikkon which had about 8 appendages, all of which barely fitted in his rucksack. We reached Southall around 11.15 giving us plenty of time before the scheduled start of the parade at noon.

The Vaisakhi festival is a celebration of several different events. All over India, and in the North in particular, it is a celebration of the new harvest. In the Punjab it is a commemaration of the creation of the Order of the Khalsa by Guru Gobind Singh, making the day of special relevance to Sikhs. In the South the festival is a celebration of the Tamil new year. Just like the Sinhalese and Tamil new year the festival falls on the 13th and 14th of April. I was also happy to hear that like the Dhansel in the Sinhala and Tamil new year, the Vaisakhi festival is famous for the free distribution of food and drink.

The festival in Southall leans heavily towards the Sikhs’ celebrations. According to the map that my friend had acquired, the parade was to start from a temple quite close to the railway station and then meander along a 5 hour rectangular trek around the city before returning. The crowd was thin at 11.30 and we worried that it might be quite an anti-climax. Some lukewarm masala cha lifted our spirits as we wandered around the town while the atmosphere and crowd quietly began to build around us. We finally reached the temple and the floats appeared to be warming up, the cops had gathered to ensure smooth progress of the parade, and important looking sikhs were buzzing around making final arrangements. My friend’s very pro looking camera allowed us to get very close to the action without being told to shoo away, I guess they assumed we were press, and that worked well for us. Soon after 12 the parade took off, led by a slight old man in orange with a long white beard and a sword that was almost his height. In front of the parade there was a small army of ppl with brooms who sweep the ground immediately before the floats, it looked exactly like curling, though I think the purpose was more spiritual than frictional. The first vehicle was an open backed truck housing a massive drum that different ppl took turns to beat. The next vehicle was a large orange truck with loud speakers blaring prayers, chants and songs. It carried the main religious figures of the parade and as soon as it started moving the devotees lining the streets swept towards it, touching the sides, offering prayers and making donations to the holy men within the truck before neatly filing behind the vehicle to join in what would become a mass of fervour and devotion.

After taking some pictures of the start of the parade we decided to stay ahead of it since the crowds around the main vehicles made it impossible to move independently. The parade moved at the pace of a Hippo with a hernia, so it gave us plenty of time to locate an appropriate vantage point. We ran into some other ppl who had been photographing the festival in the previous year and they suggested an elevated fork in the main road, so we made our way there. On the way I stopped to have some more masala cha and some form of roti like thing with chick peas. Naturally the food wasn’t particularly flash, but somehow things that are free taste better than they really are. The fork in the road is marked by a flower bed, or should I say was marked by a flower bed. Within minutes it was full of ppl clammering on top of one another to get a decent view. Naturally the flowers drew the wrong end of the stick. But it was worth it. From that point the whole road is visible and as the parade reaches its crescendo the road transforms from black tar to a riot of vibrant colours and faces. From the young in prams to the old with walking sticks, the Sikhs made their way slowly along the road.

The parade is a feast to the senses. The men and women dress in vibrant colours and don their best saris, salwars, turbans and pointed shoes. There is a great deal of chanting, shouting and singing admist the beat of drums, the ringing of bells and the tooting of horns. Incense is burned and talcum powder appears abundant, clashing with the harsher smells of food preparation in the many stalls that line the road. These food stalls combine an odd mix of Eastern and Western cuisine. Some hand out masala cha and different curries of chick peas or lentils with rice or some form of chapati, whilst others hand out Pepsi and chips with Heinz tomato sauce. Handing out is probably not the best terminology. The distribution of food varies from having gulab jamun forced upon you by insistent old men to having to prize out a particularly tasty looking dish from a chap who is obviously more keen on chatting up the salwar clad female in the next stall. Whatever said and done there was a lot of food, and I probably ate more than I should have. So much ghee, so little time.

Another interesting aspect of the parade is the variety of the ppl. Now a parade 50,000 sikhs, 2 Sri Lankans, a white guy with a Muslim cap (BNP in a cunning disguise?) and a few bored English coppers doesn’t sound like the most diverse of communities. But the variety among the Sikhs was fascinating. You had the old first generation guys who were senior enough to carry massive Punjabi swords and look particularly regal, but you also had the young guys in their Nike hoodies and Reebok trainers walking around with their Ipods and mobile phones, whilst taking the Queen’s English for a trip through the gutters (Long live the Queen). What was nice was to see them all flush with pride in their heritage despite living so far away from home. One of the nice photographs I got was of 2 guys waving St. George’s flag admist the parade, it symbolized how it’s possible to have a multicultural society within one nation. To be a Sikh and to be English. That is certainly one of the good things about living in England, and I should say London in particular.

Being part of the crowd and part of a parade is a wonderful feeling. For a few moments you lose your identity as an individual and take on the single identity of one large mass of ppl. I just felt happy and proud, I don’t know of what. Unfortunately towards the end of the day it began to rain, a British Sunday would not be the same without rain would it? It also became absolutely freezing, and my hands abandoned the camera for the safety of my pockets. We stayed ahead of the float most of the way and took short cuts and by-roads to get past the crowds. Because of the rain the crowd thinned towards the end of the parade and we decided to take shelter under the porch of one Mr. Khan until the rain called it a day. We took our time bc judging by the broken glass near the door handle, Mr. Khan had made haste following what was apparently an untimely break in. Southall seems a dodge neighbourhood. But the town itself is endearing, if nothing else for its similarity to Pettah, full of shops blaring Hindi music, selling Salwars, Saris, sweet meats and CDs of dubious origin. All that walking left me quite tired, and on the tube back my stomach was making its first complaints about all that ghee. I hope the Immodium isn’t expired.

I was rudely awoken this morning by the drilling and hammering next door. We seem to have bad luck with houses this year, first dead boilers (I dreamt last night that the boiler in our new place had broken, I am truly scarred) and now building next door. The unfortunate thing is the guy who owns the place seems a lovely fellow and is so apologetic that I don’t have the heart to show him my wrath. The builders themselves are Eastern European so it’s a bit tough to get through to them. My sign language skills have been tested and by the looks on their faces i don’t think i’m getting too far with it. Might have to resort to a single finger extended vertically. It’s funny how when speaking to ppl whose command of English is less than perfect, your own use of language also deteriorates. I catch myself saying things like “drilling lot of noise, sleep very difficult, drilling stop”. Sounds like a telegram.

So this goes on between nine and five, and that is fair enough as these are regular working hours and most ppl are out of the house. Only slacker students like me will be bumming around at home. But come 5 O clock the drilling stops, and there’s an uneasy silence. And then it starts. Europop. I tried to decide which I prefer, pre-pubescent Latvian girls doing a dodgy imitation of the vengaboys or post-pubescent Polish men drilling to the tune of she’ll be coming round the mountain, and i couldn’t so i just left the house for most of the day.

With this very invalid excuse for not working I did a bunch of touristy things in London. I spent ages in Covent Garden watching the street theater which is really good. I particularly liked the crazy Jamaican limbo dancer who managed to limbo under a stick balanced on just two bottles side by side. I’m sure he was inspired by “Feeling hot hot hot” playing on his little radio. The crazy tattooed guy who juggled the apple with two machetes was also a hit. More than what he did it was the whole act and his witty banter that made it really entertaining. The two middle aged guys in suits who did a double act were probably the most amusing bc they have an excellent sense of humour and despite some of the jokes being rehearsed it was quite apparent that a lot of it was adlib. The shows are free but you are expected to drop in a quid or two into the performers hat at the end of the show, and they make sure that the cheap skates who try to free ride are ridiculed sufficiently. The finishing line of the tattooed guy is “Drop in one or two quid, if you’re rich 20 quid, if you’re a tourist 50 quid, if you’re Australian..I understand”.

I also dropped into some of the nice markets in London. Portobello market in Notting hill is very nice despite the crowds on a Saturday. After crawling through a mass of American and European accents I managed to get a glimpse of some of the shops. These line the street and sell mainly “antiques”, the authenticity of many of which I can’t guarantee. I could have sworn that I saw a sign saying “antiques made to order” but then that may have been a figment of my imagination. There are also some amazingly cheap CD shops. They sell 4 for a tenner and they appear very authentic. I got myself a copy of the Lion King London musical soundtrack and have now taken to singing it aloud to scare the tourists. My favourite part of Notting hill is the farmer’s market where they have loads of fresh veggies, fish and butchers. Few things give me more pleasure than fish shopping. After much fussing about, sniffing and head scratching we decided to get some French Sea Bass and Sea Brine. The former was steamed after being marinated in lemmon, fish sauce, french dressing and vinegar. It was divine. The latter was baked but I think it’ll be better curried. We got some squid too which we had as a snack, beautifully batter fried by my housemate, another experiment that turned out very well. A different stall was selling splendid looking Italiany stuff. Too much choice can be bad for you, specially on menus and in food stalls. It took at least ten minutes to decide which 4 things to buy and finally decided on some artichokes bathed in olive oil, an excellent pesto of black olives, anchovies and capers, a variety of mushrooms marinated in olive oil and spices and some feta cheese, topped off with some fresh ciabatta bread. Santa Maria.

On another day I quite randomly walked into a massive second hand book market in Southbank. Book markets are another source of endless joy for me, I tend to spend hours and hours at them. As one would expect the quality of book varies greatly, you get some very ordinary stuff like “How to get rid of worms: fast” but if you can be bothered and have the time, there are bound to be some excellent finds. I was lucky enough to find a book that i’ve been looking for for ages, “In Xanadu” by William Dalrymple. Some time ago I wrote very briefly about “The Age of Kali” by the same writer, “In Xanadu” is his first book. The guy was a student in Cambridge when he decided to mimic the journey of Marco Polo from Jerusalem to Xanadu, the summer palace of Kubla Khan. I’m only a few pages into the book but it’s tremendously interesting and rich so far and I’m looking forward to reading the rest of it. This sort of book frustrates me bc I can barely organize a trip to one or two countries in Europe let alone a trip across one or two continents. I need to get my act together before the academic year, and my student life ends.