He is he, because I am a she, and I refuse to believe that this sadist is female. I wear too much pink for that.

Me: 5am. 5am of the last day of this life.

He: Bit dramatic, innit?

Me: Not at all.

He: ’tis.

Me: No!

He: Your last day has long passed. You forsook that life exactly four years ago, when you chose an actual life over a virtual one.

Me: But I was coming back.

He: You always say that.

Me: But I was. Not in the way people expect, but I was. I have schemes. Schemes!

He: Annabel. How long have you been writing that one post?

Me: I am unaware of to what you might be referring.

He: Not ending a sentence with a preposition is a bit of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put.

Me: Sigh. You are karrrect, saar. I have been writing that post for three years.

He: Why? Better yet, why bother?

Me: Because. It seemed important. I owed people an explanation. Hence the whole, “Where I’ve Been”-title.

He: I mean this in the kindest way, because I really am fond of you, which is why I always force you to tarry…but I don’t think anyone cares. Or noticed.

Me: To quote a great philosopher-meth enthusiast, “HOW RUDE!”

He: Fine, they probably noticed when you didn’t post for a while, because you were vaguely prolific–

Me: 816! I wrote 816 posts. That TOTALLY counts as prolific, you hate-

He: So granted. Moving on, back to my point. They noticed your absence, then they probably shrugged, assumed you were busy and then moved on to futzing with Facebook, masturbating, getting root canals–

Me: I had a point as well, before you interrupted–

He: You? You are going to criticize someone for interrupting you? That’s RICH.

Me: HARRUMPH. I HAD A POINT YOU JERK.

He: …

Me: …

He: …

Me: Well?

He: an exaggerated gesture that indicates a zipped lip

Me: Seriously?

He: nods

Me: You’re going to feel terrible about all your sarcastic miming when you hear what I have to say.

He: …

Me: I…had hoped to come up with a better title, but the post itself was about mental illness. My, mental illness. Illnesses. As in multiple.

He: …

Me: I have severe anxiety. I have OCD. Some ADD. Panic Disorder, too. And I’m predisposed to getting severely depressed instead of just normal-depressed. Like, everyone gets blue if they get laid off, but I sink to a dank, dark place that even James Cameron refuses to submerge to…

He: You were going to reveal all of that?

Me: Yes. I wanted people to know why I had to walk away, because while the narrative you know is true, the greater truth had to do with self-preservation and survival, not falling in love.

He: What did you hope to accomplish with such a confession?

Me: A few things. For eight years, whenever I had finished a post, right before I hit “publish”, my heart would race, my skin would flush, I’d start shaking, my pupils would dilate and I’d be consumed with dread. There was a range to this response. Most of the time, I could handle it and remind myself that despite feeling like certain doom was around the corner, everything would be fine. Sometimes, however, it was awful. Like, chest pain awful. Drowning in terror-awful. Obviously, publishing a post like this one almost destroyed me physically and emotionally.

He: You wanted people to learn this and feel pity for you?

Me: Not exactly. There were just so many jerks who acted like this was all effortless for us, or for me specifically, that it didn’t entail anything more than a few minutes of rat-a-tat-typing and a wiki peek. The truth is, even my fluffiest, briefest posts took 30 minutes to write, edit, re-edit, re-re-edit, fact check and volumize with amusing links. My last post, the Onion-one, took over three hours!

He: You wanted people to learn this and feel pity for you?

Me: No, I just wanted them to know that it wasn’t easy. That it took effort and…an emotional toll, I guess.

He: They don’t care. I promise you.

Me: You’re…probably right.

He: I am right. And you knew it inherently and that’s why you never published it.

Me: No…

He: Yes.

Me: Well, that wasn’t even my main motivation.

He: What was?

Me: We never talk about mental illness as a community. I could’ve hosted that very necessary conversation. You should see some of the missives I got over the years– “My Mother is bipolar and we are shunned; our Dad divorced her and remarried. Please talk about how we stigmatize people who suffer, because we are utterly alone.” I could’ve helped. My favorite purpose for SM, my favorite accomplishment of ours or the reason I was devoted to spending more hours per week working on it than I did at my full-time job was BECAUSE we “went there”–

He: Like Degrassi?

Me: Stop.

He: Because IT goes the-

Me: The best post I ever wrote or the best thing I ever did here was out myself and publicly disclose that I had been raped. I wrote about my friend’s abortion, too. SM’s community rallied. We shared our stories, offered each other resources, poured out support to anyone who needed it. I STILL get emails from young women who write that it happened to them and someone sent them my post, and…

He: Do you write back? What do you say?

Me: I do write back to them, but I am horrible about responding to email in general. I get several hundred messages a day, though it’s obviously gotten easier in the last few years, with my decreased participation or visibility…

He: What do you say?

Me: I tell them that it wasn’t their fault. And that a day will come when they’ll wake up and think of something else, first thing in the morning. That eventually, they will be okay. To talk to a therapist and get whatever help they need.

He: And you thought you could do this for the crazies, too?

Me: That’s rude.

He: And it’s exactly why you should’ve published it. Much like I no longer use the sad acronyms “FOB” or “ABCD” because I was reeducated by SM, I’d probably have more compassionate jokes about straightjacket-afficionados. Cancer is an abstract concept until someone you love is diagnosed with it. Then it’s brutally real and demands to be understood.

Me: That’s another thing I’m really proud of. I HATE “FOB” and “ABCD”. My parents didn’t sail here and I am not confused about a damned thing. The fact that our readers regularly employed fairer, more accurate acronyms like “DBD” and “ABD” elated me. We were choosing to be smarter. And kinder.

He: I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think your current readers are aware of such a fine, conscious improvement to throwaway insults. I don’t think it took.

Me: It’s fine. We accomplished plenty in eight years.

He: This is the part where you look at me hopefully with those very round eyes and wait for me to ask a helpful, leading question. Well, I’m not playing.

Me: Do you really think I NEED that sort of conversational assist? Have we met? I’m going to tell you whatever I feel like telling you whether you prompt me or not.

He: And?

Me: Shit. Now I con’t remember. Um…I’m proud of the fact that we were formed in reaction to our exclusion from the conventions and then we were at both of them, four years later. OH! I remember!

He: gestures expansively

Me: That still counts as a prompt, even if it was non-verbal, for your information. The other thing I was so proud of was how we made people feel. We didn’t intend to, but we created a fantastic, dynamic, global community. Whenever we had meetups, no matter what city I was in, I’d hear the same exact thing: “I never fit in with the other Desis in my life…[I wasn't in SASA/I didn't go to Bhangra Blowout/I'm South Indian, not Punjabi or Guju/I avoided Indus' shows like the plague/I grew up in a rural place where I was the only Indian kid for 50 miles]…but for the first time ever, I felt…welcome. Like I was where I belonged.” That was gratifying.

He: How many times, truthfully now, did you hear some version of that palaver?

Me: Every meetup I ever hosted or attended. Sometimes two or three times at the same event, independently, from different people I’d rush to shout out so they could immediately meet likeminded new friends. I’d hear it at non-SM events, too! DJ Rekha at the Black Cat? I heard it there, too. I’d say, “Yes, we understand completely, that’s why we grabbed you and your similarly lonely counterpart from every college in the country. We all thought we were suffering alone, that we were the only ones. Nope. Just the only ones at our school. Then came Katamari Mutiny, sweeping every oddball up and making them a Mutineer…that’s how we rolled.”

He: That was terrible. Also, it was a tee-shirt.

Me: Anyway. Once upon a time, we created something magical, something addictive, something special. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last forever. It was too fantastic.

He: Why didn’t it last?

Me: I used to blame people or certain incidents but now I just realize that it wasn’t sustainable. In 2007, at what I consider to be our peak, I spent up to fifteen hours a day on SM. I’d wake up in the morning, immediately check comments (remember, we were read globally, so there was nearly always something to moderate, even at 7am), get ready for work, leave. I’d arrive at my office, immediately check comments, THEN open my Outlook. I used to check our comments every 15 minutes– every ten if something huge had broken. Ennis used to worry about me. “You’re going to get in trouble. Stay off the internet while at work.” The internet meant “Sepia Mutiny”. But I couldn’t. Because the way we were (dis)organized meant that we were each responsible for moderating our own posts. And if I’m not mistaken, eight of the top ten most-commented-on posts were mine.

He: So you created a lot of work for yourself.

Me: It was more than that. The reason people loved to stop in (all day, e’ery day) is because we were “curating a conversation” before anyone abused that gerund in such a nasty way. People felt safe at SM. We were not going to tolerate racism, religious fundamentalism, sexism…those comments were getting nuked, fairly quickly. The more elevated the discourse, the more mutineers we attracted. I know the actual identities of some of our more celebrated or infamous commenters– a few of them are famous. Legit-famous. Authors, actors, politicians. They wasted their time with us because we were severely allergic to bullshit– and I was the helicopter Mom with an Epi pen in my purse at all times.

He: That doesn’t make sense– theoretically, compelling people to register to comment should’ve lightened your load, automated the process–

Me: Erm…too little, too late, I think. We needed to do that when we were addictive and indispensable, not after our moment had passed. Right now, Justin Bieber can get millions of fans to do whatever he wishes. Five years from now, he may not have that power. When people were hitting refresh like trained monkeys desperate for a new comment-war-post-fix, THEN we should’ve asked them to sign up. Who knows. Maybe that would’ve killed us sooner. Still, I remember going to Poynter or certain J-schools and the first question out of their mouths would be some variant of, “You’re far too nice to anonymous commenters. When are you going to move to moderation?” I’d always cheerily raise my hand and chirp, “You’re looking at it!” They’d be aghast.

He: So commenting-related decisions killed the Mutiny?

Me: No. That doesn’t sound right. Abhi listed a few reasons why on his Ides post. Life killed the Mutiny. I wanted a life. I wanted to fall in love. I met someone and I wanted to enjoy the butterflies, the third date, the sense of possibility. Other people got married, some had babies. We all got promoted at our day jobs, which meant more responsibility and less time for blogging.

He: So bitches and babies killed the Mutiny?

Me: Wha-? Bitches?

He: Four guys, one girl. You were all straight, as far as we know. That means four wives or girlfriends.

Me: Oh. Well…no…it was more that THAT. When the NYT and the WSJ have professional versions of SM staffed by well-paid, seasoned journalists…how can we compete? Wait, how come it wasn’t “A guy AND bitches and bab–”

He: Because you’re a spinster!

Me: I am not single!

He: You are not married!

Me: You sound like my Mother.

He: She is probably very wise, under-appreciated, devastatingly handsome…

Me: Scratch that. You sound like one of my worst exes.

He: Define “worst”.

Me: Well…in 2006, during a fight over how much time I was spending on SM, he said…

“How does it feel, knowing you wasted your prime childbearing years on a ‘blog’? I’m sure that’ll work out really well for you when you’re 80 and your Depends need changing. Because a blog will be there to diaper you, right?”

He: Uh…

Me: Yeah.

He: Shit.

Me: Uh-huh.

He: He was jealous? Of a blog?

Me: He wasn’t the only one. There was at least one other.

He: WTF.

Me: And then! Then there was the opposite!

He: Sorry?

Me: TWICE, guys befriended me, flirted with me, asked me out…and a few dates in, inquired about guest blogging.

He: Bullshit.

Me: Nope. Truth. I remember how one of the times, Abhi just marveled at the chicanery, then promised me that the a-hole would never write for us, ever.

He: He had your back.

Me: He usually did. More than I realized.

He: Did you think otherwise?

Me: No? I don’t know? It was weird. I may have come up with the name of our baby, and I wrote the first post, but I didn’t always feel at ease in the bunker. Then, when we changed our design, I really stopped feeling at home. When we left MT for WordPress? Oy. I knew I’d never really be back. I literally didn’t recognize the space, neither the front nor back ends of it. But how shitty and ungrateful does that sound, when our technical team is all-volunteer, too? And made up of some of my favorites? And it’s not like I wasn’t asked for input, fifty or sixty times– I was. It’s just…I thought everything would be fine. Only when it was too late would I realize it wasn’t.

He: How helpful of you.

Me: I know, right?

He: You really didn’t feel comfortable? You were a cofounder, for Chrissakes.

Me: 1) Watch your mouth. 2) No, not always. I mean, I don’t think there’s a pic of me or a bio on our “About” page, you know? That always felt apposite. I was a part of the Mutiny, but…apart.

He: So too many comments, not enough comments, marriage, childbirth (though neither of those for you, heh), careers, redesigns, and now pro-journos killed the brown uprising?

Me: It was never meant to live forever. We were Super Friends, responding to emergencies, summoned together by the massive TroubAlert computer in the Hall of Justice. Is that show still on the air?

He: How…old…are you??

Me: Old enough to have wanted Wonder Woman underoos to flash during first-grade recess…I ended up with the R2D2 set, because those were on sale and my parents weren’t rich. But we were all obsessed with Star Wars too, so it worked out well.

He: Do you regret anything?

Me: I’m sure I regret a lot, like not doing the mental illness post, or not writing more, period…not coming back sooner? I don’t know. It’s not like I didn’t want to…for example, I fully committed to writing about Dharun Ravi and I did all the research for a doozy of a post…but I haven’t had a free hour, let alone three to get it done.

He: Aren’t you unemployed?

Me: Yes.

He: And didn’t you just spend three hours on a humor post on Friday?

Me: Yeah, that’s the thing, that three hours? That was actually for THIS post. But I couldn’t bring myself to write it just yet. And I also couldn’t bring myself to write about Dharun, because I thought, “Oh, it’s too late, it’s been too many days” and worse, “What’s the point, we’re ending, won’t that just artificially keep us on comment life support?” I don’t think we’re accepting comments after Wednesday.

He: You are weird.

Me: I know.

He: Like really weird.

Me: I am mentally ill! Also, like attracts like. Did I ever tell you about the time I was on a date with my current partner and SM almost borked it for me?

He: PARTNER?

Me: You know, sometimes, as a 37-year old, “boyfriend” seems lame.

He: What. Ever. No, go ahead. How did SM intrude on your date? Comment emergency?

Me: Worse. An…odd duck. It was early in my relationship…like, fourth or fifth date-territory. I was head over heels for this guy. I lost 15 pounds in the first month we dated because he made me so nervous, I couldn’t eat AND I was burning off extra calories from all the excited twitching.

He: EXCITED TWITCHING?!

Me: STOP INTERRUPTING. Have you any idea how long this is going to take me to type??

He: You type 75 wpm!

Me: STILL! Anyway, we were out at some excruciatingly hip new music venue and we were both intoxicated and super in luuurve…

He: Sorry, that was me throwing up in my mouth a little.

Me: ANYWAY. We’ve been enjoying the show for an hour, I mean, straight up slow dancing like it was the triumphant ending to a teen prom flick and right after I throw my arms around his neck–

He: If you were slow-dancing, weren’t they already there?

Me: No.

He: What?

Me: They were around his waist. He has a really cute little butt.

He: ENOUGH.

Me: I throw my arms around his neck and he freezes. At first I don’t notice anything’s wrong, then he subtly indicates that I should look to our right. There, at 3 o’clock. A guy. Staring. Without blinking. For several minutes. I shrug, too happy to care. I ignore it. But he can’t. He actually steps away from me with this disturbed look and says, “He’s been watching us the whole time. It’s mad creepy. Maybe we should go.”

He: Define: “whole time”.

Me: Um…close to an hour?

He: Seriously?!

Me: Yeah. And right then, the guy slowly approaches us and tells us he’s been watching us (no shit!) and am I ‘Anna from Sepia’. I say that I am and he mentions how much he likes reading our blog and my personal blogs, too and how he’s always wanted to meet me. Again, I’m not that bothered because it’s an honor to be recognized, right? Except the conversation just sort of ends, abruptly. And he’s still standing really close to us. Staring. Smiling. Not blinking. I finally say that it was nice to meet him and that we’re heading back to the stage and I can tell my bf is rattled. Later, he points out that the guy has moved to the other side of the room and retreated in the shadows, but is still staring intently.

He: That’s…one crazy person. I mean, the not-blinking should’ve given that away.

Me: Right, except it happened on our next date, too, but this time it was a girl.

He: Did she blink?

Me: I guess?

He: How often did you get recognized?

Me: More than people expected, realized, believed.

He: Well aren’t you special.

Me: I’m not, actually. And it wasn’t always nice. I was in SF on my Dad’s five-year death anniversary, and my friends took me out to console and comfort me. I was dancing and drinking and crying my eyes out. And people kept coming up to me and asking about blog-related shit. And then they’d ask why I was crying and some of them took pictures of me. I wasn’t feeling…public or social right then, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice.

He: It’s not like they knew…

Me: No, I told them.

He: And then?

Me: I was like, “Sorry, I wish I could chat more but I’m really blue right now. Someone died.” And they just whipped out their camera and took a picture of my puffy face and muttered that they couldn’t wait to show their friends.

He: That’s bizarre.

Me: It was. It was surreal. Then there was the time I was walking back to work on E street NW. I was leaving the National Press Club in a super-good mood because I’d had this yummy samosa/pepper lemonade combo and I passed this Desi guy on his phone. A few seconds later, we were both stopped at a traffic light, waiting for the “Walk” signal. He was like, “Oh, hey, guess who’s in front of me…yeah, that Anna-bitch from Sipia whatever. Yeah. The blog. Uh-huh. Um? Hm. Well, she’s shorter in real life. And darker. Not as pretty. No, she’s still pretty, she’s just…not AS pretty. Oh, hilarious, she just turned around and now she’s looking at me. Yes? May I help you? This is a private conversation, thanks for eavesdropping…yeah, can you believe that shit? What is her deal?”

He: Wow.

Me: Then there was the time that I was walking home to my apartment in Kalorama. I passed a random Desi and they had a similar convo, except this time, they added, “Wasn’t your friend wondering where she lived? Because I can see her building right now. No, she’s not visiting, she has a key fob.”

He: WOW.

Me: Yeah. That was epically terrifying because we were dealing with a crazy person who had launched a hate site about us. Ostensibly it was to attack all of us, but the site’s name was “Unsuitable Girl” or something directly aimed at me. That was the worst thing that happened with regards to Sepia. Here we were, an all volunteer-crew working on a true labor of love…and these anonymous assholes decided to try and harm us any way they knew how. My sister contacted me and asked who “so and so” was because they had sent an odd and threatening email. They said they’d go after my Mom…

He: For what?

Me: I don’t know…giving birth to me?

He: SERIOUSLY. WHAT THE FUCK. IT’S A BLOG.

Me: Yeah, I know. It’s hard to believe now, five years later, that people used to get so bat shit crazy and combative, but they did. And there were plenty of threats. This one crazy M.F. used to invite me to India so I could be raped and murdered and never discovered again. I got a few death threats, we all probably did. But internet trollery is often a gendered clusterfuck, so I would get emails like, “You dumb bitch. I used to feel sorry for you but now I’m glad you got raped. You deserved it.” Shit like that.

He: I’m…I’m…

Me: Speechless? Word, that’s a normal reaction. None of what we went through was normal, though. These hate site fiends were going after us in the grimiest ways. Threatening our jobs, our families, our…everything.

He: Wow, seriously, I’m–

Me: Let me change directions, then, and tell you something different. Several years ago, we had this epic meetup in Washington, D.C. at Heritage India, which was always good to the Mutiny– R.I.P. Amma Vegetarian…you were the only place that was better. Anyway, we’re all eating and having a blast, anywhere from 10-20 of us, and I mention to a friend that I had just caught an interview with Desi porn star Sunny Leone…of course dropping the p-bomb immediately gets EVERYONE’s attention so now the table is silent except for requests for me to repeat myself, slowly and loudly. I end up standing up and doing an impromptu reenactment that involved gestures that were…um…well, as loyal reader Salil put it, “Anna had more-or-less kick-started puberty in a few kids that day, and that there would be some interesting Q&A sessions with the parents in the Accord / Camry on the way home that night. ‘Mommy, I feel funny…in my pants.’”

He: You playacted porn in a crowded restaurant?

Me: No! It had cleared out by then…it was really just us and them. Our meetups sometimes lasted for hours…like six or even 12.

He: Weren’t there supposed to be final NY and DC meetups?

Me: Yes. I feel really bad about this.

He: You got busy?

Me: No. I got…I don’t know how to say this without alarming you and triggering a really panicked reaction in me…

He: What happened?

Me: My boyfriend is a boxing writer who took me to NYC to see my first fight at the Garden. Sergio Martinez is my favorite boxer and he was taking on this Irish guy, Macklin on St. Patrick’s Day. We drove up for it and got a hotel room, etc. It was a treat for me but I was also “working”, in a way. One of the new projects I work on is Stiff Jab, a boxing blog he runs. I had a press pass, I was a photographer that evening.

He: Did something happen at the fight? They can get pretty rowdy-

Me: No! I loved the fight! It was exhilarating and my future ex-husband Sergio cemented his place in my heart. He’s fantastic to watch and the atmosphere at MSG? That was the best St. Patty’s day EVER. I LOVE being AT boxing matches. There’s nothing else like it.

He: I’m…confused.

Me: We went back to our hotel so he could file his story and upload my pics. I took the dog for a walk so he’d have peace and quiet. While I was out, I noticed two late-night places and noted them, because he said we’d be grabbing food later since all we’d had at the fight was popcorn and soda.

He: And?

Me: When I got back, he was passed out. Exhausted. He has an amazing new job that requires him to start working at 6am. I was bummed though. And wide awake, like I am right now, thanks to your c-blocking my way into Nod. And I was hungry. So, I decided to go back out and grab food at this 24-hour joint…

He: AND?

Me: I really don’t want to go in to details. It started as normal street harassment but it escalated. I was followed. Then the guy grabbed me. It was ugly. I was legitimately scared for my life, especially because no one moved to help me, they all just whipped out their cell phones and started taping

He: You got attacked in the street and people were filming it?

Me: “Attacked” sounds so crazy and serious. But…yeah. Kind of. He grabbed me. He hurt me. I’m still in pain a few weeks later. I managed to run away so it didn’t go further but…I was so rattled. It didn’t help me with my productivity these past two weeks, and I certainly didn’t want to even think about going back to NY. It would trigger…I mean, I’d remember what happened and then I’d have a panic attack. There I said it.

He: I can’t believe people were filming it.

Me: I couldn’t believe it either, when I witnessed an unrelated, earlier altercation while I was leaving my hotel for food. Huge fight tumbling out of a cab, on to the sidewalk on Sixth avenue. Guy getting his head bashed in. And people just…filming it.

He: Wow.

Me: Yeah. But now I feel bad, because the right coast deserves meetups too. So if people are still willing to help me grab a venue, I’m happy to go up…

He: The blog ends today.

Me: Yeah, you know what? I’m sick of that. I have always, ALWAYS let “perfect” be the enemy of “good”. Several hundred unwritten or unpublished posts languish, because they weren’t “perfect”. F that noise. Who cares what the date of a get-together is?

He: Fair enough. Also…I feel really bad about what happened in New York. Why don’t you get some rest.

Me: Finally.

::

There are days in my life when I know, with a quiet, insistent urgency that I need to go to church.

Having typed that, I am amused. I was raised by two ultra-Orthodox Malayalees and had perfect attendance at Sunday School, so technically, I guess I should require the assurance and comfort faith provides constantly, not occasionally. But life intervenes, or I’m traveling, or my two decade-old battle with insomnia means that I wake up when the liturgy is ending vs.at 9am.

Today, I woke up without an alarm, despite having just fallen asleep.

“I need to go.”

I didn’t have access to a functioning shower (it’s a long story and this post is already 5,000 words), I had nothing to wear and my dog was whimpering for my attention. I briefly considered not going– obstacles were piling up and besides, I owed Abhi, nay, I owed all of you this post. Time was running out.

“I need to go.”

And so I did, for the first time in several weeks.

And the moment I walked through those imposing doors, I knew I had done the right thing.

How do you process loss? Endings? The stirrings of new entities that will not be ignored?

Because I wasn’t doing well with any of that, in fact, I was doing so unwell that I sought refuge at a Cathedral where I meditated and prayed.

Where I gave thanks for this opportunity, even as I begged for new ones. I’ve been avoiding writing this post for weeks, if not years and yet I knew I had to get through it, somehow.

“Please, G-d. Fill me with inspiration until the right words flow through my fingers on to that page. Help me bear witness. Help me do it justice. Amen.”

When I walked down the cathedral’s stairs, I felt peaceful.

And I was ready to write.

::

For eight years, no matter what was going on in my life, I had this anchor, this haven of sorts– and as a Delta Gamma, I don’t employ the word “anchor” without considerable love and devotion.

For three of the last eight years, I have not worked. Yet I never lacked for an answer at cocktail parties, when people interrogated me regarding what I “do”.

One of those three years, the first one, I did not work by choice– I have the world’s most amazing Indian mother and I say that after meeting a Tamil Amma who sings along to the Smiths covers her daughters and granddaughters sing in their all-girl, all brown band.

In 2004, my mother told me that if I wanted to, I could write. If I needed to, I could write. She would support me in that endeavor.

“I won’t pay for any fancy gym memberships, but you will have a roof over your head and food to eat. Just…write.”

During that year of magical thinking and typing, I was offered a book deal and my personal sites rocketed to the attention of a few thousand people, including an astronaut named Abhi. He read my original blog, HERstory and noticed that I was writing about grimy shit that was going down with regards to Desis and that year’s presidential campaigns. He wrote to me and told me about how he knew too many people who were still undecided regarding for whom to vote.

“But when I send them to your blog, or Manish’s, they’re incensed. Suddenly they know what they’re going to do. And that’s powerful. What if all those posts were in one place, instead of on five individual blogs? What would that do for our community? What if we worked together on something new?”

What if.

So the third amazing thing that happened during my parental writing fellowship was the birth of this big brown blog. I used to joke that Manish and Abhi were its dads and I was its Mom. Vinod was the cheerful but busy Uncle and Ennis was still an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wearing a turban with a cape to match as he swooped into my life and became my guardian angel, a role I was unaware needed filling until he stepped up and made everything better.

I can tell you more stories about how I first met Vinod (scandalous!) or how he ended up on top of me at a crazy SF party at his loft (SCANDALOUS!) or how Manish and I were in each other’s lives years before we’d ever write our own blogs, but bartender Abhi has flashed me that sympathetic smile, the one that says it’s almost closing time. The register has been counted, the tips divvied up. Even the glasses are gleaming and clean.

Still, he’s buying me time, pretending to tidy up as I type…and as I type, I realize that this is now 5400 words and I’m not done.

I’m not done.

I’m. not. done.

Maybe I’ll never be done, G-d willing.

So here is what I am going to do. What I must do. I am going to make a list of several important things, including where you can find me and what’s in store if you’re looking for more. If I write lists, I don’t have to notice that my heart is cracking, that my knees are growing weak, that my anxiety, which has crippled me far too many times is slithering around me, squeezing my chest tightly, making it hard to breathe.

So lists, then. And a hurried conclusion. Because that is all we have time for and you need to go, also I need to go– my puppy is tethered to a bench outside of Baked and Wired, which is where I ran to finish this mega-post after my laptop died on M street, at a cafe with no outlets. She can’t see me and that makes her anxious. I know how that feels; I’d never inflict that on anyone, least of all her.

So lists, then.

Next, from me– three sites where you can find me:

1) So many of you have asked what site could follow this– my answer: nothing. It’s time to go somewhere different, somewhere more…suitable. Welcome to Pink & Navy. I have noticed the shift away from blogs that Abhi already explained, but I would add Tumblr to his list of sites that have stolen our thunder. Tumblr is popular, especially with the youths, and it is dead simple. Posts are ridiculously shareable and here’s the important thing for sustainability– they’re usually short. Look, if there’s ANYONE who appreciates a good long-form piece it’s ME (5720 words and counting) but that’s not doable daily. Tumblr is. And the lack of comments generated is also appropriate for a world where Sepia Mutiny posts go unremarked upon. I welcome collaborations and contributors and as soon as Network Solutions calls me, PinkAndNavy.com will be live, but until then, go here. And get excited. As for longer discussions and posts, those should still exist, too. I’m open to creating a closed Facebook group where you can let loose; that may sound like an odd idea, but I’m part of three different “secret” FB groups and let me tell you, they are awesome. Follow Pink And Navy on Twitter, too. More to come, more to come! Whee!

2) So when my boyfriend isn’t an Editor at CQ he’s a boxing writer with a great site– Stiff Jab. Stiff Jab is what made me a believer in Tumblr. 5000+ ardent fight fans follow the site, which features write-ups of every major bout, plus photographs. I thought Tumblr was just for hitting “reblog” for pretty pictures, but Stiff Jab functions like a news outlet–it even gets credentialed. I occasionally write for it and I’m one of its photographers, too. As I learn to box (it’s only been a few months!), I’ll write even more. If you like the sweet science (or know someone who does) surf on by. I think you’ll like it.

3) Last…but most definitely not least…I have some REALLY BIG NEWS.

Ready?

No, really, are you ready for this?

I’m joining forces with the phenomenal men and women of Racialicious, the intersection of race and pop culture, another labor of love with criminally under-appreciated writers whose hearts are so big, they have to type truth. I’ll be bringing the funny while hopefully also being the catalyst behind a few special projects, including a new podcast. I’m already learning how to bark for my new character, “Anti-racist DMX”. See? It’s going to be off-the-chain levels of good and fun.

So those are the three “new” sites where you can find me. Here are two more things I owe you– meetups.

1) NYC- Help me plan it, I will come. And I will not go out by myself at 3am, even though I LIVED in Manhattan ten years ago and ran around 24 hours a day with nary an issue, let alone cell phone evidence of it.

2) DC- I think I have a spot– now to hash out dates. Let’s pour some out for the best community of Desis in D.C.

Three, two, one. One more sentence, filled with the usual list of assorted social media sites and links.

My original, “personal” blog, HERstory is still alive, though like Ennis, if I’m guaranteed to be anywhere these days it’s on Twitter, where I am a suitablegirl. You can also find me on Facebook, but if you add me, please do me the kindness of dropping me a quick line regarding who you are, i.e. what your SM handle was. I am 37 and senile, after all.

::

Thank you, Abhi.

Thank you ManishVinodEnnis.

Thank you guests and contributors who became my family and friends.

Thank you, mutineers.

Thank you for opening your arms to me, when I admitted that I had survived being raped.

Thank you for your gentle, constructive criticism, for teaching me to be a better writer.

Thank you for thousands of emails, most of which I never got to answer and feel so guilty about…I read them all.

Thank you for giving me a chance, for giving me a purpose.

Even if I do nothing else with my life, I know I have accomplished something massive because I once named a blog, found a home in its community and was graced by the presence of each one of you.

You have changed my life in ways that I will never be able to repay. I found jobs because of the Mutiny, found my voice because of the Mutiny…I even found my love through the Mutiny. Is it any wonder why I can’t bear to let you go?

Pinne kannam, Mutineers. I refuse to say Good-bye. I refuse to end this. I will see you again, I will meet each of you some day and when I do, I will gratefully look you in the eye and thank you in person for the ways you changed my life.

Oh, Sepia Mutiny. You’ll always be my baby and now, even after you are gone, I’ll still brag about you and glow at the realization that I helped create you.

Mama loves you, baby blog. I always will. <3

Though it took over two weeks for most readers to realize that the site’s demise was imminent, surprisingly, those patrons denied the reality of a declining readership after coming to rely upon the site during eight long years of Mutinous blogging.

Nine people had nearly identical reactions to the news: “What? No! Why? Of course people still read it! I mean, I don’t, but…it should stay alive. We need it!”

One of the 816 Ami Shahs from Chicago, Illinois (read: south Naperville…she just likes to SAY “Chicago” because she likes to pretend she’s Carrie from “Sex in the City” amirite?) was overheard telling her friend Priya Cherian why the site mattered.

“Sepia Mutiny taught me that not all Indian Christians are sell-outs like Bobby Jindal. Like, I totally loathed you until that drama queen  A N N A  kept going on and on…and on…about the plight of the poor pitiable Malayalam Christian. Like, I totally thought YOU were some lame convert, you know? Because your name is like Priya? But apparently you’ve been literally a Christian for like, years. So you’re fine.”

Priya Cherian side-eyed her friend before expanding on Shah’s…remarks.

“I think  A N N A  was the WORST thing for Malayalee Christians, ever. She found a way to make EVERY post about herself. Tibetan nudists who swear by paleo diets? Bitch was somehow ALL up in that! I mean, what, the, f–oh, right. Sepia Mutiny. Um…well I guess I’m sad? I used to read it every day but I admit that it’s been years since I found it THAT relevant…but I still catch up on it once a week. And it’s super irritating to realize they’re taking that away, you know?

I’m going to miss having the option to tune in…I mean, I donated once back in 2007. Doesn’t that count for ANYTHING? Money doesn’t grow on trees! I still have student loans from Yale to pay off! Oh…did I mention Yale. I…I meant to say…from this school in New Haven. You know…”

Continuing on the “I stuck a grimy dollar bill in your G-string once, now DANCE FOREVER”-tip, anonymous commenter…er…”anonymous” expressed similar anger and resentment to this reporter.

“Like others, I will miss SM. Also, I felt the money I donated to the site has gone to waste. I would like a refund. I was under the impression that my one-time, ten dollar gift would guarantee my access to a Sepia that was eternal, no matter how haggard the SM Intern got.  I heard A N N A and Ennis’ moms want to finally arrange caste and faith-appropriate marriages for each of them and they need to leave the bunker for that? What the shit? Write more posts, blogger-monkeys!”

In Queens, the mood was decidedly more pessimistic. “Hipster Dey See 69″ muttered, “I’ll tell you what killed SM– censorship!” as he crumpled his fourth can of PBR.

“In its glory days, it was ok to be pissed off at someone’s post or comment and respond to it, however crudely, with threats or personal insults hurled from an anonymous haven where accountability was nonexistent. Then they started cracking down on discussion.

They forgot that the number of comments they had was because everybody had different or even certifiably insane views on everything (opinions against the bloggers maybe?) and wanted to share them. You know who was the worst? That Taz chick. I mean, she’d get so butt hurt if anyone told the truth about how Muslims are all terrorist murderers. I have the right to say that, you know? I’m American. These bloggers should go back to wherever they came from if they don’t believe in freedom of speech!”, he thundered before belching a noxious gas cloud that reeked of stale, vinegary curry and prodigious amounts of nose pickings.

Meanwhile, in Silicon Valley, because that is a specific, Pacific place and not some vague phrase, recent college grad Nikhil was morose and frankly, behaving in a manner reminiscent of a petite feminine dog.

“Why can’t they just let the new generation take over? They and by they, I mean I am fresh-faced and hungry to keep that site alive and capitalize on the hard work and dreams of my elders, even as I scoff at them for being has-beens while simultaneously wishing their ancient asses would keep on blogging for my convenience and pleasure.

But really though, I feel that the bloggers just got too old. Their senility must be why they never responded to my 208+ tip submissions, which I started sending off in 2008. Every time I updated my personal blog, ‘Random Thoughts and Musings of a Hurlbut Desi’, I dutifully sent them a link to posts on topics that ranged from my review of Russell Peter’s last show to why Indian girls suck.

Each semester, I would compile a ‘Best of’ list to include with my top ten reasons for why I should be their next blogger (screw ‘Guest Blogger’…what am I, from Cornell or Penn?) Despite my persistence and superior qualifications, they never contacted me. You know, what? Eff Sepia Mutiny. And it’s not like any of them went to Harvard, either. Well, except for that one chick…but she’s Sri Lankan. So she doesn’t count. I mean, do they ever? Also, here’s my resume…do you think you could pass it to Vinod? Thanks, bro.”

Hetal Parikh, a super Senior at Columbia University had this reaction to the end of a once seminal, path-breaking group blog: “Wait, what? Those assholes hacked into my AIM and totally posted my chats once, like five years ago. Good %$#$%! riddance. What did they ever even accomplish? Who cares about a blog? Private Facebook group, maybe but a blog? Get a life. Also, if that spinster  A N N A  needs an egg donor now that she’s 52, tell her that I’ll give her a pity discount since she’s probably poor. Also, tell her how awesome I’m being, since I’m young and Ivy-educated and shit. I charged that I-Banker couple $20,000 so my goods are premium, yo.”

Finally, Maninderpreetjeet Singh of Nome, Alaska glumly characterized it as “The end of a wonderful era.”

“Sepia Mutiny– in its prime– was almost addictive. I had conversations on that blog that couldn’t have possibly occurred anywhere else…certainly not here, where I’m one of all of 3,600 residents. Do you think there are any Desis up here? No. But I never felt alone after I found that site. It was my haven.

I honestly think it was beneficial for my mental health. I know it was beneficial for my social life– I made so many friends via SM. A few of them even came up in March two years ago for the Iditarod. It was awesome. We kept mentioning how this random, awesome meetup was occurring because some guy emailed four people and said, ‘Hey, let’s do this!’…and they created something special. Honestly? I thought there really could be something like ‘Sepia Destiny‘. If there had been, I’d probably be married already. Anyway. Please tell the mutineers that their blog was special, and I’ll always remember it fondly. Tell them I said, ‘Thanks.’”

It’s been an eventful 24 hours, hasn’t it? The end of an “era”, is how some of you readers generously termed it on various social media sites. It’s really just the end of a site that was once bigger in every way than it currently is. What was once a “must-read-daily” turned in to an “Eh, I’ll poke my head in weekly”-sort of a blog and that’s perfectly understandable. The party has been over for a little while. But while many of you wish we would stay around for at least those weekly visits (you are creatures of routine, aren’t you!), that wouldn’t be right.

We can, however, resurrect SOMETHING weekly: the 55Friday flash fiction challenge. See? I didn’t ignore ALL your tweeted pleas.

I know in the past that I picked a theme to help you start your engines, but somehow, I don’t think that will be necessary this time. Write about whatever you like– just contain yourself in 55 words when you do it. Ready? For old time’s sake…go.

One would think that an educational website from the NYU Department of Medicine might be produced by people who are familiar with actual South Asians. One would think.

SM reader SS sends us a link to the site you see above, with her take on it:

While not much of a true story, thought I’d send your way this article about South Asians with accompanying stock photo of people who, last I checked, are NOT South Asian. I find this even odder coming from the NYU medical school, where there are presumably South Asian med students.

Now let’s get the politically correct and enlightened shit out of the way early, shall we?

There’s probably no way to check on the genetic makeup of the couple on the couch, up there. They could be South Asian, after all, there are many, many ways a South Asian person can look. From fake-Italian (although you Guindians aren’t fooling anyone) to fake-East Asian, our phenotypes are many…which makes sense since we’re from all over a subcontinent.

It’s not fair to suggest that there’s only one way for South Asians to look and don’t you dare accuse me of doing that– I’m the one who, as an already put-upon college student, had to deal with Punjabi Aunties from Fremont who constantly came up to my window at a certain Bank of America, only to say…”You Fiji? No? But you’re so DARK. Indian people are not SO dark!”

I get how much that sucks. It’s ignorant and divisive and rude. A blue-black Southerner is just as Desi as a sharply-featured woman from Kashmir, right?

Still, would you expect to see that picture paired with an article titled, “You Don’t Look Diabetic:Diabetes in Non-Obese South Asians-Is There a Molecular or Genetic Basis for Increased Insulin Resistance?”

My body was still in revolt as of 3 am; I slept for four restless hours and then forced myself to get up for work. In exchange for not calling in sick on my third day back after two months of medical leave (which allowed me to walk again), I allowed myself to wear my “Are they or aren’t they”-yoga pants. No, they are not from NuNu Nimbu. I don’t know where they are from, but they are clutch as hell. From five or six feet away, they look like pants. I have them in charcoal, too.

I calculated that no one would be scrutinizing my lower half based on my hideous reflection in the bathroom mirror. Black under-eye circles, dazed red eyes, green skin. Merry goth Christmas! If anyone made it past my face, the black Alternative Apparel v-neck which makes my boyfriend look like a euro-trash hipster would distract my coworkers. On me it looked like the raiment of a round woman who had given up on life. At least I’d be comfortable as my innards putrefied.

As I reached for an elevator button with a shaking hand, manicured fingers swept past my sallow skin.

“Oh! You got it before I could.” The innocuous comment was punctuated by a curious smile.

I slowly turned my head, reflexes dulled by…well, you know.

It’s why my spider sense didn’t tingle in time, either.

“You have…very interesting…skin.”

The way she paused before uttering “skin”. It was almost as if she hadn’t decided exactly what she would choose to “compliment”. It was an awkward moment to hesitate. Does she mean “color” because I’m greenish toda-

“Where is the origin of skin like that?”

Uh?Deep— I can’t believe this shit. I also can’t believe the timing of it– if I were my normal, pert, lethal self, I wouldn’t have been able to refrain from cocking a brow, narrowing an eye, somehow visibly demonstrating what I thought of that query. But I feel like crap. I’m lethargic. Slow. In pain. Hold up, did she really just go and ask about the “origin” of my skin like it’s some foreign object? Or an unfamiliar wine? And what exactly does skin “like that” mean? Dark? Hairy? Foreign? She’s got long glossy, blown out blond hair waving away from her face, which is pale. She looks about 45. Of course it’s foreign to someone like that. Wait, why should I assume she’s unfamiliar with brown skin? She could have an adopted South Asian kid for all I know. Oh, I hope she doesn’t. Wait, that’s mean. Is an ignorant but well-intentioned parent better than no parent? Of course it is. What am I going to say to her? — …breath.

Without realizing it my lips parted and I hear myself reply, “My parents are from India.”

“Oh! INDIA! I would have never guessed.”

Ah. She wouldn’t have guessed. She already knows what she thinks I am, she just wants me to confirm it. Got it. I’m not going to ask her what she would have guessed. I just want to sit down and drink this ginger juice before I’m sick again.

“I would have guessed that you were Iranian. With your skin. Like that. Iranian.”

Wow, really? I haven’t gotten that one in a hot minute, and by minute, I mean 32 years. I’m so surprised and perplexed I forget to be sick for a moment.

“Well, it’s your hair that threw me…don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful”, she adds hastily. “But it made me think you were…”

At this point I was staring at her numbly. We were out of the elevator, heading to separate ends of the floor.

“Your hair…and your skin like that…I wouldn’t have thought ‘Indian’ by looking at you.”

What does THAT mean? Indian hair is some of the best hair on earth. Ask all those trollops in Holly-would with extensions imported from Tirupati.

“Well…I’m 100% Indian.”

“And what a beautiful Indian you are!”, she muttered before taking off.

I shook my head, to clear it like an etch-a-sketch, as I walked back to my desk at the job where I proudly and gratefully cover racial issues for one of the largest NPR stations in the country, in a fragile city which buckles under the twin stresses of class and race.

Color.

Privilege.

Discomfort. It’s right outside my door…even here.

:+:

photograph: me at age four in San Francisco–the last time my “hair” and “skin” led people to believe I was “Iranian”.

It worked. Over 131 people were hurt and 18 perished in the coordinated attacks, which targeted popular areas in India’s financial capital. A list of those lost and injured is here.

The people of Mumbai reacted with bravery and heroic self-sacrifice:

Hitesh Soni said that people offered their private tempos, scooters and motorcycles to rush the victims to hospitals. “Ambulances and the police arrived later. It was local businessmen who came to the rescue and saved lives.” Businessman Manoj Jain added that those from the nearby textile (kapda) bazaar also came to the rescue of the victims.

Many of those involved in rescue operations were local residents. “We do not know about our families but are helping in the rescue operations . Once this work is over, we will check the whereabouts of our family,” said one of them, oblivious of his blood-soaked clothes.

On Twitter, a non-desi follower with far too much faith in my abilities asked, “Why does this keep happening to Mumbai?” I am definitely no expert; I’m not even Indian by anything other than heart, genotype and phenotype. I could only tell her the truth, that I had no answers, just the same whispered words that every erstwhile Catholic schoolgirl knows.

According to the BBC’s Soutik Biswas, the answer to “Why Mumbai?” is complex:

The most commonly peddled narrative is that by attacking its much touted financial and entertainment capital, you deal a body blow to India and get global media attention. But that is only a small part of the story. Many residents will tell you that Mumbai began going downhill in early 1993 when it convulsed in religious rioting and murder for two weeks following the demolition of the Babri mosque by Hindu fanatics in December 1992. At least 900 people died, mostly Muslims. Two months after the riots, the underworld set off series of bombs to avenge the riots, killing more than 250 people. Many of them were Muslims too.

The answer to “Who did it?” is complicated too, according to the Grey Lady:

A senior American law enforcement official said that early indications pointed to India-based militants, not to Lashkar-e-Taiba, a militant group in Pakistan. But the official cautioned that the investigation was still in its very early stages and that it was premature to make any firm conclusions about what group carried out the bombings. The police described the bombs as improvised explosive devices.

I feel compelled to share a “highlighted” comment from that NYT article, from a Mumbaikar named Sen:

I live in Mumbai, my hometown, to which I returned after 17 years of living abroad.

I am also the father of two teenaged kids, both of whom were out and about when the bombs exploded. I had some tense moments, since the older one regularly spends time at the location of one of the explosions. Both are at home now.

I want to make a few points:

1) There was no communal problem in 2008 and there will be none this time around. I live in a building with a dozen Muslim families and I had a lot of offers from my neighbors to go out and get my kids home.No, we know who is behind this and its not the Indian Muslim. Its never been the Indian Muslim.

2)To those who keep harping on India not being able to defend itself, or not able to retaliate or not able to teach a lesson to Pakistan; PLEASE UNDERSTAND that that is EXACTLY what the terrorists, and those who back and train them, wish to see. A full fledged war between the 2 nations. We cannot and will not play into their hands.

3) We have seen the results of the reaction of the USA to 9/11. The USA, very neatly, played into Osama’s hands ,and has spent close to 10 years in 2(3 ?) wars which have bankrupted the USA, killed thousands of Americans and tens of thousands of Muslims and have given many more recruits to the Al Queda and the Taliban. we cannot afford to make the same mistake.

4) Now that the USA and the west have come to their senses with regard to the reality of Pakistan, now that the USA will not pour more and more billions into Pakistan, now that the USA will no longer cover Pakistan’s back at the United Nations, now there is hope that slowly but surely the world, and India, can take action against Pakistan without having to worry about the reaction of the USA, the great protector of Pakistan for the last 50 years and more. The pusher to Pakistan the addict.

5) Please remember that India has more than 140 million Muslims. For a Muslim population of that size, India is remarkably free of terrorist attacks

You know what else is remarkable?

Technology enthusiasts decided to do their bit. Nitin Sagar (@nitinsgr) Product Manager at Map My India (GPS and mapping company in India) created a public Google Spreadsheet to collate helpline numbers. Twitter users added their details to help the affected. As he states, he started the spreadsheet with 5 phone numbers, through Twitter and Facebook there were more than 200 contact numbers within a few hours. [ZDNet]

Beyond Twitter and Facebook, there is a blog called Mumbai Help; its tagline is “Surviving Mumbai– Information for Emergencies in the Bombay Area”. While locals in Bombay used social networks to compile information for those immediately affected, Sepia Mutiny readers used them to express frustration, anguish and concern. SM commenter Coffee Face shared two reasons why she was upset on my Facebook wall:

How about the lack of coverage by primetime news channels in the States?

NBC did one story (by Richard Engel) on the Nightly News, I’m pretty sure that story was about 4 minutes longer than any other network covered it…I don’t like the general American reaction of ‘Why is this a big deal? Doesn’t this shit happen ‘over there’ all the time?’ #gettingoffsoapbox

Scheherazade wrote:

“Home is where we have to gather grace” (Nissim Ezekiel – “Enterprise”) We have woken up today to submerged streets and a sense of cold sadness, but this is an island city and it knows how to rise above.

Five years ago almost to the day, I blogged about the train blasts in Mumbai that claimed 188 lives. Now it is 2011 and once again, I am praying, perhaps fruitlessly for a city on the other side of the globe. It occurs to me that if prayers were all it took to safeguard a nation, India would be the safest place in the world.

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About the title, for those of you who don’t get the ‘kast ref. Please keep the comments so fresh and so clean; that will help them remain open.

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Image: screenshot.

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Thank you to Phillygirl, who contributed links and other assistance to this post.

Q: When is it all right to ask someone, “Do you know what schools I went to?”

A: Never. You just negated any glory you may have been seeking when you left that preposition chilling at the end of your question.

B: Never. What kind of an insecure kundi does that?

C: If– and only if– you randomly stumble upon a celebratory gathering where such information is relevant…like at Gold Cup, where different tents are hosted by different institutions of higher learning. Trust me, the UC tent was much nicer than the jokes hosted by Bates or Rollins.

D: Okay, one more: when you run into another alum who is temporarily unaware of what you both have in common. For example, if I ever see someone getting in a car festooned with both UC Davis and GW stickers (not bloody likely), I reserve the right to ask “Guess where I went to school?” in an effusive and ebullient manner, because those are the two places I have degrees from, too! WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

And with that admission of my middling alma maters, I have outed myself as someone who has no right to brag about her academic achievements. Good thing I live in swampy, sleepy old D.C. and not New York, where train conductors are sometimes interrogated by outraged ticket-holders who are really, really invested in where they paid for a degree.

I’m referring to the strange case of Hermon K. Raju, erstwhile Metro North straphanger and last week’s favorite viral-panni-on-tape. Raju was riding a Metro North train when other passengers allegedly complained about her loud cell phone conversation, which was purportedly profane. A conductor warned Raju about her disruptive language and the young woman exploded, defending her right to a “private conversation” while asking “Do you know how educated I am?” Raju also dared the rail employee to stop the train and asked for a refund before threatening that she would never ride Metro North again. To her credit, the Metro North employee remained calm despite the torrent of education-fu aimed her way. Raju, on the other hand…well, she was being taped surreptitiously on an iPhone.

Let’s get two things straight, right now.

One. I HATE people who yammer on their phones on public transportation. Here in D.C. no matter which subway car or bus I board, there’s always some idiot yelling, “What? I can’t hear you. Hold on, what?” Newsflash, dick. They can’t hear you because you are on a train. Yet WE can all hear you because we’re trapped on said train along with your entitled, self-centered, oblivious ass. Talking on the train is one of my biggest urban pet peeves. Please baby Jesus and Saint Anthony, prevent cell phone conversations from ever being allowed on airplanes. My cross-country treks home are already too infrequent and barely tolerable as they are; a cabin full of selfish morons discussing nothing important on their iPhones sounds like the third layer of hell.Two. Hermon K. Raju was obnoxious to someone who was just doing her job. No, we don’t know all the facts that are salient to this situation, but I’m hard-pressed to imagine a scenario where Raju’s reaction to the conductor is justified and trust me, between the substances I abuse and my innate, irrepressibly fecund imagination, I can imagine some shit, y’all. So, once more, for the cheap seats in the back:

I am not justifying what Raju did. At all. Additionally, insinuating that I am just because we have brownitude in common isn’t just insulting, it’s lazy.

Unimaginative, really. Raju was wrong to invoke her degrees as if they were some omnipotent way to deflect criticism. WRONG WRONG WRONG. Got that?

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel a little bad for her.

Here’s the thing about being in my 30s. I’m nicer. There’s no other way to write it. During my turbulent 20s, I couldn’t get out of my own way; I was so worried and anxious about my own disastrous life, I could barely walk a mile in someone else’s chappals. Now, it’s nearly always my first response. I may have lost my stellar metabolism and lovely lines which proved that I once had vague muscle tone but I really, really think that the increased thoughtfulness and compassion that old age brings more than makes up for that other shit.

Would you want to be her? Fine, fine. You are better than her. You would never. I hear you. I believe you, I do.

But what about that one time…when you were so faded you woke up in some shrubbery at 9am the next day, missing all of your belongings except your cell– what if someone had secretly been videotaping you, eight hours before that glorious awakening, as you threatened to burn the village of the overly-gelled Guindian who bumped in to you at the officially unofficial Bhangra Blowout 48 after party? Remember? When you made all sorts of frothy allegations about penis size, bank account balances and how you hope he enjoys how you taste, since you stole his gf blah blah blah?

Yeah, not your finest moment. And now we all have smarty phones, which capture and upload every cringe-inducing detail, at 4G speeds!

I’m a little weirded out by how easy it was to name and shame Hermon Raju, how people relished the way infamy was ruining her online rep. Someone sent her video to Gawker and soon after the New York-centric site posted it, a former classmate from NYU mentioned that they knew her; it took merely a few minutes of convincing from other commenters to get said acquaintance to reveal her name.

And just like that, all of the trolls had someone specific to pillory, vs. the disgusting collection of stereotypes they had been batting about…that she was “H1B spawn”, a “typical Pakistani boarding school bitch”, just your average “Indian snob, drunk off a caste system that didn’t follow her here” etc ad nauseum. Once her quondam classmate clarified that she wasn’t a DBD, that she was born here like most of us on this site, the vitriol shifted.

The scorn aimed at her…um…extreme pride…in NYU was slightly understandable; like most online spectators, after all her protesting and hollering I expected her to be an [HYP](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Three_(colleges) alum. The racist shit storm about desi women, what our vaginas smell like and how we’re all insufferable cunts is not something I can grok, no matter how much I read.

Yes, the “C-bomb” is the disgusting epithet I saw most often applied to Raju, no matter what site I haunted. And best of all, people thought it was extra apposite in this case! Get a grip, morons. That insult is reserved for Countess Crackerjacks, a.k.a. Luann on the Real Housewives of New York, and Luann alone. Speaking of television characters, I know I wasn’t the only person who thought Raju’s Locust Valley Lockjaw accent was utterly reminiscent of Trudy from Mad Men. But back to the interesting and vaguely depressing public reaction to this spectacle.

Misogyny, hate and ignorance, oh my. In to this caustic stew, let’s throw in a few commenters’ unfortunate personal experiences with brown-on-black racism and a desire for retribution, for making sure that ALL Raju’s future employers see exactly what kind of a person she is– so many commenters justified this by pointing out that Raju had interned for a Congressman, and that it would be horrible for someone who hated poors to be allowed to gasp! craft policy that might affect them. Because whle Raju was showing tourists around or dutifully answering the phone, she had a lot of opportunity to impact how those who are needy might be affected by potential legislation. Please.

People love a chance to retaliate, especially when they cloak it in faux-righteousness. I’ve been one of those people in the past. But I’m not perfect. And despite what Raju’s most vocal detractors think, neither are they. We’ve all had shitty days, and many of us have experienced a public meltdown (or three). The difference is, we weren’t being filmed. We’re only tied to our own shame, not a collective virtual shaming that clings to every google search of our name. Some say that Raju got what she deserved, that surely it will make her a kinder, gentler Hermon; who knows? Sometimes, this sort of backlash puts people on the defensive, it doesn’t necessarily result in edification or reflection.

One commenter who knows Raju in real life said that she must have been having a really bad day, because she’s actually a nice person. No matter. I’m sure you can find me other people who know her and hate her. It’s a wash. Face it, for most of us, it would be the same way. For every one person who thinks I’m neat, there are ten who can’t stand me. Who’s right about me? All eleven, I’m sure. No one is perfect. No one sees all sides of who we are, but we have seen one ugly side of this woman and it is preserved forever, like a creepy crawly thing ensconced in amber.

Maybe the one thing this sorry situation resulted in is this sobering realization: we are all being watched. Girls (and guys) on film. One upload away from infamy and a destroyed reputation. I may not have attended NYU, but my synapses fire well enough that I realize privacy is dead. Online, the mob lusts for a reason to froth and foam, to judge and exact “justice”.

Dear mutineers, I will try to do you proud and be a credit to our race. You do the same, lest we empower a bunch of desi-hating trolls to crow about us and how we suck. And yes, though some choose to deny it, there IS a racist element to this. We have not graduated to some post-racial nirvana where ethnicity does not matter. Raju wasn’t a jerk because she was Indian; but because she is Indian, people feel empowered to be especially vile when they discuss her. Here is what is relevant: her poor manners. Here is what is not: the “fact” that she smells like curry, whether she grew up in a convenience store or if she loves the caste system. Those stereotypes have nothing to do with why she behaved the way she did, but don’t tell that to the anonymous cowards who are having a blast invoking them anyway. Raju was born and raised here; she snapped and suddenly she’s an evil foreigner, a collection of derogatory assumptions typed by people who can’t separate one rude woman from the rest of us.

Our parents came to this country with eight dollars in their hand; they didn’t sacrifice and suffer so that we could destroy all of their hard work via one regrettable rant. Keep your head down, beta. It’s a nasty job market out there and now that this virtual tarring and feathering isn’t just accepted but celebrated…well, do yourself a favor and keep your c.v. to yourself.

::

I want to apologize to everyone who read this post either yesterday or today. I intended to publish this on Monday morning, and I thought I had saved it as a draft last night; instead, I saw a tweet about it which made me realize that I must have inadvertently published it. What a way to ruin brunch! Anyway, I have just updated it and I am sorry for giving you something half-baked!

I love it. It’s a mashup of a T-Mobile ad and a B21 jam, “Darshan“. I think bhangra is a huge improvement compared to the original East 17 track the commercial used. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go give my shoulders a much-needed work out.

If he is convicted, Ravi could receive five to ten years in prison for invading his roommate’s privacy and attempting to cover up his actions– the 19-year old deleted a tweet that invited people to watch Clementi a second time and did other desperate things:

In addition, prosecutors accuse Ravi of attempting to mislead the investigation, deleting text messages and Twitter posts, and trying to persuade witnesses not to testify against him. He is charged with evidence and witness tampering, and hindering prosecution. [The Record]

According to ABC news, “Ravi filmed Clementi with the purpose of intimidating him” for being attracted to other men:

Ravi “disclosed a photograph, film, videotape, recording or other reproduction of the image of [Clementi]…whose intimate parts were exposed,” the indictment reads.

The enormous amount of publicity surrounding the case means it will be scrutinized:

Legal scholars said the case would be closely watched and could have ripple effects. “Charging this as a bias crime may send a message to prosecutors who are dealing with similar cases in other states about the particularly damaging consequences of this kind of crime,” said Suzanne B. Goldberg, director of the Columbia Law School Center for Gender and Sexuality Law. [NYT]

The case against Molly Wei–Dharun Ravi’s friend and co-defendant– is still active, though she was not indicted. Ravi went to Wei’s room to accommodate Clementi’s request for privacy…and spy on his roomate via webcam. Ravi and Wei are no longer Rutgers students.

Clementi’s family had hoped that pursuing a case against Ravi would emphasize that his actions were more than a prank:

“The grand jury indictment spells out cold and calculated acts against our son Tyler by his former college roommate,” the Clementi family said in a statement released after the indictment was returned.

“If these facts are true, as they appear to be, then it is important for our criminal justice system to establish clear accountability under the law. We are eager to have the process move forward for justice in this case and to reinforce the standards of acceptable conduct in our society,” the Clementi family said. [Reuters]

Clementi’s parents aren’t the only ones who hope the indictment sends a message to other potential bullies:

Steven Goldstein, chairman of Garden State Equality, a gay-rights advocacy group, said “potential bullies will now think harder before demolishing another student’s life.” [NYT]

The Sugi put me in a literary mood, so when I spotted this on Page Six of my dead-tree edition of the NYP, I had to share it with you:

Salman Rushdie knows his way around the jet set as well as he does the literary world. Now, he’s found a way to fuse both interests by selecting books for guest rooms at Andre Balazs’ Standard Hotel. According to sources, the “Satanic Verses” author is in the process of selecting 10 “American classics,” which will be in Standard rooms during the PEN World Voices Festival April 25 to May 1. The titles, being provided by Housing Works, have yet to be confirmed. We wonder what Rushdie would suggest taking to read in the Boom Boom Room?

What, indeed. I’m not the resident Rushdie-phanatic…I believe that was Manish, but I’m curious about what he’ll select to decorate the rooms of enlighten the patrons of the Standard.