You can also follow us individually

Abhi: twitter.com/themadblogger

Amitava: twitter.com/amitavakumar

Anna: twitter.com/suitablegirl + https://www.facebook.com/suitablegirl

Chaitan: twitter.com/teawithtanya

Ennis: twitter.com/ennismutinywale

Kunjan http://Kunjan.net + twitter.com/kunjanshah

Lakshmi: twitter.com/LakshmiGandhi

Melvin:  www.MelvinDurai.com + www.Nshima.com

Pavani: twitter.com/_pavani + twitter.com/MustSeeDesis

Phillygrrl: twitter.com/phillygrrl

Taz: twitter.com/tazzystar

Vasugi: twitter.com/vasugi

Vivek: twitter.com/vivekster

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

Long time Sepia Mutiny readers know that SM has deceived its readers with devastating April Fool’s day pranks over the years. Go visit our site on previous April ones to see the results (exhibits A and B).

Alas, the truth is the greatest prank of all.  The wolf eventually does come…

But the good news is that our Twitter account will keep going for a while. Through it we can tell you where our writers can be found beyond this day:

https://twitter.com/#!/sepiamutiny

Our archives will also be up and accessible for the foreseeable future.

I’d like to thank our readers and donors.  Readers/Commenters you have to understand that without some of comments you left on our posts (and often it was your comments and not even our posts that were quoted in mainstream media) there would have been no blog.  Donors, we had a site that was both ad and influence free for 8 years thanks to you!  Please don’t (any of you) think your money was wasted.  100% of it went for server costs.

I’d also like to thank all my co-bloggers.  Those there at the beginning (Manish, Anna, Ennis, Vinod) the fresh blood (Amardeep, Siddhartha), the younger generation (Taz, Phillygrrl, Pavani) and the dozens of others who are all far more talented than I and tried to keep this site engaging.  And let’s not forget Chaitan, Kunjan, or the other admins that pitched in over the years to keep things running smoothly.

As for me, I look back with much fondness at my time here.  One thousand three hundred and twenty plus posts over eight years.  I have no idea how many actual hours that consumed but when you add that to the comment engagement and moderation I feel like I could have maybe made something of myself if I wasn’t busy blogging.  And it is too bad that we are ending today because I really want to write about this article tomorrow.  So many memories…but these following posts were my favorite ones (that I can still remember):

My First Ramadan

The Danish cartoon controversy: A contrast in protests

Everything is Illuminated

Don’t Drop the Soap

More Proof from Obama’s Pocket

Strangers in a Strange Land

Finally, for those of you wondering, I just created a Twitter account for “YoDad44” if you want to follow him.  As my mother pointed out, this farewell is a lot harder on him than on me.  Once I teach him how to tweet properly you can still follow his news postings…and he’ll then call me every morning to tell me how many times he got re-tweeted (“Abhi my story has the most views in last 24 hours, 7 days, and month on the news tab!”)

@themadblogger out.

These past few weeks I’ve been grappling with exactly what Sepia Mutiny has meant to me in the past six years I’ve written for the site and have been playing musical montages in my head of my favorite moments. Six years – longer than any job or relationship I’ve ever had. This site provided a much needed space to dialogue and develop the South Asian American identity and, in many ways, set the benchmark with how the community voiced ourselves. I always approached blogging on this site with three things in mind – 1) write about the Desi-American experience, the narrative I was yearning for, 2) a 1:1 ratio of pop to politics posts, and 3) find the marginalized Desis and give them space. And of course – the self pep talk before every remotely Muslim post - “Fuck all the trolling Islamophobic haters – as long as they’re commenting, there’s an important reason to keep blogging.” There was always that.

To commemorate – let’s list, shall we? So here we go. My top ten most influential moments here in the Sepia Mutiny bunkers…

1. Sepia Destiny: Oh, the trials and tribulations of being a single Desi girl with dating woes and having it all laid out in blogs. Remember the Dating While Desi rules? And wondering if Dating While Desi Bradley Effect of if Obama would increase the dating pool? These posts were our most commented on the site and clearly a very important issue to many of us. Though we always had high hopes of setting up a Sepia Destiny dating tab, it never came to fruition. Luckily, many of you didn’t wait for the tab to find SM love, myself included. Thank you, Sepia Mutiny for making dating life all that much more thrilling.

2. Gaza: Is Palestine a Desi issue? To me, the connection was immediate – but how to write about it? I hit the streets for the protests, interviewing every Desi person I saw and did it again at the rally in front of the Israel Embassy after the flotilla’s were attacked. In an American world where USINPAC and AIPAC are working in coordination to promote an Indian-Israeli alliance at the Capitol – I found it even more important to push this counter-narrative out there on SM’s pages. Especially after this Bollywood dancing missile promo video. Vijay Prashad’s Uncle Swami book coming out in June has a detailed analysis, but sadly my book review won’t be on these pages.

3. Ami Bera: He folded in to returning $250 of donations from CAIR-Sacramento Executive Director, thanks to pressure from his opponent Dan Lungren during the 2010 elections. My blog post sparked an interesting dialogue between readers, donors and the candidate himself - and even led to his having to return donations from people wanting their money back. Ami Bera is at it again, running in this fall’s election. But this time his race is highly supported by the Democratic Party big shots. Let’s just hope he doesn’t fold to Lungren again.

4. Edison, NJ: Joel Stein’s article caused a ruckus in our bunker – was it racist or was calling it racist too much? I tied it to The Last Airbender and called it racist – but others disagreed.

5. Bridget McCain: During the 2008 election John McCain’s Bangladeshi adoptee daughter hit the campaign trail, and I wrote a letter to her. The comments were fierce to say the least and generated a dialogue that I will never forget.

6. IndiCorps: This had to be one of the larger recent issues that totally split the Desi progressive community in two. You either sided w/ Vijay Prashad who “called out” Sonal Shah on aligning herself with the VHP or you sided with Indicorps family. I didn’t write about this, but Amardeep’s post, Ennis’ post, and Amardeep’s second post did cause a lot of ruckus both within the bunker and within the community. With ten year anniversary of the Gujarat riots around the corner, I’m sure this isn’t the last we’ve heard of it.

7. Queerness: One of the things I’ve completely enjoyed about writing on Sepia Mutiny the amount of coverage that was given to the queer community. There were the marches on Pioneer Blvd., Gay Pride in NYC, coming out stories, interviews with Prerna Lal and Sikh Knowledge, and the Nani supporting Proposition 8.

8. Bone Marrow Donation: The Mutiny has been featuring stories of bone marrow donors needed for the past few years – and has contributed to the significant increase to the South Asian donor pool. Most recently, Amit Gupta’s story and his viral social media campaign generated a 10/10 donor bone marrow donor match.

9: Hate-crimes: There have been so many hate crimes in the community over the years at Sepia Mutiny. Some were in post 9/11 hate and others were driven by islamophobic fear. There was the monument in Arizona that wanted to remove Balbir Singh Sodi off of the 9/11 monument, Kamal Uddin, Satender Singh, the Elk Grove murders, and the controversial fake hate-crime of Aisha Khan.

10: Voting: Of course, voting. What drew me to these pages of Sepia Mutiny was what drew me to start South Asian American Voting Youth – to empower the community to have a political voice. After ALL of my posts on voting, posts on Obama, and posts on south asian candidates – I hope that you all walk away a bit more empowered.

Thank you. Thank you to Abhi for inviting me to be a guest blogger way back in 2006 and for not kicking me out of the bunker. Thank you to all the dear bloggers who gchatted with me through ideas, who edited my posts at all hours of the night and who inspired me to keep writing. Thank you to the fabulous readers and commenters and lurkers who made this experience a constant learning and growing experience. Thank you to all of you who took the time to email me personally, talk to me at a meetup or voiced encouragement in person – each of you helped me onto this journey that I’m on today, and I’m a much better person for it.

As for where you can find me now… you’ll always be able to find me tweeting away @TazzyStar or on my personal blog at Say What?. You can find my tumblr site where I curate images of the South Asian American diaspora Mutinous MindState, and more infrequently at the Taqwacore Webzine. Finally, you can read one of my stories in Love, Inshallah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women. As for the future, time will always tell. I’ll keep you posted.

Oh, and one more song. For old times sake.

Ami Acshi.

Thanks, y’all, for having me over one last time. I’ve already said my goodbyes. This curious form of public performance brought me some of the people I cherish most. It’s been a second education in the erudition of the comments. The Mutiny was alt.culture.us.asian-indian before and @allyousmartf-ers now, and this delicious salon will continue in another face.

I want to toss in one last thought. Early desi American artists began with the idea of marginalization. Their references were specific and elaborate in-jokes. But look at who’s blown up: those who gave no ground in their conception of themselves. They dabbled in the desi palette because it’s rich, not because it’s definitive. Those who started with I am a Queens rapper, or I am an art director, or I am an animator, experienced brownness not as conscription, but freedom.

And in fact it is. It is a thin layer atop a deep commonality. As a species we are, when you zoom out, genetically almost clones. The differences we draw among us are like the fictional Indiana town of Pawnee squabbling with the fictional town of Eagleton: from the outside, all look same.

A couple of years ago I was watching Aziz Ansari make silly jokes at a small NYC club about hitting on MIA in bad Tamil. Today he’s touring in a 007 tux. Still bemoaning his sex life, but on a much bigger stage. Sepia is one of our colors, one near and dear. But it is only one. Let’s launch our flicks, ebooks, startups, campaigns. Let’s let our freak flags fly.

Can’t wait to see it all, and unlike Bill, I will inhale.

—Manish

Fast forward to March 2012.

Despite admitting to have shot and killed a 17 year-old armed with Skittles and a hoodie, George Zimmerman remains a free man today. The story struck a chord and has become a worldwide sensation. Just as thousands of ordinary folks of all stripes have taken to the streets to peacefully protest the outrageous impunity, a similar scene is happening right now in Punjab; the difference is that the “criminal” is slated to die for attempting to stop the targeting of his community for extrajudicial torture and killings. Here is the breakdown on Balwant Rajaona and why he was to be hanged from The Langar Hall.

On March 31st, Bhai Balwant Singh Rajoana [was] set to be executed in Punjab for his involvement in the assassination of former chief minister of Punjab, Beant Singh. Chief minister Beant Singh was involved with carrying out brutal and mass killings of Sikhs in Punjab.  He is widely held responsible by many Sikhs for ordering the kidnap, torture and death of many young Sikh men.  A report by Amnesty International can be found here.

Whereas outrage around the cold-blooded murder of a kid/boy/person/however you’d like to term Trayvon armed with only Skittles and a hoodie has galvanized action worldwide, the imposed media blackout and military presences have in Punjab made sure that most people outside do not learn the facts of the case, and those who do organize are slammed as “terrorist sympathizers.” Just as black boys, girls, men, and women in this country learned that the combination of darker skin and an otherwise innocuous piece of clothing can make them targets for harassment, Sikhs have had to essentially face a death sentence for the same, also in the country they call home. Over the years, we’ve have had many discussions over the realities and pitfalls of being minorities, from having to choose Starbucks names to sharing our stories of insults, harassment, and even violence. From these conversations, I’ve learn that our shared experiences and status as the perpetual other makes the need for solidarity with other minorities groups all that much more necessary: I do not have to be an African-American to be moved by tragedy of Trayvon Martin’s death, nor do I have to be Sikh (I’m not) to be see the incredible injustice meted out to this minority. Though a stay has been put on Rajaona’s hanging, those who were responsible for the murder of as many as a quarter million missing and murdered Sikhs remain free and continue to live and operate with complete impunity. As this Mutiny signs off today, no justice has been served in either cases, but the Mutiny against this impunity grows stronger by the minute.

I’d like to thank Abhi for first inviting me into the bunker to blog about my obscure desi vinyl collection, among other things. The original gangstas, Manish, ANNA, Cicatrix, Neha, The Barmaid, Siddhartha, and Preston have had had more of an impact on how I viewed myself and the world I inhabit than I probably would feel comfortable admitting and I am forever in their debt. This site and the community it subsequently created has given me more than I could have ever hoped for and introduced me to bloggers and commenters who ended up becoming close friends in real life (like Harbeer and Cheap Ass Desi) and those who become something more (like I’m going to tell you). (Check out my tongue-in-cheek tribute to EVERYONE who helped make SM what it is!) But just as Abhi can say with confidence that the Mutiny has completed its mission, I can say that mine has just begun. This Mutiny is standing down, but for me, what began as stimulating, often contentious and always illuminating but ultimately idle conversation slowly grew into a reconnection with a lost heritage, a fledgling awareness of a need for further engagement, and finally a clarion call for action. For this reason, #Iamtrayvonmartin, and #Ipledgeorange, and I hope we can all continue together in our Mutinous ways.

I thought I’d saunter away to the musical stylings of a well-known white man with connections to the mafia. ’Cause that makes sense for this desi blog.

Just kidding. I thought I’d go out myyyyyyyy way. With a point, or attempting to make one. I aim for rallying cry rather than dirge, in keeping with my bullheaded desire to cultivate optimism and seek action.

So here are some things that are related to each other (and the optimism is coming just a ways down the pike, I swear, because most of this list of connected things is comprised of news that devastates):

• George Zimmerman killed Trayvon Martin recently, in Florida. I hope you already know this by now, that Martin’s name is etched in your memory, but if you don’t, here. Go you and read it. And then please sign it, and come back.

Trayvon Martin was a child, a black teenager, and he carried Skittles and iced tea and no weapon. He could have been my classmate, my relative, my friend, my colleague, my teacher, my student. He wore a hoodie. I think of my beard-sporting, turban-wearing friends. I think of the black men and black communities who have supported ­me.

Watch this brilliant and moving response from a set of Howard University guys:

I think of laws that need changing.

• Shaima Alawadi was killed recently too, found with a note that said Go back to your country, you terrorist. She was 32. She was the mother of five and wore a hijab and had immigrated from Iraq.

I think of Muslim friends, profiled. I think of Tamil friends, profiled. I think of minorities… profiled.

• An American soldier killed 17 civilians in Afghanistan. Much of the Western media failed to adequately acknowledge the dead. 

O, failures to acknowledge and mourn the dead, how you haunt me. 

• The long-awaited film of The Hunger Games prompted a slew of racist reactions from fans who couldn’t believe that black actors had been cast in roles they’d imagined white.

And good God, I think of my own job: I am a fiction writer.

And the last item on this list (which clearly could have included a great deal more)—

• Taiwanese-American Harvard alum and Knicks point guard Jeremy Lin became an international phenomenon.

Yes, I’m the Sri Lankan chick who went to Harvard, but I’m glad to say I know lots of people who cheered for him with no “connection,” with no self-interest. Because he impressed, and they admired. Without reservation.

Not all of these things are explicitly connected to anything desi. But they are related. We are related. As the collective work of Sepia Mutiny has asked others to not only know but also imagine South Asian(-Americans), the incredible variety our lives contain, I want to exit the bunker and imagine how we might be in solidarity with other people. Other Others, if you will. How can I know their lives? What do we have in common? How can I throw my lot in with those who think imagination, emotion, compassion, and respect don’t default to white, to straight, to male, to able-bodied? How can I do this rigorously, thoughtfully, with humor and humility?

I think that now, to change things, we have to go outside ourselves. Maybe Twitter killed SM; maybe Facebook slayed us. Still, I just wanted to say, I hope this isn’t just an end. I want it to be a turn, a growing. I think it will be. And of course much of this work has already begun.

Poittu Varan / I go only to return / catch you later

And so you may have noticed that I didn’t say goodbye. BECAUSE THERE ARE THINGS TO DO!

I’ve had good times here. I learned an enormous amount. I was a lurker, then a commenter, then a guest, then a regular. I felt a certain solidarity with my bunkermates, even when I disagreed with them. This feeling of being backed-up and valued counted for a lot; it made it possible for me to say things that felt difficult to say. Thanks, bunkermates. I e-mailed you, called you, chatted you and relied on you even when we hadn’t met… and you always treated me as though we had.

SM readers, in their turn, offered thought-provoking, funny, nasty, reasonable, and deeply kind responses to what I wrote. Thanks to them too. Some became real-life friends. We met in New York, Ann Arbor, other cities, other countries. They kept me honest and tested my patience. I cut my argumentative teeth on SM’s threads, made mistakes, corrected, learned, revised, edited, and hopefully improved. Those threads taught me that I didn’t need to have the last word to win an argument, and that sometimes the best response was no response. (Don’t feed the trolls!) I learned to bide my time and hold my temper. Funny thing to learn from the Internet. And hella useful.

And the Interwebs taught me about generosity, too. I particularly remember one insightful, positive, compassionate comment made about two years ago. I wasn’t familiar with the handle; I have no idea who it was. But I have returned to that comment multiple times, to remind myself that people actually did sometimes get what I was saying, that I was allowed to be human, and sometimes even to do it in public. To the readers who took the time to comment when they liked something… that mattered, and thanks so much.

So I will see you again out there again, you know, and I won’t say goodbye. I’ll say—until next time, see you soon, somewhere else, somewhere new.

Dear Sepia Mutiny,

You’ve been a pal. No, seriously, you’re the best yaar a Pakistani-American girl could conjure. That’s why I dedicate Kishore Kumar’s soundtrack, “Chalte, Chalte” to you. The lyrics, “Kabhi alvida na kahna” translate to, “Never say goodbye.” SM, you challenged me. You educated me. You delighted me. You enraged me. And so, I thank you. All of you.

Thank you, Amardeep, my fellow Philadelphian. When I first stumbled across Sepia Mutiny years ago, yours were the first posts I followed closely.  I still go back and reference your eloquent, lyrical writings on music, authors and more. And as I go forward, I hope to keep your last post in mind. Especially this line: “[T]here really is value in spelling out an idea or a perspective at some length, and then giving readers as much space as they want or need to discuss it with you.” Longform writing, ftw!

Thank you A N N A, for welcoming me into the bunker. Your sharp editing eye has saved many a post of mine. Your uncompromising  fierceness continues to inspire.

Thank you, Nila, my Bollywood baaji. You always took the time to help me refine my writing. And I have lost track of the number of times you sent me post ideas.

Thank you, Abhi. Your editorial leadership and support kept me writing throughout grad school. And I don’t regret a single moment I spent blogging instead of briefing.

Thank you, Ennis. You are the best link curator I have ever met. Tweeting with you was a delight. Thank you for always having my back.

Thank you, Sugi. You sent me to NYC to meet Shah Rukh Khan. And you introduced me to the Asian American Writers Workshop. Someday, I will get you to autograph my copy of your book.  Thank you for encouraging me to write about #tinyfabkidney. I remember you saying, “That story will someday be on Good Morning America.” And sure enough. It was.

Thank you to all the past contributors, especially Manish, Vinod, Preston, Siddhartha, Saheli and Neha. You created an online space where I finally felt at home.

Thank you Chaitain and Kunjan. You both devoted hours of your time to helping us diva writers share our content. You let us call/text/email you at all hours of the night for technical support. We couldn’t have done this without you.

Thank you, Cicatrix. Working with you at MTV Desi was a dream come true.

Thank you, Taz. You introduced me to 99% of the music I listen to today.

Thank you, Amitava. I am thrilled you joined us on this mutiny-toned journey. Kya baat hai!

Thank you Razib, Vivek, Lakshmi and Pavani. Your enthusiasm for SM was contagious.

Thank you all of our contributors, for their hard work behind the scenes. So many did so much that remains hidden.

Thank you to all our supporters. Everyone who shared our articles on Facebook, Twitter, etc. Everyone who contributed to our discussions. Everyone who sent us messages of support.

Thank you to everyone who shared their stories with me.

Thank you, Sepia Mutiny. You changed my life.  You gave me a voice. Thank you for giving me a space to write about what I wanted to write about. Thank you for letting me rant. And rant. And rant. Until we meet again.

Mutinously Yours,

PG

P.S. Let’s end this shindig with a little Bollywood, eh?

Hi, everyone. For the last few years I’ve been pretty much fulltime over at our twitter franchise, one of a few people trying to make sure you get all your savory brownness in an 140 character packet. As a result, I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty at this longer-form blogging.

But the truth is, as my exes can attest, I’ve never been any good at final goodbyes. I even skipped the funeral of a close friend because I couldn’t stand the finality involved in watching him get cremated, even though I knew he was already gone. But I’m afraid there’s no way to skip your own wake, and once you’re there, you might as well try to deliver a eulogy, awkward as it is.

Part of the problem is that Sepia was never just one thing, it was many. There were the blog posts, but that was just the tip of the iceberg, the part you could see. There was also everything that happened out of view, so many stories that I don’t think any one of us knows them all.

Fun fact: VH-1 once considered a “Behind the Blogging” special on Sepia Mutiny, but decided the truth (replete with biting off the heads of live bats) was too bizarre to be believed. That, and MTV-Iggy said “I’ll cut you, VH-1, Sepia is my bitch! Don’t you go near it!”

The other part of the invisible sepia, the spirit rather than the body, of course, was you all. This is what we never could have forseen when we started the blog, just four guys and one girl, all plugged into a group chat session on (gasp) AOL chat, that such a giant community would spring up around the blog, that people would continue the connections they formed in the comments and continue them, both online and offline, elsewhere. This was both our greatest triumph and our undoing.

Like any club, once we became popular, we lost some of the attributes that made us a hip watering hole in the first place. The comment section changed. We spent too much time and energy policing comments, and even so, it was impossible to maintain the vibe that first brought people here. Plus, as Facebook grew stronger, people simply took their conversations elsewhere, into private spaces.

That’s fine though. Eight years is a good run, longer than most sitcoms, the entire possible lifetime of a Presidential administration, and far longer than I thought we had any possibility of surviving.

We certainly had no idea what we were creating at the time, how many people we would touch, how it would affect each of us, and how, in the end, it would gently unravel. It’s hard to believe all the things that we achieved, as well as all the things that happened that I still cannot tell you about.

I could show you a slow montage of our greatest moments, all slung together in the standard narrative of the rise and fall of a rock-and-roll band, but that would be bullshit. Sepia was never about the commercial, the slick, the neatly manufactured. At our best we were messy, fractious, incoherent, and full of life.

My most famous post, Straight eye for the guerilla guy, could have used a good deal more polishing and refinement. Yet that didn’t stop it from being widely pirated and going viral, in the sincerest form of flattery.

So this, post #539, is my messy, poorly written, farewell and love letter to Sepia, both official and invisible, singular and plural, inside and out.

(Most likely, we’ll keep tweeting from @sepiamutiny for a little while longer, sort of the way the body of a chicken keeps running around, long after the head has been cut off. After that, you can catch me at my new twitter handle @ennismutinywale, and the rest of the crew at their twitter handles and personal blogs in turn.)

When did you know that you wanted to sing? After I finished school at Lahore, I started college, but it just didn’t feel right. I had a strange feeling that there had to be something more exciting to do in life. I had always loved music, because of my parents’ love for music and because of the music culture in Lahore. But there were no musical schools in Pakistan, which was kind of annoying.

Now your parents must be pretty cool, to let you come to America and pursue your music. Was there ever a “No beta, don’t do this” moment? It’s such a stereotypically unstable profession. So they always have a “Oh god, why did we let you do this” attitude. But I think secretly they’re excited because they both have great voices themselves and a love for music. In 2003, I made my dad sit down and listen to a cover I did of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” and he became really quiet. That was when he started to take  my music seriously.

How much of a music foundation did you have in Pakistan and how was that supplemented in Berklee? I didn’t really have much of a chance to study music in Pakistan. I would love to set aside three or four years to go back home to Pakistan and get some classical training, but I haven’t been able to do that. I have gone back and apprenticed with local Lahori singers. It’s quite hard, they’re very traditional. It all depends on who exactly is teaching you music. Styles vary from teacher to teacher. Whereas over here, it’s very straightforward and standard. You learn European music theory. You learn jazz arrangements. You learn orchestral arrangements. They give you all the information and tell you, “Do what you want to do with it.” Over there it’s much more fluid.

Were you a musical child? My father would have a musical teacher and instrumentalists come by on the weekends for fun and I would be glued to him. Then they would host these musharas for their friends and I loved them. Musharas go on until four or five in the morning. I would be fully focused and I would listen very carefully. All the other kids would be running around and crying.

They tell me I was also fascinated by the tabla, but my parents discouraged me, saying, “If women play the tabla, then their wrists break.” I had a similar moment in college where I wanted to switch from vocals to a drumset and my parents said,  “Beta, why can’t you play something graceful like the piano!”

Which musicians influence the music you compose and sing you? People like Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan. Mehdi Hussin. Beghum Akhtar. Super classical people. And of course Ella Fitzgerald, Erykah Badu, Billie Holiday. Also an amazing composer is Meshell Ndegeocello, who has just funky, deep grooves. Her voice is so rich and moving. Her compositions are really dark, melancholic and slow. She’s amazing.

Tell us about your band and how you chose the instruments? I put out an album in 2006 featuring six songs that I had recorded while I was at Berklee. I put them out on the Internet with the world being the test audience. It was just intelligent pop, featuring an acoustic guitar player, an upright bass player and a percussionist. It  also had a little bit of jazz, rock and some flamenco.

Recently, I’ve been switching instruments around, for instance, we have a Turkish percussion player.  We also utilize an Arab instrument called the kanoon, kind of a sit-down harp thing. Also horn. I hope to arrive at a sound that is world music, but not Starbucks café world music. I’m tired of this exoticized South Asian music. There’s so much music like that. It’s so annoying. It has this exoticized vibe in the way that they treat female vocals. It features the same few chords over and over again. It makes me crazy. Over here, just walking around being a South Asian musician, they will just immediately slap that on you. Before they hear you sing or hear your music, they will assume you’re that same exoticized music. That you’re that sound.

What’s it like playing with an all-male band? There have been some really difficult moments. When the leader of the band is female, it’s really important that she be a very strong instrumentalist. Otherwise, people just think, “The diva has arrived.” It’s surprising to me that even being around really well-informed musicians, vocalists – especially females –  are still belittled. There’s always that initial struggle. “I’m not going to write it for you, I’m not going to play for you.” As musicians, we should all be able to communicate with each other with respect and grace.

I have learned that you can’t just hand out charts and say “Play these notes.” That produces a forced, synthetic sound. You have to invite people that you love and respect to come with you to a space and create sound that is super organic and alive. The people I work with now, I really respect.

Tell me about Rebuild Pakistan? My band and I did a three week live installation with Sonny Singh and many other amazing artists. We holed up in a house in Brooklyn and came together in solidarity for Pakistan to record. The result was magical.