the screen back to himself to look at my reaction, as if the screen is a better representation of my feelings than the flesh-and-blood Kiran before him.
“Her name is Stopfilming.”
“And her last name?”
“Singh, Dad. Her name is Stopfilming Singh.” I dash up the stairs, hearing my father call out, “Vell, at least she’s Punjabi…”
The Intrigue of a Tit
The next day, I sit down at our kitchen table and try to make a list of facts that I know about Krishna. If I’m going to reclaim Him, if I’m going to assert that the reason I feel so different from everyone is because I am in fact godly, I’m going to have to mold my current life after my past life. I’m going to have to mimic His behavior. Somehow, I know that this has something to do with the talent show, this reorganization of my character. I just don’t know exactly how yet.
I know that Krishna is blue-skinned, of course, so on my piece of looseleaf paper, I write
1. Blue skin
I also know that Krishna is one embodiment of Vishnu, the Preserver. You see, there are three main gods on the Hindu roster: Brahma the Creator, who was hatched out of an egg on a never-ending sea; Vishnu the Preserver, many-armed and often so light-skinned that He might just be a luxuriously jaundiced Indian; and Shiva the Destroyer, who sits cross-legged and bears that smiling cobra around His neck. Vishnu has the hardest job, I think. Brahma gets to create and let His creations go, like a doodling toddler. Shiva gets to raze everything, like Cody does while playing Contra , a Cold War–inspired Nintendo game that pits a pair of buff muscle men, machine gun bullets crossing their chests, against various enemies that appear on snow skis, on tanks, in underground pipes. But Vishnu has to take care of everything, like Mrs. Garrett took care of her girls on The Facts of Life , and this is probably why He has to split himself into so many incarnations. The fact that Krishna is such a recognizable and shining god is all the more impressive; as one of Vishnu’s many incarnations, He has to fight against other members of an elite crew, but He emerges as the most extravagant, and therefore most memorable, god.
So I write
2. Show-off
I also know that Krishna plays the flute. It is said that when He played His flute in the sylvan Indian pastures, animals would travel from near and far to hear Him play, so beautiful were the melodies He blew out.
“Mom, why are cows so sacred to us?” I once asked, echoing the question that so many of my classmates had asked me before. I had never known how to answer; I just scoffed and acted like it was something everyone should know, or something that was offensive to ask an Indian person.
“ Beta , vhen you look at the pictures of Krishnaji at the temple, vhat do you see around him?” my mother replied, her fingers smushed into a bowlful of dough.
“Um, a jungle. Lots of plants. Some mountains.”
“And cows, beta . Cows. Vhen Krishnaji played his flute in the fields, the cows from the farms vould gather around him, and so they are considered holy animals.”
I found this explanation somewhat baffling, as I don’t recall horses and other stable animals being called holy just because they gathered around Jesus when He was in the manger. But comparing Hinduism and Christianity can be like comparing apples and oranges. Or like comparing a blue-skinned flutist and a long-tressed carpenter, to be more precise.
So Krishna played His flute… 3. Flutist …and He attracted cows. I put my pen to my lips and think. I somehow can’t see how I might bring cows into my life, especially cows that come across as holy. There are plenty of cows in Ohio, of course, but those cows do not resemble the cows that appear in the paintings at our temple. The cows in the paintings are clean and serene-looking, lulled by Krishna’s adept flute-playing. The cows in Ohio look sad, and they are usually covered with smears of mud from the filthy,
“Her name is Stopfilming.”
“And her last name?”
“Singh, Dad. Her name is Stopfilming Singh.” I dash up the stairs, hearing my father call out, “Vell, at least she’s Punjabi…”
The Intrigue of a Tit
The next day, I sit down at our kitchen table and try to make a list of facts that I know about Krishna. If I’m going to reclaim Him, if I’m going to assert that the reason I feel so different from everyone is because I am in fact godly, I’m going to have to mold my current life after my past life. I’m going to have to mimic His behavior. Somehow, I know that this has something to do with the talent show, this reorganization of my character. I just don’t know exactly how yet.
I know that Krishna is blue-skinned, of course, so on my piece of looseleaf paper, I write
1. Blue skin
I also know that Krishna is one embodiment of Vishnu, the Preserver. You see, there are three main gods on the Hindu roster: Brahma the Creator, who was hatched out of an egg on a never-ending sea; Vishnu the Preserver, many-armed and often so light-skinned that He might just be a luxuriously jaundiced Indian; and Shiva the Destroyer, who sits cross-legged and bears that smiling cobra around His neck. Vishnu has the hardest job, I think. Brahma gets to create and let His creations go, like a doodling toddler. Shiva gets to raze everything, like Cody does while playing Contra , a Cold War–inspired Nintendo game that pits a pair of buff muscle men, machine gun bullets crossing their chests, against various enemies that appear on snow skis, on tanks, in underground pipes. But Vishnu has to take care of everything, like Mrs. Garrett took care of her girls on The Facts of Life , and this is probably why He has to split himself into so many incarnations. The fact that Krishna is such a recognizable and shining god is all the more impressive; as one of Vishnu’s many incarnations, He has to fight against other members of an elite crew, but He emerges as the most extravagant, and therefore most memorable, god.
So I write
2. Show-off
I also know that Krishna plays the flute. It is said that when He played His flute in the sylvan Indian pastures, animals would travel from near and far to hear Him play, so beautiful were the melodies He blew out.
“Mom, why are cows so sacred to us?” I once asked, echoing the question that so many of my classmates had asked me before. I had never known how to answer; I just scoffed and acted like it was something everyone should know, or something that was offensive to ask an Indian person.
“ Beta , vhen you look at the pictures of Krishnaji at the temple, vhat do you see around him?” my mother replied, her fingers smushed into a bowlful of dough.
“Um, a jungle. Lots of plants. Some mountains.”
“And cows, beta . Cows. Vhen Krishnaji played his flute in the fields, the cows from the farms vould gather around him, and so they are considered holy animals.”
I found this explanation somewhat baffling, as I don’t recall horses and other stable animals being called holy just because they gathered around Jesus when He was in the manger. But comparing Hinduism and Christianity can be like comparing apples and oranges. Or like comparing a blue-skinned flutist and a long-tressed carpenter, to be more precise.
So Krishna played His flute… 3. Flutist …and He attracted cows. I put my pen to my lips and think. I somehow can’t see how I might bring cows into my life, especially cows that come across as holy. There are plenty of cows in Ohio, of course, but those cows do not resemble the cows that appear in the paintings at our temple. The cows in the paintings are clean and serene-looking, lulled by Krishna’s adept flute-playing. The cows in Ohio look sad, and they are usually covered with smears of mud from the filthy,
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