Chaiyya Chaiyya: A Tale of Two Theaters

Much to my delight, yesterday was filled with unexpected theatrical performances: Kannada Vrinda Houston, an Indian folk dance organization, and The Inside Man, a Spike Lee joint.

Just for the record, I LOVE all things. Thanks to my Morehouse friend, Ayan, my young adult years have been replete with Indian weddings, morning chai, photos of Shantiniketan, and propensity toward garba. However, a big blind spot in my Indian acculturation has been dance. Thanks to the wonderful largess of the Houston performing arts scene, I had the immense pleasure of whatching a sub-continent survey of folk dance last evening. As the sun kissed the horizon, bright dynamic colors raced across the stage gracefully before a very mixed crowd on the hill. Karthik was good enough to have his mother present who ever so often gave us a update on some of the language we didn't catch (all in my case, some in Karthik's). I of course surrendered to the shutter-bug and me and took FAR too many pictures.



Somewhere near the end of the performance the music travels from cacophonous and eerie to joyous and familiar. For whatever reason I was instantly reminded of mango-juice stained dorm-room floors, needless philosophical debate, and perpetually stale curry and almond smell. Apparently the song being played was "Chaiyya Chaiyya," a song from the Indian movie "Lagaan." I had watched this movie under the auspices of learning that absurd British game of cricket, and ended up learning how to dance around trees whilst chasing various young bold desi women.

I LOVE that film.

Related, as my head began weaving with the gorgeous music, Kevin leans in.
"Hey, you want to catch Inside Man."
This was largely unfair in that I both love the sub-continent and films directed by Spike Lee. With an uneasy quickness however, I respond, "Let's go. When's the next showing?"

Apparently we had exactly 13 minutes. Given that it was showing at the less-than-venerable Edwards Theater (versus the miraculously cheap and indy Angelika or River Oaks) we more than likely had an additional 15 for previews. We gave a hearty wave goodbye to Karthik's mom and briskly fled up, over, and down the hill to the parking lot. Much to our surprise and delight a young Irish-Catholic decided to enthusiastically join us. 10 minutes later we were looking for parking (and found some thanks to Irish).

"One student for Inside Man."
*add consternated look of mild disgust of increased student ticket price here*
*add consternated look of moderate disgust of increased student ticket price to Kevin's face here*
A quick run upstairs to the theater and we sit comfortably to hear the very first words of the movie. Kelly gave a congratulatory look of approval and Kevin, who is up again at this point, realizes that he does not have time to go to the potty without missing valuable plot.

A great movie. I always expect a something a little gritty and brow-raising from Spike Lee, but this film was smartly polished. More polished than any of his other films. While it did strongly assert some good ole fashioned themes of Lee (i.e. race, class, and 'the man') it didn't bludgeon the viewer. With a skillful and convincing cast it artfully delves the viewer in a not-so-ordinary bank-robbery. Its MUCH more than that for those who want. The kicker was the ending music sequence. "Jinke Sar Ho Ishq Ki Chaaon Chal CHAIYYA CHAIYYA CHAIYYA CHAIYYA..."

Hotness. Full circle.

Spilled Milk

So apparently my psychiatric evaluation of the videotaped Bipolar woman was not, in fact, my expected response of "expansive" or "will change the course of psychopharmadynamictherapeuticanalysis" or various other impressive neologisms. No sense in crying over spilled milk I suppose. Just twenty percent. Lets hope my attending tag team was sufficient. All a brotha wants is to practice psychiatry.

Cecilware

Just like this photo of the Silver Skillet in Atlanta's Midtown. Also, if you look closely at the first, there are quite remarkable modern, life-affirming quotes, and in the second, the pot warmer is made by the highly venerable Cecilware company.

MDs and pKa's.

Disturbing, eh? I took this stealth shot of a most unfortunate tattoo. The things people do for medicine. While I would give up an undefinable number of Saturday nights and relative social adroitness, I would hesitate to brand myself with that mascot of medicine, the caduceus. This weekend was that annual Afro-Medico-Homecoming: The Student National Medical Association.

This is an opportunity to get updated on the latest official policies and positions of the SNMA, organize future and present contacts in various residency fields, and of course participate in any number of colloquia on minority health and the physician-advocate. Then we go out...and party...alot. Apparently future Black physicians of America are amazing dancers and equally skilled conversationalists (read mad skills in spittin' game). In any case, I met up with SO many of my fellow Morehouse Men as well as innumerable friends from summer programs, research, etc.

Most exciting was my meeting with my former Biochemistry professor, Dr. McCray. McCray is infamous at Morehouse for having worse attrition than the US Army. Considered a right of passage, biochemistry at Morehouse is the single most difficult course one has to face (before of course that golden-ring, medical school). With a dry wit and an acerbic manner, McCray deals the most powerful ego and academic blows to even the most confident senior class Men of Morehouse. Now I won't say that I received my highest grade in his class, but I will say that I was not one of his misfortunate casualties. Now, three years from tireless enzyme kinetics and pKa's I had the opportunity, with a fellow Baylor student and Morehouse grad, to say to him what I wanted to say for the longest time:

Thank you.

Alot actually.

Despite my previous and initial summation of his academic purgatory, his class, as it turns out, was just the thing I, and other future African-American physicians of America, needed. Its probably the only undergraduate class that I had that was comparable to (or dare I say harder than) med school basic science classes. So, over a breakfast of questionable nutritional value (waffles, coffee, grits, and 'bacon'), we talked of Black leadership, White fear of immigration in America, and of course, my favorite subject Psychiatry. We had obvious incongruence in our opinions on the latter, most notably that mental illness does not equal danger; it was quite entertaining. McCray is not, as he says, "known for holding back [his] opinion" is does so whilst cooly painting an austere picture with his hands. Think Teresa Heinz Kerry with a Ph.D. and the party personality of Kim Jung-Il.

This guy rocks. The only way that this former Austria denizen, and amateur photographer can be any cooler is by sporting a Che shirt to work. This is of course doubtful, but only time will tell. As two of my Morehouse classmate comically fight over the check (because none of us have a REAL job yet), I comfortably reminisce over a wonderful college experience. After a hearty and satisfying laughter, I quietly lean over to Dowin's petite amie, Renu and ask "Will it be this way thirty years from now?" Let's hope so. One could only be so lucky.