reminders of a life never lived

I sit here, listening to “Kabhi Kabhi Mere” by Mukesh, and wonder why no other genre of music makes me feel this way.

An immediate connection with my sorrows, my happinesses, and the deepness that sits at the origin point of my being. 

It is times like these which reinstates the notion that a soul exist. That roots exist. That a Watan exists.

The intonations, the melodies, the poetry - all spiral into an intertwining force that immediately forces a lump into my throat: a gut reaction to the powers of a history I’ve never existed in.

It’s powerful and most of all, it’s real.

kabhi kabhi mere dil mein khayaal aata hai

ki jaise tujhko banaya gaya hai mere liye

tu abse pehle sitaaron mein bas rahi thi kahin

tujhe zameen pe bulaya gaya hai mere liye

sometimes i feel deep in my heart

that you have been made for me

before this you have been placed somewhere in stars

and you have been brought down for me

7CSt

*sheeesh, probably the most upfront writing ever that I have posted for the masses. also, know that this was mostly written stream of consciousness with little to no editing lmao

For an upcoming summer program at the GSD, I was required to read a paper by Thomas J. Campanella titled “Jane Jacobs and the Death and Life of American Planning”. It was a wonderful introduction to the field of planning through its brief but informative history of the profession, its devaluation following the large scale critique by journalist Jane Jacobs, and the current state of planning as a result. 

Long story short, my heart was racing by the time I finished the last few words. It has been a while since I have truly felt validated in my existence and the choices I have made academically and extracurricularly. Campanella calls for both an expansion of necessary thought in the planning profession while also a return to traditional physical planning skillsets which gives tangible tools and thus credibility to the student. 

As someone who is a graduate of a major that prided itself on being a novel interdisciplinary field, I felt empathetic to the author’s dismay at the current state of planning specifically its modern interpretation as being “mere absorbers of public opinion”. By the time I finished undergrad, I felt I had only given myself time to understand how to approach a design process but was left unprepared for applying these methodologies into practical application. In hindsight, what was required were the same prerequisites held by traditional architecture students. 

In contrast, I was relieved to know that the time given helped in other ways. My multitude of academic interests - having pursued a minor in Economics and practically a second pseudo-minor in postcolonial thought - was not indicative of a fleeting, indecisive curiosity. Through its presentation of its points, the paper not only sought to accept my choice of exploring my interests in an academic setting but also claimed it was essential to the field of urban planning and design. Only through the intersection of these professions lied the true insights to solving the problems of urbanism today.

I am glad to say that I walk with a renewed sense of confidence in the journey I have trailblazer for myself - knowing that a walk through a bookstore through the anthropology, economics, and architecture sections only strengthens my specific field and the perspective with which I approach it. With this placed at the foreground for the future, I am armed with an appropriate mindset for my field and being. The Marathon Continues!

a kinda thesis proposal

Leaving your own histories behind for the sake of opportunity - those of both yourself and the generations  to come - is a common justification for the immigrant communities which add to the increasingly diverse set of America’s cultural genes. All that you see, that you hear, that you smell - all that you ever knew is wiped clear. What once occupied your immediate senses now hangs on the ever-thinning thread of memory. In its place lies the constantly changing landscape of New York City. There exists a mutual exchange of exoticism. The world is foreign and so are you. Regardless of how you feel on the outside, this land’s looming presence is a force to be reckoned with. But maybe you have loved ones waiting to pick you up and show you the ways.

Years have gone by. This once novel part of the world has been bent by your will to fit your customs. You’ve found friends. You’ve found family. You’ve found those who’ve clung onto those same threads as strongly and desperately as you have. You’ve taken them collectively and sewn together something beautiful. 37th Street & Roosevelt Avenue have evolved into hybrids of immigrant bricks carefully placed on American foundations. The food carts smell of grease mixed with the once-fresh sugar cane. Every other brownstone is a sari & garment storefront. The nightclubs play bachata till the early hours of the morning. The work of a few but ever-increasing number helped thread a novel urban fabric.

Being of a minority culture is dangerous, and not just for the obvious reasons. At any instant, all that you’ve worked for - all these threads you have painstakingly pieced together to craft the image of what once was - could be lost. With each successive generation and each newly-enacted development tax abatement, the traditions of your own histories will slowly fade at the hands of the inevitable Western influence. This world is out to get you, to homogenize you. It is therefore the obligation of us to endure. To serve as a place of refuge for others like you. To design a Mecca for those of us who are lost children of a faraway homeland. All so we can visit, interact, and learn not only the nostalgic words, the sounds, and the smells but to also feel identified. 

...but I thought cohesive thoughts require an audience

I’m tapping my foot against the frame of my twin bed. 

JMSN’s Do U Remember the Time plays soft enough so as not to disturb my sleeping roommate but loud enough to encompass the room in a rhythm of nostalgic longing.  

It’s a Tuesday night but feels like a Thursday - the energy divided across five days amasses into a span of forty-eight hours.

I’ve just returned from a suit & tie dinner. I remember each step walking home, longing for security from the pinching cold October night. 

Nostalgia.

Rumi longs for the return to our reed bed. We sit in taverns, praying for a path home. 

The approaching winter, the airy minor-keys, the looming loneliness of past companionship and its letdowns. It’s melancholic.

But we need it, crave it perhaps, to remember that companionship is in fact tangible. 

if you ever...

…see this,
among the trees
which fortify your monde,
against the wind
which passes its’ messages,
by the dock
where we sat with the clouds,

this will be the fire,
among the trees
which burns to embers,
against the wind
which quiets all notes,
by the dock
where we have grown distant,

for a fire’s flame originates from the fervent