Monday, February 27, 2012


It’s interesting. The roads in life. How you get to where you are going when you thought you were going somewhere else.

I majored in architecture. Architecture selected from a short list of options -- Accounting, Architecture, Engineering, Law, and Medical. Despite wanting to be a heart surgeon in fourth grade, I cast aside any medical options as I have issues with the sight of blood. When I get blood drawn for my physical, I have to turn my head 270 degrees.Doubt this would be good for a career in medicine.

Since I am mathematically challenged, even with the aid of the calculator, I ruled out accounting and engineering. I thought about law for a long time – but assumed I would not be good at it. This is why assumptions are dangerous. In retrospect I think I would have been a very good lawyer. But this is how I chose architecture. By default.

Turns out I am not that great of designer because I lack patience. I did learn a lot of about problem solving, project management and how to take an idea and turn it into something that becomes a part of the built environment from my major. Architecture only enhanced my organizational skills, combine that with my interest and affinity for business communications, I stumbled into Executive Assistant work. 

And this is how I landed a little gig with an art installer, who I begin working for tomorrow.

Thursday, February 23, 2012


“So Mom wants to come visit me,” I say when Desi Brother picks up the phone. “And?” he asks. “Dad is in India – this would be a good time for her to visit you,” he adds. “But my apartment is small. There are tons of steps and a long walk from the subway,” I say. “How small? She is not coming to stay in the Plaza, she knows this,” he says.

“Is it my fault that I want her to be comfortable?” I ask. “No. It’s not. It is your fault for wanting it to be perfect. It doesn’t need to be perfect,” he says. “Fine,” I reply. “Can we talk about Dad?” I ask. “Sure,” Desi Brother replies. “What’s he doing in India?” I ask. “Be more specific,” Desi brother says and sighs. “He just got better. I mean he could not move a year ago, now he can just get by using a walker. What is he doing going back to India?” I demand. I am fretful he will fall ill again - and his recovery took a huge toll on my mother's health. “You try and reason with him when he makes up his mind,” Desi Brother mutters.

“What if he gets sick again? His immune system is not as strong as it once was. I think this is a very bad idea. And there is no one there who will take care of him,” I say. “Well, he's there now and it's too late,” Desi Brother says and sighs. “You cannot control him either. His going there is not perfect either – and out of your control. I get it, they are getting older, and you want to take care of them, but they are adults. They are going to do what they want to do. They can no more control you than you control them.” Okay? Really? When did he become the sensible one? Well scratch that. We’re both sensible. I am emotional. This is why my family lies to me when it comes to anyone’s health. This is why they wait to tell me bad news. Is is my fault care?

“They are getting older, Desi Brother,” I finally say and add. “I just wonder when they start to enjoy life. Slow down. Take a vacation.” The fact of the matter is that all they know is slogging through life. They survived the Partition of India and Pakistan. Grew up in Delhi tenements. Got the hell out of India, to end up in Minnesota. Dad started a business that took over our lives. All they know is how to push and drive. Maybe if they sat down and kicked their heels up – they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. “I guess that is just not them,” I finally say. “Nope. Not our parents,” Desi Brother replies.

Sunday, February 19, 2012


“I want to visit you,” Mom says into the phone. I am sitting cross legged on the living room floor, drinking my morning coffee, surveying my teeny tiny apartment. I can barely live in here. I have had friends over twice for dinner, luckily they were agreeable to having carpet picnics, and where here for no more than four hours at a time. And when Mom comes it is generally for a week. While it would be great to see her – I am not sure how the two of will exist in such a small space for seven days. Then again Holly and Henry, both school teachers and my across the hall neighbors, seem totally in love and the two of them seem to happily co-exist in the same amount of space as me.

“My place is really small. Imagine the Washington Heights apartment without the bedroom and no living room furniture. There is no place to sit,” I say. "Where do you sit?" she asks. "The floor or my bed," I reply. “It is fine. I am coming to see you. Spend time with you. Not the apartment,” she says. “I don’t have a proper kitchen and m appliances are ¾ sized,” I say. I want to see her too – I just want her to know what to expect. While I may like this neighborhood better, I did have to give up space, a live-in super, and elevator, to live here. “It is fine,” she says.

I am a little worried about the stairs. I live on a four floor walk-up and several blocks from the subway. None of these are ideal for Mom and her heart related issues and especially now that her breathlessness is getting worse. And it is not like I have tons of money to take her out on the town. Of course, Mom does not have an interest in Broadway shows or sight-seeing. And Mom is not a foodie. So you know, it will be fine – we’ll have a nice time.

So I say, “When are you thinking about coming?” “End of March. For one week,” Mom replies. “Sounds perfect,” I reply. In one month, I will have a roommate for a week!

Tuesday, February 14, 2012


It is interesting how things that mattered yesterday, last year, a decade ago don’t matter in the present. I mean, take Town and Country. I am not a huge self doubter, if I was; there is no way I would have moved to New York. There is no way I would have desi dated with a vengeance for the first few years (two or three, I chose not to keep accurate count). There was no way I would keep on trying to make it in New York if I was not a resilient, spunky, persistent woman. I believed, I still believe. Faith, it is more important than hope.

I do want to meet a nice guy – this is not to say anything about the nice level about Town and Country. But you know, now that I have gone into Town and Country purgatory, now that he shunned me and avoids me like I contracted leprosy, life is a little better for me. I no longer think of him, and more importantly pine over him. I realize I must sound deranged a little – but there was some attraction that I could not shake with him. Maybe it was even an obsession. But I wonder if I was obsessed with him, the idea of him, or what having a “him” meant.

I don’t feel ready to date again. Which also, I know, sounds wonky. It is not like I had a romantic relationship with him. Yes, we had a relationship. I mean I never demanded anything of him. Maybe I worried I thought he would not want to see me again. So maybe I was the one who was okay with having a tattered fragment of a pseudo relationship than being rejected and alone. But is that not what I am now? Alone?

Thursday, February 9, 2012


Dear All -

Many, many, many apologies for the MASSIVE delay in posting. I have been traveling mostly for work for the past week and just not able to post. I am returning to NYC today and will get back to writing and blogging this weekend.

This is the longest I have gone without posting, I know, very sorry!