53. I THINK YOU SHOULD KISS THE BOUNCER

Meera calls Tuesday afternoon hoping I am free that night. Who exactly does she think I have plans with? Recap: four local friends and a barely breathing love life. “Oh and bring the book ‘How to Make Anyone Fall in Love with You’. We’re practicing dating techniques,” Meera instructs.

We meet at an Americana restaurant and order a bottle of wine. Meera directs me to gaze at her and then advises on body language adjustments. Other than our 26-year old waiter (we asked his age) who opens a second bottle of wine, no one finds our behavior odd.

“What do you do when you’re nervous?” Meera asks. I reply, “I fill the dead air with chatter, hoping a witty comment will spark his interest.” Meera shakes her head at me, “Or kill it.”

After dinner, Meera decides the night is still drunk, wait, she means young, and we duck into a bar. I think another round sounds like a good idea and order. Meera swivels around on the barstool. “There are Indian guys over there. You should talk to them,” Meera says, pointing across the bar. I glance over. When she said guys, what she really meant was boys. Their average age cannot be much more than 24 and they’re playing checkers (this bar is known for board games). “Absolutely not,” I say. “I’m too drunk to change their Pampers and find pacifiers.” “No, no! You’re going to talk to them and employ all the tactics of the book,” Meera slurs and drags us over to their table. She introduces us and their names instantly blur together --- Roop-Jesh-Veer. How is Meera formulating sentences? She has no body fat and her blood alcohol ratio has to be lethal.

One of the guys inquires about Meera’s vocation. “I come from money, so I don’t work,” she says. “I attend events and do philanthropy work while my husband travels. We’re buying an apartment Uptown. Daddy is teaching me about tough love so he won’t just get us a place on Park Avenue…” OMG, evidently Meera’s alternate persona is the desi Paris Hilton. The guys are salivating, begging Meera for more details. Little do they know she is an earthy, vegetarian who teaches yoga and lives a holistic life. After they finish drooling over Meera, they talk to me. “I’m in marketing,” I reply, crushing them with the truth. They return their squirrel like attention to Meera Warbucks, who glares at me. I TOLD her I didn’t want to talk to them; I doubt they know who WHAM! was!

My gaze settles on the well-built 6’-4”, beautiful bouncer. Meera leans over and says, “You should kiss the Bouncer.” Hhhmm, now this is the first thing Meera has said all night that genuinely interests me.

To be continued …

52. I GOT THE MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND BLUES

A NOTE FROM 101 BAD DESI DATES: Dear Readers, as previously mentioned, I moved to New York over three years ago. And this year, in January 2010, I began blogging about my adventures (I joke and refer to them as misadventures). While the posts are written in present tense, they are about past events. Because I don’t want to confuse you lovely readers (and I know some of you desire timeline clarification) I will let you know when we time travel, which is happening now. The timeframe of this Post 52 is Memorial Day Weekend 2007 and we’re moving forward (i.e. Post 53 will be June 2007, etc.). If you have any questions please let me know. Again, thank you for your support!

*****

For the past six months I have been competing in Manhattan Olympics. I’ve earned gold in two events: squeezing onto crowded subways while toting carrier bags and running for transport (it’s amazing how fast I move in heels when I don’t want to wait 10 minutes for the next bus). Like a champion, I dine and discover my way across the City, no longer hyperventilating at the average $1.4 million cost of an apartment.

For those of you who have taken the Myers-Briggs personality inventory, I’m an ESFJ (extrovert-sensing-feeling-judging). With an off the charts “E”. I am not someone who thrives well when alone. But by moving to New York (where I have four friends, no family and work from home) I willingly isolated myself from an amazing support system. And I didn’t appreciate how the loneliness was challenging my sense of belonging and self-worth until Memorial Day Weekend.

From Friday morning to Tuesday evening, I don’t leave my apartment nor do I interact with another person. I really can’t offer a reason for why I didn’t even venture out to Starbucks. Sure, I could blame a well stocked fridge, my incredibly comfortable couch and a really good book. But I have never been good at reaching out or asking for help. I excel at loving others, but not myself. So when I finally realize my soul is starving for companionship, there isn’t anyone around to feed me. And my reality begins to depress me.

51. TAKING A TRAIN TO HOT MESS

My cousin and her husband, who looks like the desi Horatio Sanz, have invited Mom and me to lunch. The husband retrieves us from the Metro North station and is dutiful enough to touch Mom’s feet. A sign of respect young in-laws and young men show their elders. In return, Mom doles blessings upon him.

“You should spend the weekend with us,” the husband says after we are settled in the car. The maternal side of my family is overly involved in one another’s lives (we’re damn near on speed dial). So Mom and I know already know the husband (who is rumored to be a total phony) already complained about our visit. As if we want to spend $40 on tickets to watch their hot mess of a marriage melt down in front of our eyes. Since I am privy to the drama behind the drama I say, “Sorry, we can’t. We’re meeting friends for dinner.” “Do you need a ride back?” the husband asks.

Last year my uncle, his father-in-law, came from India and stayed for two months because the couple was fighting. The husband charged my uncle for room and board. Who does this? So I am already worried the husband will inventory what we eat and drink bill my uncle. Then again I don’t know. It was nice of him to offer the ride and I don’t know his side of the story. Just in case this marriage is an out of control bus on crystal meth, I am not chancing it and say. “Thank you, but we already bought the return tickets.”

We get to their townhouse and I am, again, surprised by the sparseness. The furniture is from the husband’s bachelor days. The walls are bare. There is no console stuffed with religious statues, photos, books, vases, trinkets or treasures. They out-earn me, yet I have silk throw pillows and my bookshelves burst from the overflow of knowledge and capitalism.

The husband disappears into the basement and my cousin instructs the cleaning woman who doubles as the cook to prepare lunch. “How was he in the car?” my cousin asks. “Fine,” I reply. “How are things?” Mom asks. My cousin shrugs, “He won’t replace the couches. He says my parents were supposed to give us new furniture and a new car upon marriage.” They have been married for three years. Long after the Indian government outlawed after-marriage dowry payments. Evidently his extortionist parents with village mentality didn’t get the memo.

When lunch is ready the four of us sit down. My cousin ladles food onto Mom’s plate. Overstuffing you is how Indians show affection. Mom covers her plate with her hands and says, “No more, please.” Funny, that never works for me.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch the husband. I know he makes snide comments about my age and single status and thinks I’m no catch. But newsflash either is he. And I’d rather be single than married and miserable.

50. WHEN GOOD MOMS GET LOST

In addition to visiting the Ganesh Temple in Flushing and eating at an unimpressive Indian restaurant in Jackson Heights, Mom wants to shop at the world’s largest Macy’s. I have not been there since my Meet Me At Macy’s Date (Post 43). But last night we went to a Kiran Desai book reading and I told Mom someday I want to be published and accomplished like Kiran. Mom said, “If you put your mind to something it will happen.” So I will endure the nightmare of Herald Square for her.

In three hours we load up on purses, bathrobes, pajamas and shoes. We’re on the final stretch, somewhere between men’s casual clothes and the door, when I experience unexplainable terror. One minute I’m talking to Mom and the next, she’s poof, gone! Repeatedly I call out for her and presume this is what parents feel when they momentarily lose their child, giving me insight into what I did to Mom. One day she needed thread and we went to Woolworth’s. I was about five, got bored and took a nap under a rack of tee-shirts. Eventually Mom found me but I received a major shouting. Now I realize it was out of fear not anger.

Thank goodness she appears after a few seconds. Though I feel relief, I do what she did, and yell. “What are you doing? You don’t carry a cell phone and get confused with directions. You need to follow me or you’ll get lost. Then how will you get back to the apartment?” My “NYC IS NOT SAFE” lecture loses some of its effect because we’re standing next to a display of Ralph Lauren sweatshirts and three male employees in black suits, who are spritzing cologne, stop and stare at us.

Mom apologizes over and over. I know I must seem like a terrible person for yelling at her. But she only drives within a three-mile radius of our house and never on the freeways. Minneapolis is a kind city where people stop and help change tires. Based on the bums I see in every neighborhood, New York has broken many a man and woman.

Then I threaten to get one of those leashes I see parents affixing to their kids in malls. This is when Mom yells at me in Hindi, realigning our power structure. In silence we walk back to the subway and board the A train. After we’re seated I offer a peace offering, “If you get lost again, I’m getting a kiddie leash.” She tries not to laugh and sternly says, “It won’t happen again.”

We’ll see. I have been her daughter long enough to expect the unexpected.

49. THE NAGAS

Mom is cooking my favorite dishes, saag paneer (spinach and homemade cheese), tandoori chicken, aloo ki roti (potato stuffed flat bread) and chutneys (tamarind and mint). It is rather amusing that this is MY kitchen, yet she has taken control and turned me into her sous chef.

As she cooks I take fastidious notes in my recipe book and marvel that despite not measuring, Mom’s food tastes precisely consistent. She has standardized her skill into an art form. I certainly can’t say that about my cooking and I’m a pretty decent protégé.

“You know when I came from India, Dad told me to bring spices and lentils because there were no Indian groceries stores in Minneapolis,” Mom says. “So between your silk saris you packed paprika and masoor dal?” I ask. “Yes,” Mom replies. “What happened when you ran out?” I ask. “Oh, then several of us pooled our money, made a list and mailed our order to New York City. No other City had Indian grocery stores.” It is amazing how much things have changed.

Her story reminds me of a filmstrip we watched in fourth grade about Nagaland, a remote place in India inhabited by a primitive tribe who carried spears and wore animal skins. When the film finished, horrified, I raised my hand to reassure everyone that I was Indian and had been New Delhi several times and not to worry this depiction of India was inaccurate. Mrs. Knutson explained that I couldn’t possibly know everything about India. Very popular and blonde Jenny Nelson frowned at me, and Tommy Larson said, “Your dad has a bone through his nose? Gross.”

I remember feeling like someone had stolen my dignity. That night I went home and while Mom cooked dinner I asked about the Nagas. Mom dusted red and yellow spices over green beans and white potatoes and explained Mrs. Knutson was wrong, but I didn’t need to correct her. As my teacher she had a superior position in my life. Then I asked Mom to stop wearing saris to the mall. She kept cooking and said she wouldn’t let America embarrass us because we came from India. But I persisted and clarified technically I was American; being born in Minnesota guaranteed me that right. “No you’re Indian,” she finally said.

Sometimes I forget that I was not the only one being desi in a homogenous state. And I wonder how many times I hurt Mom’s feelings just like Mrs. Knutson, Jenny and Tommy did mine.

Saag Paneer

Chicken Tandoori

Mint Chutney

48. REVENGE OF THE TURNSTILE

Mom and I are at the subway station. I swipe the Metro Card, thinking Mom will go through the turnstile. Instead she stands there, wearing my puffy H&M jacket that makes me look like a deformed Spice Girl but she looks like she’s drowning in a pink sleeping bag.

“Uhm, Mom, when the green GO light comes on and dings, you go,” I explain and point at the turnstile. “Okay,” she says. I re-swipe and she still stands there. “What are you doing?” I ask. Didn’t I just explain this to her? “Oh,” she replies. From yesterday’s post we established that she is barely large enough for theme park rides, so she is not too fat to fit through the turnstile. Another reason why Mom will never appreciate the ride I took down Cabbage Diet Drive, Atkins Avenue and Weight Watchers Way. “Mom, listen for the ding,” I suggest and swipe. Again Mom does not move.

My parents have the innate ability to stretch dollars into directions I never knew money could bend. After the Partition of India and Pakistan my parents survived grain rations, water shortages, and dinnerless nights. They regularly remind my brother and me that they barely had two shirts. So you can forget about the comfort of air conditioning for those sweltering monsoon months. On more than one occasion I have been told about my maternal grandmother’s daily trek to the Old Delhi Railway Station to collect coal from passing trains so she could cook food, if she had enough, to feed her four kids. I often reflect that the American government should hire my parents; we’d be out of debt in no time. So the fact that I have wasted $8 dollars swiping in vain is so irritating I could spit.

“Did you NOT hear the ding?” I demand. A sharpness forms around the edges of my patience. “Do you know how much money I am wasting? We could have had two lattes from Starbucks while you just stood there.” The wounded look in Mom’s eyes forces me look away. Damn me! Mom’s hearing is tolerable under normal circumstances, but becomes challenged in the loud subway station.

“I have an idea,” I suggest. I step behind Mom, swipe the card, YET again, and shove her, yes, shove her through the turnstile. A passing woman glares at me. I shrug. I know. I must look like a bully manhandling a teeny Indian woman in an over-sized puffer. We have yet to locate a coat that fits her and we frequent the Macy’s kids’ section all the time. But I feel Mom is too old to wear a purple Barney jacket.

We step onto the double-long escalator and begin the 200-foot descent to the subway platform. Mom turns to me and says, “Let’s do that every time. I stand and you push me.”

47. KIT KAT IS CHOCOLATE. TIC TAC … NOT SO MUCH

As I get ready for Mom’s visit, I’m remembering our mother-daughter Indo-American moments (of which there are many). And when I learn how to add sound to this blog (because I have perfected imitating Mom’s strong desi accent) I’ll “reenact” the exchange below.

A few years ago, whenever Dad was traveling for business Mom and I had a telly and Taco Bell routine. After consuming chicken tacos and nachos we’d watch West Wing and Law and Order. This particular Wednesday was no different. Except just before our shows started I began jonesing for chocolate so desperately I would have turned down Jimmy Choos for a Milky Way…I know, right!

“Mom, any chance you have chocolate?” I asked. My parents were not fond of chocolates and didn’t always keep it in the house. They preferred fruit . Or sickeningly sweet saffroned Indian desserts like jalebis and srikhand. Or besan ladoos which have the texture of sand.

Mom replied, “I have Tic Tac.” “That’s nice. But I want chocolate,” I said. “I have Tic Tac,” she repeated. My insatiable need for fermented cocoa beans was dire. I was considering pulling on winter gear and driving to the gas station and she was going on about ‘Tic Tac’? Didn’t she know the difference between chocolate and a 1-½ calorie breath mint? Annoyed, I went upstairs to the kitchen for a Diet Coke.

I yanked open the fridge and rummaged around. In the vegetable drawer (of all places?!) I found a bag of mini Kit Kats! I tore open several packets, stuffed sticks of chocolate wafers into my mouth and experienced what can only be described as, joy.

Mom, unlike me, has enviable metabolism. When Mom married Dad she weighed 84 pounds. Forty years of marriage to an overweight man and two kids later she heiffed out at 92 pounds. Also unlike me, she has excellent food control. Daily Mom eats three proper meals, has two tea breaks and never exercises. Because I inherited the fat gene from Dad and regularly complained about my weight, I couldn’t confess to eating ALL this chocolate but grabbed one more Kit Kat.

Downstairs on the couch I made a HUUUUUUUUUUGE production of unwrapping my candy. Mom eyed me suspiciously. “What?” I asked, worried her mom-dar detected this was my third one. “I told you. I have Tic Tac,” she said. I raised my eyebrows, “Seriously? Mother, this is a Kit Kat not a Tic Tac.” I then loudly repeated, “KIT KAT.” Thinking volume would press my point home. She ROLLED her eyes and said, “Tic Tac, Kit Kat, whatever. I told you I have chocolate.”

While I might be a lot of things, I was not stupid enough to say, “Ah, no, dyslexic, that is NOT what you said.” Besides, what did it matter at this point? I had my chocolate, Martin Sheen aka Jed Bartlet’s face is two feet wide by three feet long on this GIGANTIC television and life couldn’t be better.

Jalebi(s)

 

Srikhand

Besan Ladoo(s)