98. DESI GIRL AND REINDEER GO SHOPPING IN SOHO cont.

Reindeer and I arrive at the theatre and immediately the Indian competitiveness begins. Sadly, unlike the Jewish community, I really don’t find that desis help one another in that brotherly spirit. The fact that we’re really driven in education (we have the goddess Sarasvati dedicated to knowledge) and purpose (we have a concept of artha, which includes garnering fame, wealth and social status, in the sense that you gather as much wealth, without being greedy), isn’t helping unify us as a people.

The tension is enhanced by the fact that we perp like we’re prudes. And to top it off there is an on-going push-pull when Western desis (American, Canadian, UK, Australian) meet up with Indian desis fresh of the boat or visiting from India. This is not to say desis in India are not hip, some are way cooler than the American desis. But there are plenty of desis from India who are conservative wing nuts with close minded village mentality that think women should not show their bare legs or work outside the home. These are the same people who think there are no gay desis.

While Reindeer and I stand in line, he hovers in a territorial manner because we are met with dozens of staring desis. Aunties in full sari and sweater gear glare at us. Young male FOB desis check me out like I am a plate of tandoori chicken. So gross. And the gaggle of desi girls looks to see if we have rings on our wedding fingers. Reindeer senses the shift in my energy and leans in to say, “Aren’t you glad I’m here?” Indeed, very glad!

The movie, Chak De! India  is surprisingly good and lean on the singing and dancing (I mean, as far as Indian movies go). And it seems to touch on all the issues that I think (as an American ABCD) hold India back from being a world power. Khan (whose character is Muslim) plays the former captain of the Indian hockey team. After a crushing loss to Pakistan he is harassed so badly that he and his mother are forced to leave their home. Khan then goes on to coach the Indian women’s hockey team. However the team dynamics are complicated by the players who bring their own competitive nature and cultural prejudice.

A girl from a Haryana village conflicts with the girl from Chandigarh, while the bullying Punjabi girl with a short temper negatively impacts the team. The girls from Assam (because they look more Chinese than Indian) are treated like foreigners in their own country (I can SOOOO relate to this). The South Indian girls are mocked for their accents. Another character has a fiancé pressing her to leave the team and another has a boyfriend who is threatened by her playing on the national team.

There were some parts of the movie that I thought you really have to be Indian to appreciate, but overall it was endearing the manner of Bend it Like Beckham. “Let’s have Indian for dinner,” Reindeer suggests. Seems fitting since we’re desis doing desi things.

In Midtown East we have several eateries to select from and Yuva wins. We barely sit down when Reindeer knocks over a glass of water that spills into my lap. “I am so embarrassed!” he says as I in vain mop my clothes with flimsy paper napkins. Good thing we have all of dinner and an hour train ride back to my apartment so I can air-dry in the summer heat.

It shouldn't surprise me or anyone else, but this date also ends, kiss-less. Shoot, if I was drinking, I would have shoved my tongue down his throat months ago. But it’s simply not lady like when you’re sober.

97. DESI GIRL AND REINDEER GO SHOPPING IN SOHO

Last night when I was talking to Reindeer he asked, “Want to go shopping in SoHo tomorrow?” Uhm, do Hindus begin every auspicious occasion with the Ganesh prayer? We do!!! Soooooo YES I want to go shopping in SoHo.” Two of my favorite words, shopping and SoHo.

It has been a few days since receiving my cousin’s email. Kehar Singh is pretty much avoiding both of us. I can’t blame him. There are plenty of days that, if it was possible to divorce me from myself, I would do it. But I cannot energize those negative feelings right now. I have other pressing matters, such as it is August in the City and I almost had heat stroke drying my hair. My apartment has 5 outlets (yes 5, two of which are in the kitchen). And I cannot run the air conditioner and the hair dryer at the same time. It shorts the electrical system in the apartment and I lose power in two of my four rooms. Since I am short, to power back up I have to haul out the step ladder to reach the switch box.

When Reindeer arrives he is in a button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black jeans and brown suede shoes. What is he thinking? It is 90 thousand freaking degrees outside. Then again he grew up in New Delhi, New York is NOTHING compared to that monsoon heat!

Because the A train is not running, we trek across the neighborhood to the 1 train. For most of the walk Reindeer seems surprised and scared. Which, I understand. Crossing Broadway up here is like going from Europe to South America, two completely different worlds, blocks apart.

Once in SoHo, the air smells like something is on fire. Later we’ll learn the Deutshe Bank was burning while we shopped. We pop in and out of a few stores, and barely hold hands. For the love of God and his cousin Chuck, what is this? The Victorian age? I should have worn an ankle length Pilgrim dress instead of capris and a summer top.

In J. Crew Reindeer tries on tee-shirts and seeks my approval. We pop into Puma and Reindeer asks, “Where do you think Uniqlo is?” What the hell is it? I wonder. “Hey, any chance you want to see Chak De! India, starring Shah Rukh Khan? It’s playing on the East Side,” I suggest. Reindeer looks quizzically at me. “Really?” he asks. “Sure it has to have sub-titles for the American desis,” I reply and shrug. “Let’s go! I have not seen a Bollywood flick in so long,” he says, genuinely pleased.

Hhhmm, this should earn me a gold desi dating star or two!

(Photo: Shah Rukh Khan)

96. DESI GIRL TAKES ON 5,000 YEARS OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE AND LOSES

The next morning I wake up and find this email from my cousin:

Hi,

A few days ago, Kehar Singh (Post 4) and I had a long conversation on why I ask about your dating scene and that I should back off this subject for a while. I am CCing him because this topic is shut with me for any further discussion and you need space from me.

Without getting too philosophical and saying that I understand what you are going through - I am emailing my point of view.

By sharing a regular Indian woman's point of view I am only trying to make you see the other world. You are an American but Indian and all Indian women are very very giving. We have had no other options so far. Check your mum’s and my marriage. But if I don’t push you - no one else cares enough to do so or is either scared of you or intimidated by you. No one says the truth to you on your face. But I have the guts to say it.

You are a smart and a strong woman- hang in there - I will take a back seat for a while. Wish you luck and fulfillment of your dreams.

The words are blurry. I don’t know when I started crying. All I know is I can’t stop. What if I don’t want to sacrifice myself to a man just be to a Mrs. I am educated, attractive, and funny. Am I not a catch? Should I not expect to find a man deserving of me? With my own eyes I have born witness to what wise women have endured under the umbrella of desi marriage. And I don’t want to be like my cousin or mom. Their lives are not enough for me.

Between crying and gasping for air, my lungs and ribs begin to hurt. Shit man there are a billion Indians, we invented arranged marriage and the Kama Sutra so why is this hard for me? Dear Durga, what if I am the problem? Is there something repulsive about me that I just don’t know? Am I too picky? What if I already met “the one” and didn’t recognize him? Will he come back? Or did he marry some else already? When did I become so insecure?

I re-read the email and again start sobbing at how final her words sound. Our bond is unbreakable. She knows my secrets and I know hers. And yes, I do, I really do, want her to be honest with me. But how from Minneapolis to Manhattan can she fault every action I advance? And how exactly does she think we can just stop speaking? We’re family.

It is like asking me to cut off my gangrene-infected arm. At the end of the day, it is still my arm.

95. DESI GIRL TAKES ON 5,000 YEARS OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE cont.

When she finally speaks, my cousin says, “Your mum is very worried about who will take care of you when she is gone. I am a mum so I understand her concern.” S’nice. How can I possibly rebut second-hand Punjabi-Hindu-Mom-guilt?

“I found some more profiles for you,” she shares. Ugh. I don’t want her trolling the Internet for my husband. “Again, I think you should be dating no less than five men at one time. You’re in Manhattan use sheer population to your advantage. When you were living in stupid Minnesota no one came to meet you. Fine. Why should they come there anyway? It’s cold.”

“You visited in March!” I argue in defense of Minnesota. Just because I don’t want to live there doesn’t mean it’s without redeeming qualities. “Stop thinking with your heart and use your head,” she snaps. I sigh and say, “But that’s not right. Reindeer isn’t dating anyone else. And Kehar Singh (Post 4) thinks you’re off base, too.” She groans, “You’re taking advice from an emotionally stunted man who broke your heart and never plans to marry?” I turn on full sorority girl mode and drag each word, “Oh. My. God. He’s OUR friend. He’s YOUR best friend…”

“Look, I know you want an A grade guy but are you really A grade? No. You’re old. You’re slimmer but not that skinny. I think your standards are too high and you need to consider B grade guys.” Well now that I have been put in my place I say, “Why don’t I marry Prestige Uncle (Post 24)? He owns the pizza place and is damn sexy in the tomato stained wife beater and gold chains nestled in his salt and pepper chest hair. His idea of a date is a New York ‘Jankees’ game. Too bad I don’t like baseball!” Again, God, why? Why did I give up drinking? I could drink the bottle bone dry and then use it to hit myself on the head. Should be less painful than this.

Horrified she says, “Of course you should not marry an uncle type!” “You all just want me married so my parents can be free of their burdensome unmarried daughter. Then they can die in peace,” I snarl jaggedly. Oh yes, this conversation is definitely NOT my finest moment.

What annoys me, though it shouldn’t since desis are arranged marriage people, is the lack of discussion about actually LOVING the guy in these groom-hunting conversations. The fact that I seek a man who makes me laugh and has a comforting voice doesn’t seem to matter to anyone OTHER than me. I don’t need three years to decide if I want to marry, but I need more than three months. Sometimes, which is becoming more often than not, I think I should agree (read: settle) to one of these desi B Grade dudes and free myself of these conversations that leave me feeling wide eyed and plastered to the wall.

“I am trying to help,” comes her tired voice. “You’re not helping.” “Fine,” she says and the conversation ends.

Not only have I hurt her feelings I also feel like emotional shit. Can I not simply be allowed to fall in love with Reindeer? Of course, there is that pesky issue with his two profiles … why can’t I EVER catch a break?

To be cont.

94. DESI GIRL TAKES ON 5,000 YEARS OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE cont.

“How are you? You don’t sound too good,” my cousin asks. Hhhmm. We’ve been on the phone less than a minute and I am exhausted from trying to decode the secret meaning of her words.

Deep down inside I know she would never hurt me, and given all the reasons to be suspicious in New York, she is not one of them. So I relent, “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s after midnight.” After a long pause she says, “Yes.” Then an even longer pause elapses. “Each time we speak you sound like this. Defeated. I think the American life is too hard. You have no one to cook for you or drive you.”

Okay, this is really NOT TRUE in New York with the MTA and million eateries. But there are other aspects of New York that are gritty and hard --- the homelessness, cost and competitive everything (dating, dining, dry-cleaning). She then says, “I think you should consider India. I can get you a really good job.” Probably because in a nation of 1 billion desis matrimony is almost guaranteed, and so she leaves out the ‘I can also find you a husband.’

I burrow deeper into the couch and get comfortable. These calls about my imminent spinsterhood coupled with impending poverty are seldom brief. “Look I just moved to New York nine months ago. Now you want me to move to India? No thanks.” “What is so bad about India? You are the only American I know with issues. Thousands of goras (desi for Caucasian) come every day.” “Yes, but the goras are foreigners in a foreign land. You Indian desis treat us American desis like shit.” “Oh-fo! This argument again? Who cares how anyone treats you if are clearing a $100K.”

Despite being an uber chatty Chhaya, I become fiercely silent. I don’t want to live in India. Ever. Dad didn’t slog his way of that country and set up base camp in Minnesota just so 30 years later I could go back. Pass.

“How is the dating coming along?” she asks. Oh finally something that interests me! “Reindeer and I had a great Mexican dinner date. He knew I had been wanting it for weeks and he is not a fan and went anyway,” I gush. Who knew love could be found in an endless basket of stale tortilla chips and under spiced salsa? “Who else is there?” she asks. “Who else is where?” I demand.

Several seconds go by. The hollow echo of my voice reverberates across the satellites. Several more seconds pass. Still I don’t hear her respond. Thinking the connection cut out, or is stuck between two coordinates; mid-beam in space I shake the phone (because that always works, not)and wait.

To be cont.

93. DESI GIRL TAKES ON 5,000 YEARS OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE

I flop onto the couch and pull a cotton throw over my legs. I get cold in the air conditioning. Last week I told Kehar Singh  (Post 4)  that I’ve been feeling down lately. Then I confessed that as much as I love my cousin she is not helping my mental state with her crusader like inquisition about and men. He told me he’d talk to her. I asked him not to fight my battles. It doesn’t seem fair to make him do what I won’t.

I sigh and roll onto to my side. You can almost see the imaginary line dividing my living room in half. On one side the furntiture is arranged around a television that could double as a toaster because of its’ size and shape. Next to that is a skinny metal console that houses statues of the Hindu gods and goddesses. Day or night I can glance across the room and see Shiva, Parvati, Ganesh, Hanuman and Durga watching over me. It makes me feel safe.

On the other side of the room is the extension of my home office. What used to be the dining table is now my second desk with the laptop placed directly in the center. Between my nails and the oils from my fingers I tapped off most of the letters on the keyboard. Since I cannot afford a new laptop, I bought a wireless keyboard and laser-guided mouse. Because I like order and symmetry I have two pen cups on either side of the laptop. One is filled with an assortment of scissors that cut squiggly lines and the other has, what turns out to be, pens that mostly don’t work.

Along the adjacent wall are bookshelves filled with fiction, non-fiction, and self-help books recommended by Oprah. Amid the literature I display framed photos of my family, vases, candles and a clock.

When the mobile phone rings, I debate answering. It’s my cousin calling from India. There is a little part of me that thinks I should let it go to voicemail, but don’t. “Yes?” I ask hoping I sound bright late at night. “Hi!” she says. “I called the land line and mobile twice yesterday why didn’t you answer? I was worried.” How exactly am I supposed to stay mad at her and remain strong at the same time? Is this a talent all Indian women learned except me?

To be cont.

92. DESI GIRL MAKES DINNER

Reindeer is coming over to collect his babka and have dinner. We got into a discussion about which one of us was a better chef. His disbelief that I supersede him in this arena insulted my inner desi girl who can cook veg and non-veg dinners. So it may not have been wise to bet a man for whom my intentions are lustful. See, I am really competitive. To the point where I don’t play games with my friends because I am equally awful when I win (gloat like mad) or lose (pout like a baby).

I am expecting Reindeer at 6:30 pm. The hour before his arrival I scamper around the apartment setting the lighting, adjusting the air conditioning and stirring vats of chicken curry, spinach paneer and spiced rice. Since neither of us drinks alcohol I quickly make a batch of pink lady punch pineapple juice, cranberry juice and ginger ale).

Around 6:45 pm, I worry that (a) Reindeer has stood me up or (b) I have confused the date. Even though I keep meticulous records and have the ability to remember EVERYTHING said to me, I doubt myself. At 7:00 pm just as I reach for the phone the buzzer rings. Since I assume it is him I just zap him in and open the door.

Hhhmm. I told him we were having a carpet picnic and he should dress casually. I am wearing shorts and he has on dress pants, a button-down shirt and a VERY large bouquet of sunflowers. “These are for you,” he says. “Thanks!” I reply. “You didn’t ask who was at the door,” Reindeer scolds and locks the door. It is true. I must admit that I enjoy his concern for my well being. Another sign that a man is interested. Now I am certain that we’ll kiss tonight on our lucky 7th date!

While he surveys the kitchen and lifts the lids off the pots, I pour two glasses of punch. “Impressive,” he says. “I intended to win the bet.” He nods and I know, victory is mine. And really, how can he resist me? Dinner is amazing and I now dessert will BLOW his mind.

We fill plates with food and retire to the living room where I have a printed sheet and pillows all over the floor. The down side is my stupid stereo DIED today so I enlisted the clock radio for some light jazz. For desert we enjoy white chocolate mousse with berries and a macadamia nut crunch torte (yes I made both from scratch) and finish with chai, tea spiced with my mother’s homemade masala (cinnamon, peppercorn, cloves, ginger, cardamom).

Around 11 pm he says he should head back because he has yoga and a long commute back to Westchester. He thanks me for dinner, I remind him to take his babka and he leaves. What is going on here? I am the ONLY girl who cannot get kissed in Manhattan. Aiy!