215. OH DESI GIRL WHY DON’T YOU LEARN, TEXT MESSAGES AFTER MIDNIGHT ONLY MEAN ONE THING

It’s after midnight when I return from dinner with my sorority sisters. Relationships where you pick up, right where you left off are so heartwarming and one of life’s greatest gifts. And I love that my girls become more endearing and witty with time.

I switch off the mudroom light and slink upstairs. It’s this thing Mom and I do. She doesn’t ask what time I’m coming home anymore. When she wakes up at night and the light is on, she knows I’m still out. When the lights are off, she knows I’m home, safe and sound.

Once upstairs, I feel too tired to change into my jammies and flop onto my bed. Actually, I’m sleeping in my brother’s childhood bedroom because it has a television and I need noise to fall asleep. I know it annoys Mom to find me snoozing away with the TV on when she comes upstairs to shower at 5:00 am. However, I think, now that I live 1,000 miles away and am like the Shamrock Shake, around for a limited time, I get away things I never did before. For instance, the reason I don’t sleep in my childhood bedroom is because I cannot find my bed. It’s buried under the contents of my suitcase, which look like they exploded all over the room. I know this drives Mom nuts, but she never says anything. She simply shuts the door.

My mobile phone beeps and alerts me to a text message. But the phone is in my purse, which is clear across the room and I lack the energy to see who thinks midnight is the appropriate time to text. If it was urgent, I’m sure the person would call, right? And who is still awake at this hour? At 1:00 am EST my friends in New York should be asleep, as should my Minnesota friends, especially since most of them have kids who wake up with the sun. My cousin in Bangalore might be awake but I’m sure we can talk tomorrow.



Andy Capp's Hot Fries

I roll onto my side and yawn. The late hour and wine are
mixing inside of me like a sleep aid. When I was an undergraduate architecture student and all throughout my 20s I never slept for more than 3 or 4 hours a night. The life of a design student and the pressure of project critiques didn’t allow for more than catnaps and the inhumane consumption of Diet Coke and Andy Capp’s hot fries. I crammed architectural history into my brain while suffering many a flesh wound --- paper cuts from vellum and knife wounds from where my exacto blade sliced my finger instead of tagboard. It’s tragic that I went through all that, to learn Desi Girl was not a great designer, but writer. And this is how I became an architectural communications and marketing professional.

Frasier comes on and I increase the volume. I’d love to meet a clever, un-athletic, slightly neurotic man who enjoys fine wine and tailored clothes. I snuggle under the covers and let Frasier’s voice lull me to sleep and forget about the text message --- for now.

214. DESI GIRL AND THE CINEMA

In my opinion, the best, best, best time to visit Minnesota is the three weeks between mid-June and 4^th of July. Before mid-June the weather can still be chilly and the latter half of July, into August is SO humid and SO riddled with mosquitoes that summer can be as oppressive as winter. The reward for surviving winter in Minnesota is golfing or lake activities like sunbathing, boating, grilling, and water-skiing. Unfortunately with the good comes the bad and summer also brings an endless season of orange pylons and construction workers who leave the interstates looking like bomb stricken war zones with cranes, three-story piles of dirt, and concrete girders everywhere.

Oddly enough, despite super fabulous weather Mom and I decide to see a movie. And what I REALLY want to see is Sex and the City. But I am worried. My friends are reporting that there is nudity in the movie, specifically a penis, which does not offend me. However, I wonder if this is the movie Desi Girl takes Desi Mom to see.

Especially since, as a 12-year old, I convinced my parents to take our family to see Flashdance. If you have seen this movie you know it’s about an aspiring ballerina who is a welder by day and exotic dancer by night. Now, my father finds farting in public offensive…so you can only imagine how not-so-well this movie went over with my conservative Indian immigrant parents. It matters not that Indians created the kama sutra and shiva lingam, my parents are teetotalers who never curse and don’t walk around the house in their underwear, much less nude. In my defense, as the parents, shouldn’t they have double-checked what their daughter was suggesting?

With that glorious claim to my name, I make a SATC redirect, “Mom, this movie, Sex and the City, may be dirty,” I say, emphasizing the word “sex”, then dip my toast into my tea, feeling certain that will dissuade her. Instead she says, “Okay,” and adds sugar to her tea. Hhhmm. I have to be more aggressive, less passive, “Mom I think there is some nudity.” No reaction, she says, “Fine,” and keeps stirring. What is this madness! With fervor and fear, I panic and yelp, “Mom! They show the front of a man!” Nice. I am well into my 30s and cannot say the word “penis” in front of my mother. She shrugs and says, “So?” When did Mom become this hip and unshakable?

Then again Mom once asked my brother and I to rent Pulp Fiction for her. We cringed when we remembered the gimp scene or when Maria de Medeiro’s character asks Bruce Willis’s character to give her oral pleasure. The movie was also violent, like when Uma Thurman over-doses on drugs or when John Travolta blows the head off Marvin in a moving car. Back then, I hedged and suggested to my brother that we lie and say the movie was unavailable. But my brother held firm and said, “She wants to see it. So she’s gonna see it. And let’s watch it with her. We can do our taxes.”

One hundred and fifty-four minutes, in slow motion, my brother and I turned to look at Mom, who was completely unmoved. My brother seemed worried and I asked, “Well, what did you think Mom?” “It was fine. Desperado had more killing.” It was a little horrifying that our pocket-sized Mom could compare one violent movie to another. 

Then again, I did leave her in the basement of Grand Central Station for two hours with no cell phone while I went on a date. So who am I to stop her from seeing Sex and the City. “The movie is at 12:25 pm,” I finally say. She looks at her watch and nods. Fantastic, one hour until Mom sees some t and a. God help me.

213. DESI GIRL AND HER DESI DICTIONARIES

Two days later, Rohit is still in the hospital and I am wondering what the protocol for visiting is. I’d like to see him, but do you call and say, “Sorry about your abs, so glad your tumor wasn’t cancerous. And by the way I have some free time tonight, can I come see you?” Clearly this is not a party, celebration yes, but party no, so it’s not like I wait for an invite, right? And who do I call to ask if I can visit? Does Rohit have his cell phone? Or does it interfere with the machines monitoring his recovery? I am sure Meera has to work and is not reachable right now. And I could pester Meera’s mom, Auntie, who is in town. Luckily around lunchtime Meera calls to ask if I am able to swing by tonight. Of course.

* * *

Rohit is at Sloan Kettering on the East Side and Meera has given me directions. And while I love her dearly, I am a little nervous she will get me lost. Directions are not her forte. Rohit must know this too, and he texts me with exact directions and a note that he is looking forward to seeing me.

After consulting my map, I determine the best way to get to the hospital is by taking the A train to Columbus Circle, walking along Broadway and then hopping the M66 to Sloan. I cannot imagine this commute will take more than an hour so I leave home at 445 pm to get to the hospital by 6. Unfortunately I would have been better off walking from Columbus Circle to Sloan because the cross-town buses are crawling soooooo frustratingly slooooowly through the park.

When I finally get to the hospital, Auntie, Meera’s mom is sitting and reading a magazine. Rohit looks pretty okay considering what he just went through and the room is FILLED notes and gifts. How I wish I had brought something other than MTA angst, but I was commuting for 1 hour and 52 minutes. In that much time I could have been half way to Phillie.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Auntie says when she sees me and sets her reading materials aside. I like that she has a term of endearment for me. “Hi Auntie, hey Rohit,” I say and squeeze his hand. “How do you feel?” “Like they took out one of my abs," he replies dryly. A nurse comes in to check Rohit’s vitals and Auntie offers to give me a tour of the floor.

“Meera said she should be here around 8, why don’t we get something to eat and bring it back,” Auntie suggests. This must be tough for her too, spending all day in a hospital, worrying for her daughter and son-in-law. “Sure, but I left my purse in the room,” I say. “Don’t worry,” Auntie says. I won’t realize it until we get to the restaurant, but she had intended to buy me dinner all along. Indian hospitality even when her son-in-law is recovering from surgery.

We go around the corner to a place called Taava. The guys who are working at the restaurant are speaking to one another in Hindi. Auntie waits to catch their eye and in English, orders dinner for herself and Meera and then nudges me to order. As soon as I finish, Auntie and I continue chatting but are interrupted when one of the guys says to Auntie, “Aap ko roti chahiye?” Here’s where things get a little bring out your desi dictionaries so Desi Girl can translate. Auntie speaks English and Tamil. I presume the servers can speak English but are choosing to speak in Hindi (and hello are we still in America?). I speak English, can follow Hindi conversations and when push comes to shove I can fake Hindi, and I can fake it pretty well.

Despite being desis from India, Auntie and the servers have a language barrier. Auntie is South Indian and the servers are North Indian. She doesn’t respond to them because she doesn’t understand their language, and keeps talking to me. As the token American desi amongst desis, I ask, "Auntie they want to know if you want a roti.” 
“No, thank you sweetheart,” she replies. I nod and turn to the guys and say, “Auntie ko roti nahi chahiye."

Auntie and I return to chatting and we are again interrupted. “Auntie, aap ko kati roll chahiye?” The server is now asking if Auntie wants a kati roll, a very devilishly delicious treat of naan, stuffed with paneer or chicken or lamb, onions, spices (think of a desi burrito). Auntie again declines. And I am left amused, wondering in what universe can a Hindi-illiterate American Desi from Minnesota became the translator who bridges the north / south Indian divide in the name of dinner, in Manhattan no less.

212. MANIC MONDAY

Mondays are generally unpleasant. Today is even more so because it’s Rohit’s surgery and it has me reliving Mom’s second open-heart surgery. Ten years ago, my brother, Dad and I spent the entire day in a Mayo Clinic lounge waiting in a zombie like state. We didn’t speak, watch TV and lost our appetites. I couldn’t even read. It took two hours to get through three paragraphs and I gave up. The walls of the waiting room felt like they were closing in on me so I went the gift shop and bought word finds. I did puzzle after puzzle like a robotic machine because I had to get the thought of Mom being kept alive on a heart-lung machine while a surgical team replaced her faulty heart valve with an artificial one out of my mind.

After the surgery Mom was taken to ICU for a three-day stay. We were only allowed to see her once a day for five minutes. Dad went first and my brother and I followed. The image of her small, frail body enveloped by a huge, white hospital bed is permanently etched in my mind. I can still see the IVs, tubes and cords trailing from her body to the dozen beeping, flashing machines that surrounded her in a half circle. There isn’t anything to prepare you for the sight of seeing someone you believed invincible laying there, pale and haggard. I tried to be happy to see her, and I was. I had never prayed so hard in my life, but I also wanted to vomit. Since I am absolutely not subtle, Dad pulled me aside and told me to get it together or get out of the room. So I pinched the inside of my left hand with my right fingers and temporarily focused my fear and pain elsewhere.

It is no wonder that worry finds me again and I decide to take a walk. I grab my phone, just in case Meera calls and head towards the river. I understand no one really likes hospitals and I’m not the only one associating them with sickness. But I have a skewed perception of loss and death, stemming from the fact that my relatives live 10,000 miles away. It’s hard enough to have meaningful relationships with people you see intermittently because of distance. You cannot foster a relationship without communication so their inability to speak English and mine to speak Hindi never helped the situation. When my relatives began to pass away it was difficult to experience loss because we had lived lives separate from one another. And because Hindus cremate the bodies within hours of death, there are no graveyards to pay respects. Only memories and photos adorned in garlands of sandalwood remain.

Several hours later my phone rings and I pounce when I see it’s Meera. “Hey,” I say quickly. “He’s out,” Meera says. I have ever heard her sound so tired or so spent. “He’s in recovery and doing well. I’m not up for talking, okay?” “Sure, I understand. Let me know if you need anything,” I say and hang up.

They have already told me that the recovery will long and arduous. The doctors deflated Rohit’s lungs so he’ll have to practice breathing again and removed one of abdominal muscles. But at the end of day, all that matters is that he will be fine.

211. DESI GIRL'S TROUBLES WITH TRANSPORT

I have just finished eating dinner with friends in Koreatown. They are going for a round of after dinner drinks, but neither my pocketbook nor my feet (pesky platform boots were the WRONG thing to wear tonight) have any endurance remaining.

In addition to yummy food, the other nice thing about Koreatown is that I can hop on the M4 bus at 32nd Street. My feet will especially appreciate being dropped off right in front of the apartment building. Gently I coax my squished toes to walk one step at a time to the bus stop. Promising them that seated liberation is coming soon. I hobble around a stopped car with its hazards flashing and wait at the stop.

I look west and see a bus coming my way. Hurray! Two minutes until I am whisked Uptown. With delight, mostly because my feet are quite angry with me, I watch the bus approach. I pull out my Metrocard and as I look up the bus ZIPS by me towards Madison Avenue. Imagine my horror, so close, so ready, so poised to swipe and just like that, poof, the bus is gone. Because it’s after 10:00 pm on a Saturday, it’s anyone’s guess when the next bus will happen by. So I do, what any urban gal in transport crisis would do. I tuck my purse into my armpit and run after the bus. My feet scream curse words at me and I pound one foot after another against the concrete sidewalk. Luckily the goddesses favor me tonight and the bus gets stuck at the light waiting to turn left onto Madison.

Last year, my polite little inner Midwesterner would not have done this, but I want to go home and bang on the bus door. I wave my Metrocard, then point down the street. The driver KNOWS there was a stop and I cannot tell if he is amused or annoyed. But I don’t care. He is the THE ONE who drove right by me! Skeptically he opens the doors and I smile, I can be downright charming when it serves me. “Oh thank you!” I gush and flash a bigger smile and do the flirty girl head tilt. “I was waiting and you drove right by!” He makes a sad face and says, “I didn’t see you!” Well, okay. At least he is nice and letting me on the bus when he really didn’t have to.

The nice thing about boarding at the beginning of the route is I have my choice of seats. I pull out my book and settle in for what will be an hour commute home. In the mid-40s I notice we pass a stop where people are clearly waiting. I watch him and he seems to skip every third stop, whether people are waiting or not. I am grateful he let me on and hope he is not drunk.

Somewhere around the George Washington Bridge I hear loud Spanish being spoken. I keep reading but whoever is talking, amps up the volume. I finally look up, because this person is so distracting I’m tempted to shush him, and meet the eyes of a middle-aged man. Surely he is not speaking to me and look behind me. But the only people on the bus are Spanish Man, the driver and me. Spanish Man speaks again and I stare at him. “Habla Span-eesh?” he asks. I sigh and reply, “No. Sorry. I don’t speak Spanish.” Why I am apologizing? Spanish Man shrugs and gets off at the bus terminal. Now it’s the driver and me. Which is slightly creepy and I make a mental note to self to avoid this situation in the future.

“What stop?” the driver asks.
”Sorry?” I ask? “Where do you get off?” I move towards the front of the bus and say, “181.” 
“Good, I need to turn at 181. Is it okay if I leave you on the southeast rather than northeast corner?” “Uhm, okay,” I reply and resist the urge to point out there are three more stops along this route. “Where are you from?” the driver asks.
I presume Minnesota is not the answer he is looking for and reply with, “My parents are from India.” “Oh that’s why you didn’t reply the other guy,” he says and turns onto 181. He stops the bus and stares at me before saying, “You’re really pretty."

Oh he is nice. My popularity with civil servants is on the rise this week. Yesterday a garbage man whistled at me. “Thanks,” I reply. I am actually having an AMAZING hair day. There is NO humidity and no strand of hair resisted me today. “No, really pretty,” he insists. I smile graciously and wonder why I don’t have this effect on desi dudes!!!

210. DESI GIRL AND P. DIDDY’S RESIDENTIAL REPRODUCTION

Dr. Froggy and I have been chatting pretty regularly --- about twice a week. We mostly talk about hockey and the construction of his house, which was nice until he said, “I was watching MTV Cribs and saw P. Diddy’s house and modeled mine after his.” If this works out with Dr. Froggy I’m going to have to lie about my education. I majored in architecture, schooled in a pretty prestigious program. And while I am not a great designer, I will surely be mocked by fellow colleagues for living a rapper’s replica.

Ganesh

Dr. Froggy has also been a nice distraction. Rohit has Desmoids Tumor, which has to be surgically removed. His mother still doesn’t know and I know Meera has to be worried. From the articles Rohit sent me, I have learned the tumor arises from the cells involved with the formation of muscle, fibrous and nerve tissue. The tumor is uncommon and locally aggressive, which means it can grow and destroy healthy tissue and even bones. Luckily these tumors cannot metastasize, but the damn thing is the size of a football. I have never prayed so hard to Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, as I have these last few weeks.

Email to Rohit:
Email from Desi Girl:
How are you? Need anything?

Email to Desi Girl:
Email from Rohit:
Thanks, but no. Maybe you can ask Meera to hang out. I think she needs to get away from me...

I cannot even imagine what they are going through.

Email to Rohit:
Email from Desi Girl:
I can do that! I was just thinking that we have not had alone time in months. Do you know the date of the surgery? Maybe I can entice Meera with a Big Onion Tour or toss a Frisbee in the park. (Let me be VERY clear about this, I am an indoor girl. My idea of athletics is going to the Metrodome to eat nachos and pretzels. Or mall sports like competitive bargain shopping for shoes. I am also ridiculously uncoordinated when it comes to physical education. Only for a VERY good friend would I stuff myself into shorts (the most hideous garment ever invented) and willing flail about Central Park trying to catch objects that are being thrown directly at me.

Email to Desi Girl:
Email from Rohit:
Surgery is scheduled for June 9th. I will be in the hospital for 3-4 days. I am in pain that comes and goes. It is aggressive which is why it must be removed (along with one of the ‘packs’ of my non visible 6-pack). Actually, this is all a ruse to get the insurance company to cover my liposuction bill…I like to think outside the box..

Clearly the tumor has not affected Rohit’s sharp and quippy sense of humor. And luckily I don’t leave for Minnesota until June 14 so I will be able to visit him and be a support to Meera.

209. SUPERMAN SEEKS WONDER WOMAN – DESI STYLE

I am definitely persistent. Or insane. Einstein did after all say the definition of insanity was to do the same thing over and over again, yet expect a different result. But I’m feeling invincible and allow my industrious little Indian self to engage in another desi groom-hunt.

Today’s findings are Distracting, Appalling and Clueless. Here is what they write, and why I again believe I could develop a very profitable business helping desi dudes and their parents write profiles that would attract women.

Distracting writes, actually Distracting’s sibling writes: I am NOT a stereotypical Indian man... Which is great … and I would continue reading if his photos weren’t so abysmal. One is his passport photo, to which I must simply ask, why would anyone post that? My driver’s license photo is pretty damn good, but I am not photoshopping and uploading that to the matrimonial site. Sadly his passport photo is better than the other one, which is CLEARLY a self-portrait of him looking in the mirror --- I can see the camera flash reflecting to the right.

Appalling writes (sidebar: there are many men on this site who are in the same fraternity as Appalling and they are all searching for this one woman): I am looking for a slim, fair, tall, beautiful, professional woman who will respect my parents and raise a family. He leaves out the part where he expects said woman to cook super-yummy-food-like-mummy-makes and sex her man after clearing the dishes and putting the kids to bed. And good lord, is he all that and a bag a chips? If not, then the anti-Superman should not seek Wonder Woman.

Clueless’s parents have written his profile, the BOLD items are what they write, italics are my commentary: NAME: G***** P*** (yes they ACTUALLY write his real name, I would DIE if my parents did that --- of course that would mean Mom and Dad first have to get a computer and Internet access). Gotra (his caste). Does not wear spectacles. (This is evident from the photo and segues into something I run across from time to time. Some Indians are obsessed with eyesight and I don’t know why it is so “make-or-break” the matrimonial deal. But often non-spectacle wearing boys are arranged to perfect-sighted girls. Similarly some desis match boys who wear super thick nerd glasses to their female counterparts. I wear glasses, contacts more like, and when I'm in India I'm often asked, “what is your power?” Meaning eyesight strength. I cannot tell you how many times I want to reply with, “super sale shopper” or “can consume entire 13 ounce bag of Ruffles in 10 minutes.” But rather than shame my parents I respond with, “-2.25, in each eye” and receive appreciative nods, meaning even though my sight is imperfect, it won’t be held against me in the court of matrimony). Clueless’s parents continue and list his education: MBA from Semi-Decent School on the West Coast. M.S. in Engineering from a Decent School on the East Coast. A decent undergraduate program in India. And one of the BEST high schools in Delhi. That is it. No details about his interests or hobbies.

When I am not wondering how to turn this into a business, I am wondering, do I really want to marry one of these yahoos? I mean really, if this is ALL that is out there, and regularly I am reminded that I am not getting any younger, isn’t being single better than marriage to Distracting, Appalling or Clueless. And who exactly am I doing this for? It doesn’t really feel like I want this as much as my parents do. And while I would love to bring brown home to appease Mom and Dad, they aren’t the ones who will be stuck married to a desi wing nut and his parents. And based on the hellish marriage my cousin is enduring in Connecticut, I firmly feel that the rest of my life is WAAAAAY too long to be unhappy. Because desi marriage is like joining the Marines, you marry the clan, not just the man.