222. THE DARK COMFORTS DESI GIRL

Before the sun rises on Tuesday I get up, brush my teeth and brew coffee. For years, my architectural education had me believing I was a night person. But when I began working I was also able to get up at pre-dawn hours (with the assistance of coffee, of course). I don’t know if it’s possible to be both a night and morning person. But I do know that I equally like the inky darkness of early morning and the jet black of night --- and if I can get them sprinkled with stars and guarded by the light of the moon, even better yet. And stars, they are something I took for granted in my Minneapolis life. 

Growing up, the morning routine was one of my favorite times of the day. Mom would come upstairs to shower and begin by switching on the bathroom light. The action would run a white beam under the sliver of space between the carpet and the bottom of my closed bedroom door. I would hear the bathroom door close. A few minutes later the sound of  running water would play against my ears. I would close my eyes and smile. For seven minutes I would savor the peace of morning.

As the coffee slowly percolates into the pot I stare out the kitchen window, across the shaft way and into my neighbor’s apartment. It’s been over a day since I texted Town and Country. Nothing but silence between us. And I'm mad that the power between us shifted again. The odd thing is, for the first time since moving to New York, I wasn’t looking for anything resembling a relationship with Town and Country, or any Manhattan man for that matter. I had been dating like I was training for a marathon that the joy of motion had long since been lost on me. I was beginning to feel like I wanted to date, for fun not keeps. Scandalous speak for a woman my age, but who cares what society thinks. Is society going to pay my rent when the landlord comes knocking? Didn't think so.

And it is times like this I wish I was one of those crazy people for whom the stalker laws were created. I would totally get on the train, go to Town and Country’s house, bang on the door (waking his hoity toity neighbors) and ask why he acts like an ass. Does he think it's nice to ignore people? I certainly don’t. I also don't think he's worth a $2 Metro Card ride. So why aren’t I deleting his number from my phone?

221. DESI GIRL IS SLEEPLESS IN THE CITY

I do what “they, the experts” say not to when suffering from insomnia, and glance at the clock. 3:23 am. I wonder if absorbing excessive Vitamin D can cause sleeplessness. I was at the clothing optional beach today for eight continuous hours. And it should come as no shock that I have never really been much of an outdoor girl. Sure I played soccer in high school for a few years and I tried to play tennis and golf. But I really don’t like to be hot so I opt for air conditioned spaces – libraries, malls and museums.

When I was in graduate school my insomnia had a devilish personality of its own. Between working full-time, taking classes four nights a week, working part-time at Ann Taylor and advising my sorority’s chapter at the University of Minnesota, you’d think I’d fall over dead from exhaustion. No, no, instead I would crawl into bed and lay there, wide awake until two or three in the morning. And I never defaulted to sleep aids. I never wanted to be dependent on drugs. I have enough problems with wine and shoes.

Which means, now, five years later I have a closet filled with footwear and no Unisom in the apartment. And there is no way I am walking to a 24 hour drug store in this neighborhood at this hour of the morning. But I am so desperately tired that I pop some Benadryl.

Two hours I wake up feeling fuzzy and dizzy. It’s the cusp of dawn and I wonder if I should attempt my day. This debate continues until 8:00 am when I finally sit up and feel woozy, different than earlier, and a little sick to my stomach. I flop back into bed and begin to collect little bits and bubs of my energy. The one thing I absolutely must do before noon is review my proposal and email it.

With a force that could move an MTA bus I drag myself out of bed, fire up the computer and painstakingly read the document. The words are blurry and my head hurts, but I manage to make final edits and hit send. As I wade through email I realize Town and Country has not texted or emailed since Saturday. But we spoke about meeting up tonight. And because I’m delusional I text him for details.

The combination of working and Benadryl has amplified my exhaustion. I am so tired, that I am too tired to fall asleep and feel like I may come full circle back to awake. Hour by hour, I lay in bed and watch the day slip away. 1:00 pm, 2:00 pm, 3:00 pm, 4:00 pm, 5:00 pm, 6:00 pm. At 7:00 pm, I feel dejected, and wonder how this happened. I was going on just fine with my life. Then Town and Country texted me. I got my hopes up. And once again, I was dissed --- Town and Country style.

220. ENTANGLED IN THE SILKY SARI OF MY LIFE

I leave the fundraiser empty-handed. Who says I don’t have self-control? If only I were that disciplined and proactive with my life. I am annoyed that I spent $70 on a bikini wax --- just in case --- on Town and Country. Mental note to self: pay more attention to Desi Girl and less on grooming for dates that evidently never come. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so emotionally entangled in the silky sari of of my life.

A part of me also thinks I would be less interested in Town and Country if matrimonial talks with Dr. Froggy would become more intellectually stimulating. He informed me that he refers to his Porsche as “Kitten”, and scolded a date for slamming the car door too hard. I feel confident that woman never saw him again. And at least I know what to do in case I want to scare Dr. Froggy away.

In an effort to engage him, I probed about his interests and discovered he had a membership to a gym he never used, loved hockey, didn’t read and liked the show Heroes. Now I am officially BORED out of my mind. But familial pressure to get married stops me from cutting him loose, especially not before we meet, which is the other agitator.

If we don’t meet soon, I may stop taking his calls. This will either wean him away or ramp up his interest. There is only a finite amount of time you can keep chatting before ALL the excitement wears off. I think this time frame is three to five weeks from the first chat. However, I do give him props for knowing that Louis Vuitton has an Epi leather collection handbag that I covet.

I get home and crawl into bed. The thought of spending my Saturday indoors in front of a computer is lack luster, too. I have a solid eight if not ten hours of work to finish. But it’s fine. My reward comes Sunday in the form of a day at the beach.

I wake up early on Saturday and make another anti-Desi Girl move, deciding against the gym. Clearly I am quite confident for the beach if I am not working out today. Out of habit I grab the cell phone. Hhhmm. A text arrived from Town and Country last night while I was the fundraiser. Had he contacted me on Thursday night I would have skipped the fundraiser for him. I’m pathetic, I know. But I spent four months dating Reindeer the celibate monk who made me a feel like a nun, and just for once I’d like to feel desirable.

Text from Desi Girl: Welcome back.
Text from Town and Country: Thanks. Tired. But had a lot of productive meetings.
Text from Desi Girl: Sounds good. I am working on a project this weekend.
Text from Town and Country: Wanna get together? (Okay. Annoying! First, I JUST told him I’m working; does he think he’s the only one whose work matters? And second, does he assume that I’m at his beck and call? This isn’t Pretty Woman, he’s not Richard Gere. And why don’t I ever LISTEN to my inner voice? It never, ever is wrong.)

Text from Desi Girl: Tempting but working. I have a big project to ship out on Monday by noon. How about Monday night? You can be the reward for this smart and sexy woman? (I waited two weeks for his schedule to open up for me; he can wait a few for mine.) 

Text from Town and Country: That is a deadly combination and you are def sexy! (Swoon).

See I am not a total Desi Girl sell-out. There are things more important than a date, like work and a day at the beach.

219. PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE DESI GIRL, IT ISN'T A LOOK THAT SUITS HER

I should be enjoying the shopping summer fundraiser I’m attending. It’s in a fantastic two bedroom, two bath RENT STABILIZED Central Park West apartment in the mid-80s. Instead I am melancholy, wondering why Town and Country has not texted me about our date.

Being ignored has given me time to think about last night’s conversation with Meera and Lucy. Logically my head understood what they said. I agree there is a strong possibility that Town and Country wants a casual relationship on his terms. By no means do I discount Meera and Lucy’s words urging me to resist making a regrettable mistake. However, they both have found really nice, decent men to love them. Of course, I know what Meera and Lucy endured during their search for THE ONE. We girls belabor discussions of Love, the Battlefield. But I can’t stop feeling entitled to thoughts of, “sure you went through this, but I’m still a foot soldier stuck in the trenches and I think my gun stopped working a long time ago.”

My tendency to submit to hope is making a muck out of things. Not only does it have me desiring someone who ignored me for months, I have also convinced myself that Town and Country and I could be more than a time pass. I mean, this is New York. He could go out with one of a million women, no strings attached, right? Yet, he contacted me, a love-seeking prude. See how rational I can make something irrational sound? I have become public enemy number one against the State of Desi Girl.

The fact that I no longer feel good about myself is not helping. It has been a long time since I was that potent and plucky woman who packed up her Midwestern life and landed in Manhattan. The pain and sadness seem to become stronger and more powerful everyday. Loneliness makes me vulnerable to the electric chemistry I feel towards him. It renders me helpless, a moth drawn to a Town and Country flame that will burn me. And I can do nothing to stop it, because my heart is more willful than my head.

218. DESI GIRL AND THE CITY

Meera, Lucy (Rohit’s co-worker who I befriended at their Super Bowl party back in February) and I are eating oven-baked pizzas and drinking white wine at a small, quaint Upper West Side Bar. The location wasn’t a convenient choice for any of us. Meera and I are uptown in Harlem and the Heights, and Lucy lives downtown in Battery Park City.

“Guess who contacted me?” I ask as both Meera and Lucy take bites of their slices. They look at each and shrug. “Town and Country,” I reply. Meera rolls her eyes, “What does he want after all this time? And what took him so long to realize he was missing out?” Meera asks. This is one of the reasons I love Meera. So what if I am not Miss Universe Aishwarya Rai Bachchan hot, she believes in me and friends, like lovers, should never tear you down, they should always build you up. “Which guy is this again? There are so many I need a flow chart,” Lucy asks and wipes her lips. “The one who dated her for three days and decided he wanted his ex back. What happened to the ex?” Meera asks. I shrug.

“How did this happen?” Lucy asks. “He texted me and asked if I wanted to get together when we were both in New York,” I explain. “What does ‘wanted to get together’ mean?” Meera asks. “This sounds like a booty call? If so, I don’t understand why he would pick someone so prudish, no offense,” Lucy says. “None taken,” I reply and reach for a second slice. “Whaaaaat? You think he just wants sex? Then no. Definitely not! Don’t see him!” Meera decides. “Agreed,” Lucy says.

“Well I kinda agreed to see him,” I reply. “Kinda or did agree?” Lucy demands. “Did,” I reply, a little more meek than usual. “Okay, let’s pretend this a booty call. He sleeps with you and then what?” Lucy asks. “Well, if it gets to that point, we would have sex with each other,” I correct. “Then what?” Lucy asks. “Look, I have plenty of friends who do this and end up as emotional road kill. I think you should ignore him.” “Well I don’t care if she sleeps with him,” Meera says, “but definitely not this soon. He’ll think you are too easy and won’t come back. And with him, I think there is potential. He is PERFECT for you. Well educated, smart, he challenges you, Punjabi, I don’t think you should risk that on a fling."

“I just started dating John and he is great and might even be the one, and because of that I wanted to go slowly and make sure. If Town and Country is as great as Meera says, then you should proceed slowly.” “Well, I have a five date rule, so this date would be four,” I reply. Am I trying to convince them or myself? “I have that rule, too,” Lucy says, “and I recommend sticking by it. You are not a casual girl. He doesn’t sound like someone looking for a relationship. What has he been doing since March? And I REALLY don’t see this ending well for you.”

217. TAP THAT TAPAN

My parents are humble and generous people, some of the original 1960s desi settlers of the Indian community. When Dad first moved to Minnesota, desis in the snow were sparse, mostly men like Dad, “uncles” in graduate school at the University of Minnesota. Growing up, my brother and I were dragged to bhangra dance lessons practicing for the Festival of Nations and religious functions.

After Dad set up his architectural practice, the doctor and businessman uncles hired him to design their posh suburban homes, then refused to pay fees (I guess this is the despicable way the rich stay rich). The unethical uncles knew Dad was too dignified to beg for his fees, which caused Dad to slowly retreat from our community.

Spending 30 years of your life watching “your own people” behave like this makes Desi Girl suspicious when the uncles call the office looking for Dad. When I see the greasy, pig-faced uncles at the mall or restaurants, I go out of my way to avoid them. But, God bless my parents, who are karmic-ly wired to take in, what I lovingly refer to as “desi refugees” --- students, H1-B visa recipients and new hardworking desi immigrants to Minnesota. Mom invites them for dinner, and Dad doles kind words of support in what I call his, “You can hack it speech."

So when one such refugee began renting the upper floor of the office building, I was less than thrilled. But in time, as I got to know Desi Refugee, I warmed to him. He had a wife, kids and was seeking the American dream. And every time he saw Mom and Dad, he immediately touched their feet out of respect and made them his adopted parents. When Dad was not in the office Desi Refugee would stop by and ask my brother and I to pass on our regards. At least he was not greedy and I knew he would not cheat my parents.

On my last afternoon in Minnesota, I am at my desk working on my final assignments, and Desi Refugee comes by. “Knock, knock, Sister,” he says. This is also interesting. I am probably five to seven years older than him, and like my brother, Desi Refugee out of respect doesn’t take my name, literally calling me “Sister.” “Hi! How are the kids?” I ask and stop typing. “They are doing good…say do you know Tapan Gupta?” “Yeaaah,” I say slowly.

When you grow up brown in Minnesota, you pretty much know all the desis in your age group. So the thought of dating or even liking a desi boy your age is disgusting for three reasons. One, he was probably friends with my brother, which makes me think of him as my brother, and the thought of dating him was incest-gross. Two, you know his parents are and the thought of being in-lawed to them is enough to make you gag. And three, the aunties in the grapevine are notorious gossips and I cannot imagine the stories they would tell. They would turn a harmless mall and pizza date into, “Desi Girl was seen drinking, dancing and kissing a desi boy at the club."

“Why do you ask about Tapan?” I ask, knowing my brother is listening to the entire conversation from the other side of the office. We have an open office space. “Well his parents are fantastic. He has a successful business. Is divorced and in New York.” Divorce is and will always be a tabooed stigma, especially for Indian woman. Do you see why I’m so picky? I have one chance to do this correctly. Or else my parents are going to wear a giant “DD” for “divorced daughter” on their reputation forever until death saves them from me.

Besides, I have a few good years still on me, I am sure I could still find an unmarried desi man. I am tired of this mathematical equation with desis. One old-maid, pretty, educated girl + one divorced entrepreneur = perfect desi match. “What about Tapan?” I probe, knowing where this will painfully end. “You should call him. I will send you his email and number,” Desi Refugee says and leaves.

The office falls stone cold silent and my brother finally speaks, I hear amusement in his voice. “…are you going to call Tapan?” “Nope. If Taps is interested, he needs to call me.” “That is pretty much what I figured," my brother says, pleased that he knows me better than anyone else on this planet. “Ready to go to the airport?” he asks. "Yes, ready," I reply.

For the first time since I moved away, Minnesota doesn't feel like home. I don't live here anymore. I don’t fit in anymore, if I really ever did. Minnesota is like a first love --- wonderful and heart-breaking. Something to cherish with fondness, but not where I spend forever.

216. THE RETURN OF TOWN AND COUNTRY

The next morning I scamper around getting ready for work, watching the Today show, and wondering which pair of shoes to wear. Before going into the office I stop for a $4 coffee. With NPR on the radio, I merge into the morning traffic and remember why I don’t like driving --- not-so-Minnesota-nice people who tailgate and won’t share the road. The car heats up under the June sun and I switch on the air conditioning only to find, it’s not working. Nice, now I’m going spend the next three miles sweating like a farm animal in my silk dress.

I’m the first one in the office and sit down to check email. This is when I remember the text message and check my phone. Well I will be damned, it’s from Town and Country, who writes, “How have you been?” OMG!!! I SOOO don’t believe this. I have always fantasized (again because I watch WAY too many Bollywood movies and soap operas) that a man who had dissed me would regain his senses and say, “Desi Girl, my bad! I realize now that I cannot live without you, I will devote my entire life to you, if you just take me back.” Now, do not think for one moment I actually think a straight man would say such melodramatic things to me; this is just my wild and vivid imagination.

Text from Desi Girl: I am great! How about you? What have you been up to?
Text from Town and Country: Very busy with work. Traveling this week and next. What about you?
Text from Desi Girl: (Hhhmm. It’s always work with him). I can’t complain. In MN with family. Back in NY next week.

When his next text comes in, the metaphorical train comes to a grinding metal on metal halt and crashes inside my head, because he writes: Wanna get together when we’re both back?

I’m suspicious. He doesn’t speak to me for months and out of the clear blue he returns. And while men don’t proclaim their undying love for me in real life, they don’t reach out because they’re bored and have time to kill. And definitely not Town and Country. He’s a very busy and serious businessman, with an impressive reputation. Still, his outreach cues silly Bollywood scenes in my head where I dance across smooth flat rocks, ducking between trees and dense foliage, while he of course chases me. In my voice of a nightingale, I sing how I cannot live without him. He sings back, that the shape of my face haunts him and the light of my bindi blinds him.

Text from Desi Girl: Sure, let me know when you are back and we can get together.
Text from Town and Country: Great. I am excited to see you. Been thinking about it but held off on contact.

Since I am blogging about a conversation I had with Town and Country in June 2008, I can tell you, that this was one of several moments I should have dropped the phone and run. Now that I have history on my side, I see how I misread his interest. But back then I was a lonely woman in a huge city who wanted to be loved. Because I let myself believe destiny was realigning itself, I wrote back: Great! Looking forward to seeing you too.

Even though I knew better than to throw myself under the bus, I didn’t stop or care. I just wanted a boy to love me.