294. WHY DO I HAVE TO BEAR ALL THE BURDENS IN THIS FAMILY?

The Dr. Froggy trip is set for two weeks from today.

In the mean time my niece is turning one and I am back in Minnesota for her birthday party, an exceptionally stunning production for a rug rat who will have no recollection of this event, other than photos.

In addition to several dozen guests, some catered delights, decorations and cake, Mom has spent several days cooking her signature entrees like samosas and paneer. One by one I load slow cookers into the back of the car and then pile in the serving platters, utensils and chafing dishes. I dash back in the house and Dad sits in the family room, while Mom pulls on her jacket. Because the birthday party is at Desi Brother’s place I am not sure what Dad is doing.

“Are you coming?” I ask Dad. “You’ll need your coat. It’s cold outside.” “Have your brother come get me in a couple of hours…I'm still tired from India,” Dad says. Okay, I understand jetlag is tough, but the dude came back from India when I did, a week ago! 

And yes, sure Dad is older than me, getting older every day, we are all. So perhaps his bounce back rate is slowing down, too. But my brother has a house soon to be filled with guests; I doubt he has all day to cater to Dad. “India was tough, too tough,” Dad says. “There is nothing to eat in that stupid country. Nobody cooks like your Mom. Nothing works in that stupid country. And those people are stupid. Everything is stupid…” he says.

I warned him not to open a Delhi office. India may have changed, but it won’t run like America, I cautioned. But you cannot make entrepreneurs understand reason when it comes to their dreams. Dad always says if you give people enough rope they eventually hang themselves and I really hope this Indian endeavor does not become his hanging. This is why I wish he hadn’t opened the Delhi office.

Mom motions me to move for the door and I do. She follows me out and I settle her into the car. I pull the car down the driveway, onto the county road and north onto Silver Lake Road. We are just passing Wal-Mart and Mom says, “Daddy doesn’t want to ruin the birthday party, but his sister died this morning. That is why he’s in that mood,” Mom says. “But he doesn’t want to tell your brother until after the party. So you have to keep quiet."

Really? I have to keep secrets from my own brother? Of course I would never ruin his daughter's birthday party. But why is the party ruined for me? Can’t I just come to Minnesota and relax? Why do I have to bear all the burdens in this family?

293. IT IS DAMN WELL ABOUT TIME

In this newly formed state of faith I am dialing Dr. Froggy’s number, hoping he picks up, but confident that if I miss him today, unlike Town and Country, he will call back.

“Hello?” he says rather hurriedly after the first ring. “Hey, I’m back. You sound busy, want to chat later?” I ask. “No, no,” he says swiftly. “I’m taking care of some stuff in the apartment…You know I called and texted you every day for 8 days before you emailed me back…” he says in a tone that sounds like he wants to complain but was actually concerned. “Oh really? My phone didn’t register any missed calls or texts. Must be because I turned the phone off,” I reply and crack open a Diet Coke. Now this is heaven in a can. Sure, I know Diet Coke is probably pickling my insides and causing cancer in laboratory rats. And I have tried to give it up. The longest I have gone is 16 days. But when it comes to Diet Coke, Desi Girl is weak, and this is a much safer habit than cocaine or Christian Louboutin.

“How was I supposed to reach you, if you planned to turn off your phone and not tell me?” he demands. Interesting, this is the most emotion I have heard him extend about anything other than his Porsche. A sign of interest perhaps? “Well, actually I did plan to tell you. But you were at the hockey game and said you’d call back and didn’t...remember...” I reply very coolly and calmly. 

It is in these L.A. Law moments I wonder if I missed my calling by going architecture rather than arguing cases. When he finally speaks he says, “Oh.” Ha, indeed, game point for Desi Girl. “I was going to give you my aunt’s landline but then I left for the airport…” I add. “Hhhmm,” he says, pauses and continues. “I met with my Contractor today. I told him on the advice of a very good and reliable source [you] I knew he was taking advantage of my good nature and that I had given notice on my apartment and was moving into the house in two weeks. And he better be done.” “Really?” I ask, impressed that he was taking action on his unending construction project. “Yes and the contractor agreed to my demands.I want you to come see the house.I’ve been invited to a conference and thought you could fly here, see the house, meet my parents, meet my friends and their wives at the conference…” he says.

Is it possible that my necklace of matrimonial stones is working? Hot dog! “So what do you think?” he asks. I think, it damn well about time. “Sure, let me look into flights,” I reply, believing for the first time my luck was going to change.

292. FAITH NOT HOPE

Okay, now that the jetlag has passed and pandit’s puja necklace is securely fastened to my neck and not coming off until I get married, I am ready to move onto the business of getting married.

I feel better; validated, officially knowing because the stars and moon have confirmed, that Town and Country is the disaster I have known he is. I’ve been thinking a lot as to why I am attracted to someone who is not attracted to me. Or he is attracted to me but is able to turn his emotions on and off like a faucet. Content to be married to his work, which would make me the mistress in his life.

I guess I don’t understand how these desi men I meet in New York are slaves to their jobs and need nothing else. Are they robots? Of course I being a Type A, OCD, control freak can appreciate obsessive behavior and the need for perfection. I get fixed on a task and don’t let go until I outdo myself. But I desire relationships and love and the feeling that I belong to someone, something, that is bigger than simply me. It is why I join groups and make conversation with strangers. I am a relationship builder by nature. So perhaps Town and Country is really a loner. Or really, truly, a robot. Or a vampire.

I have spent a lot of time hoping that he would change his mind and like me the way I want to be liked. But I think the time to stop believing in hope has come. I think hope is setting me up to fail. Hope has me constantly reaching for something that was always outside of my grasp. But for some reason, when I think about embracing faith, it seems like a better, natural idea. Faith will give me the solid base from which I can keep moving. It will allow for flexibility, too. I can have faith in me, in a better day, that there is a lesson in wanting the wrong man, God, and knowing my circumstance is going to make me stronger.

Faith not hope - this is my new mantra.

291. ONLY SLEEP WILL COMFORT ME

Sixteen hours later my flight lands into Newark at 5.00 am in the morning. The day I lost going to India due to time zones is returned to me. I reach into my backpack and root around for my mobile phone. It is four in the morning in Minnesota but both Mom and Massi asked me to call them when I landed.

"Hello?" comes Mom's very groggy voice. "Hey Mom! Sorry to wake you..." "No, no, I told you to call. Are in New York?" she asks. "Close enough - we just landed. I am still in my seat," I explain. "Oh I see - did you have a good time with my sister?" she asks. "Yep. I have to call her too..." I reply, but not now I am not emotionally ready to hear her voice at this time and know she is so far, far away. That I now only have memories, I can't reach across the table and touch her hand - that time is gone. "Where is Daddy?" Mom asks. "His flight stopped in Amsterdam so I think he is just leaving Europe, for the States," I reply.

We hang up, I collect my huge suitcases, find my car service and am transported back to Manhattan.I get into my apartment, one giant suitcase at a time. I reach for the land line and call Massi. "Hello?" comes her voice. "Massi! I made it back completely fine," I say. I am trying to sound excited. "Very good," she says and sighs. "I am missing you so much mera beta I cannot tell you....so quiet, so lonely..." her voice fades away and tears come to my eyes. "I know Massi,"I reply. "I am missing you too."

I am so glad that I I have jet lag. I can go to sleep and not deal with lies ahead of me today. For now, it is only sleep that will comfort me.

290. READY TO RE-ENTER MY LIFE

I told Dad there would be no issue in finding me. While I peacefully mind my own business and watch the Continental ground staff load my bags on the scales, from behind I hear, “Beta! How did you get here before me?” Dad startles not only me, but the ground staff as he wheels his cart to my side. “Sir, you must stand in queue,” the Continental staffer says. Dad seems deeply wounded and I quickly interject, “Oh this is my dad, he is taking a KLM flight.” The attendant seems a little bothered with Dad and allows Dad to stand to the side.

"I thought for sure I’d beat you here, Dwarka is closer to the airport than Alaknanda,” Dad says. I nod and say nothing. I am sure Chacha; Dad’s brother was the issue. That man is constantly behind the times. But Dad gets irritated when I say anything against his brother, which I can respect. I would not tolerate ill spoken words against my brother. Then again, my brother is not an annoying, uneducated lazy slug like Chacha. I know it is very bad Hindu of me to speak poorly of my elders. But I find it hard to respect a man who took advantage of a widow.

After we finish checking my bags in, I take Dad to the KLM counter where Dad waits in a VIP line. Unlike me, they don’t really care how much his bags weigh and hand him a pass to the lounge. We arrived well in advance of take-off time so we slide through customs with ease and head for the lounge. “I don’t think they will let me in,” I say to Dad. He shrugs, “It’s India and you’re my daughter, they won’t separate us on principle like they do in America.” Well, okay, then and I follow Dad into the lounge.

Once inside Dad selects a couch and stretches his legs. I sit down in an oversized, over-stuffed chair and cross my legs. I should actually find a couch and take a catnap since unlike Dad I won’t be upgraded to Business Class. Dad gets up and gets some snacks and tea. What I want is a glass of wine but Dad is one of the few Punjabi Sikhs who doesn’t drink. In fact, Dad and Mom have never drank socially in their lives – they are true teetotalers. So I prefer to drink behind his back.“How do we know when they begin boarding?” I ask Dad. “They come tell you, I told them your flight number and mine."

An hour later I check my watch and wonder why they have not announced departing flights. This begins to make me nervous and I grab my bag, “Dad I think I should leave for my flight.” “Have they called it?” he asks. He must see stress building in my face and he gets up. “I’ll leave with you."

We walk down the stairs and into the terminal. My Continental flight is in its final boarding phase, which upsets me for two reasons. What if I missed my flight? And two, what if there isn’t space for my bags in the overhead bin? “Okay Dad, I gotta go. See you next week,” I say and hug him fast. My niece, his granddaughter, turns one in 10 days and I am going to for her birthday celebration.

I rush to the gate and wait. As the line moves along there is another security screening check point. However it is segregated. This means I move to the left and the men move to the right. Luckily the ladies queue is three times shorter than the gents and I board the flight quickly, stow my carry-ons and belt into my aisle seat.

I inhale deeply and suddenly feel exhausted by my thoughts and feelings. Unlike my flight into Delhi, I close my eyes and feel thankful to have 16 hours to sleep, detox and leave India behind. When I open my eyes, I hope I will be free of Town and Country and ready to re-enter my new life.

289. DESI GIRL’S FINAL HOURS IN DELHI – PART TWO

Massi and I sit silently in the back of the car. I watch Delhi disappearing before my eyes. Every slow mile we trek in gridlock rush hour traffic is a reminder that I am hours, minutes, seconds away from departure. As the dark of night sets in, the concrete girders seem so stark, the lights from cars seem so bright, too bright.

We drive along and I imagine that Dad is coming from the opposite direction. I wonder if he is having similar thoughts. Probably not. This was once his home, so I am sure he looks at Delhi like I do Minnesota. A place from where he came, that seems to change more and more each time he sees it, but is no longer home.

The driver eases the car next to the curb, he unloads my bags from the trunk and sets them on a trolley. Massi and I get out and the agony of good-bye begins. The weak smile. Wet eyes. A dull ache in my heart. “Don’t forget to complain to the airline about your stolen items,” Massi reminds. I flash a half-smile, “Don’t worry. I won’t.”  Not only I am strong-willed, but I am extremely desi when it comes to my money, I am relentless in getting it back. 

I hug her and reluctantly draw away. “Okay, mera bacha, all the best, have a safe flight. Lots of love,” Massi says. I don’t know how she maintains stoicism. Despite growing up Indian and Minnesotan, two populations of stoics, I have not mastered emotional control and cannot stop the good bye tears from welling up in my eyes. “Love you Massi.” I don’t have to say “thank you” for all she has done for me. She knows and says, “Love you,too."

When there is nothing left to say, and no more hugs to give, I grab the trolley filled with my luggage and leave her side. I refuse to think about all the things I want to say. Life has routinely taught me that nothing is certain in life, but I cannot think that this may be the last time we meet.