46. TROUBLED IN TARGET

After three lack luster dates (technically two dates and a no-show), I have never been so happy to run errands. “We should really shop at Wal-Mart,” Jane says. (Posts 41, 14, 12, 9, 8, 7, 2 ) “As a Minnesotan that is blasphemous speak,” I reply. She stands in front of an aisle end cap surveying discounted chocolate. “Yes, but these Target sale prices are the regular Wal-Mart prices,” Jane states. She tosses half priced M&Ms into the cart and we proceed to the registers.

In front of us I notice a family. The wife is desi, the husband is American (white) and the older woman, an Indian auntie, presumably belongs to the wife. I am determining what is familiar about the auntie when American husband says, “We have a full cart and the next line is short.” “Hey thanks,” I reply.

We move to the next aisle and Jane reaches for a magazine. OMFG! I suddenly place the square-headed Auntie with untrusting eyes. She’s one of my mother’s friends! The daughter is older than me and we weren’t friends growing up. I had heard the daughter moved to NYC. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d run into anyone I knew via Minnesota in the Bronx Target. And not them. This is embarrassing to tell, but I have found my parents’ richest friends are the cheapest. The family in the neighboring aisle might be one of the worst, rumored to have made their money as slumlords who squeezed the last penny out of poor college students. So I just assumed they were Wal-Mart shoppers!

I glance at Auntie who evidently wants to get mugged because she drips in diamonds. (Sidebar: Auntie should sell her earrings and buy upper lip laser treatments for her daughter. I can see that caterpillar of a moustache from 12 feet away). I also wish I wasn’t wearing nasty sweat pants. Just in case Auntie looks my way, I undo the pony tail and shake my head. Long strands of greasy hair framing my cheeks will certainly disguise me!

Then I develop anxiety, similar to what you experience when you need a loo and can’t find one. Crazed, I throw things on the conveyor belt. As fast as the sales associate can bag, I fill the cart and almost race to the elevator. I look back at Jane who SAUNTERS behind me. I leave the cart for a moment (not recommended in New York) and yank on her arm. Surprisingly this skinny girl with no ass is hard to drag out of Target.

Back at the elevator I look over my shoulder and watch the family go up the escalator. Like an un-diked dam, my panic pours out of me. I wasn’t ready to face the intersection of my past and present, in a Target no less. It is one thing to move to Manhattan to get married, admittance to desi auntie and her married local daughter is another.

45. A MAN NAMED VICKY

A few hours before I meet Vicky, I sit at the computer and think. Yesterday when we were finalizing our date, he asked what brought me to New York. His query caught me off guard. I mean, of course, there is Manhattan herself. But admitting, “I’m looking for my husband,” to a man, even one from a desi matrimonial Website, is going to send him running for the hills of Rajasthan. But it has me wondering. Do I disclose my writing aspiration? Do I confess to being more focused on pleasing my family than myself? Exactly how honest do I have to be with strangers?

The phone rings. Caller id says it’s Jack (Posts 14, 12, 9, 7, 2) and I pick up. “Hey! What’s up?” I say. “Do you want to see a movie tonight?” he asks. “I’d love to but I have a date! He’s coming back from Philly tonight.” “Has he called you today?” Jack inquires. “No, why?” I ask. “Have you been outside?” “No, I work from home. I can go days without leaving the apartment,” I state. “There’s damn near a monsoon coming through the Tri-State,” Jack says.

What? I bolt out of my chair and pull the curtain back. Hai bhagvan! Jack wasn’t joking. Sheets of rain cover everything in a wet, greyness. A light sprinkle in the City creates train/subway delays, accidents on the West Side Highway, and pond-sized puddles. But a real storm with lighting and thunder brings Manhattan traffic to a grinding halt, taxis are impossible to hail, train signals malfunction and airport delays can become cancellations. Is Mother Nature conspiring against me by stranding my date? That beeyatch!

As I watch the rain fall, Vicky texts me. Sure as sugar, he has no idea when he is leaving Philly. I text him back and tell him that I am free tomorrow in the afternoon.

Though I never heard from him again, I hope he made it back from the City of Brotherly Love. It’s okay anyway. How serious could I get with a man named Vicky?

44. STUTTER MUCH

To his credit, Stutter Much has selected a nice Upper West Side brunch spot. To my dismay, the MTA is yet again doing track work north of 168th Street. This means I have to shuttle bus it to 168th Street for the local train, adding 20 minutes to my commute. Oh…did I mention? It’s pouring rain outside. Yippee, flat hair.

Stutter Much is already seated when I arrive and we engage in polite, unexciting conversation. This is refreshing given my history with sex freaks and the emotionally challenged. After lunch the rain tapers off and we walk around a misty Central Park. This is when I first notice Stutter Much’s occasional pause in speech. We leave the park and go for lattes, allowing us to chat some more. I pay careful attention, but don’t hear the stutter. He offers to drive me home and I accept. I’m not getting the stalker-slasher vibe from him. Once in the car Stutter Much gives me a gift bag filled with perfumed soaps, lotions, candles and scents. While company swag is always divine, he clearly put some thought into this. S’nice.

A few days later we’re chatting on the phone and again I notice breaks in the dialogue. Hhhmm. Now I need confirmation about the speech impediment and agree to a second date where we sip margaritas and eat chips in Chelsea. Normally this is my idea of culinary bliss; I have yet to meet a tortilla chip I didn’t like. But the conversation is excruciating. When he stutters I can literally see the words move from his mind, catch in the back of his head for a few seconds and then finally come to his lips. I fight the urge to tap the back of his head like a ketchup bottle to get the words out. That can’t be good, right?

What makes this more awful is that he’s a really *nice* guy. I just can’t date him. And it’s not due to the Indian fascination of arranging fixed girls to boys without flaws (some matchmakers consider a speech impediment a defect). The problem is my mind races faster than my mouth, if that’s even possible. I fear in time, this loud, fast-talking desi girl is going to lose her mind “conversing” with a quiet boy permanently on stall.

But I sure do enjoy the candles and perfumes! Ooo la la!

43. MEET ME AT MACY’S

I cannot believe I agreed to meet a date outside of Macy’s. Not only does the store take up two entire city blocks, from 7th Avenue to Broadway between 34th and 35th Streets, it is located around the corner from the Empire State Building. All of this makes Herald Square so ridiculously congested with slow moving tourists from Kansas to Korea that locals avoid it like the plague.

Around 7:15 pm I glance at my watch and wonder if my tardy date operates under Indian Standard Time (Post 8). 7:20, 7:25, 7:30. At 7:35 pm I impatiently scroll through my phone and realize I don’t have Meet me at Macy’s mobile number. At 7:40 pm I call his land line.

“'Allo?” comes an elderly, accented female voice. Fantastic. Does he live with his mother? A curious detail he omitted in our previous conversation. “Can I please speak with Meet me at Macy’s?” I ask. “Sorry he is not at home. I can take a message,” she offers. I politely decline and hang-up. Thank goodness my Midwestern accent shields my desi-ness and saves me from sharing my “biodata particulars” with Auntie. Biodatas are seemingly harmless pieces of paper that are crafted into matrimonial weapons where parents detail their children: weight, eye color, skin color, body type (small, medium or large), degrees, universities, caste, hobbies; you name the topic, it can be found on this ultimate desi marriage resume.

***

I fume the entire train ride home. All 147 blocks. So I am calm once back in the apartment sitting in front of the computer ready to email him. While I mostly think he’s rude, a teeny tiny part of me considers the possibility he’s trapped under a very heavy bookshelf or that he was run over by a rogue deliveryman on a bike who soy sauced him. Almost immediately he replies. First he spells my name wrong. After living a lifetime in Minnesota where my bevy of blonde friends can do it, desis get no second chances at spelling or pronouncing my name correctly. Then he writes, “I thought we were meeting on Wednesday. Maybe my mind played tricks on me.”

I will be the first to admit I have flaws. However, I am far too OCD for mind games or showing up on the wrong day. I live and die by my calendar. I scroll through our emails and find yesterday’s confirmation email. I can only deduce that he is stupid or he stood me up. In either event there will be no future meeting with this puppie (puppie, like yuppie, only Punjabi).

Macy's

42. DESI DATING MACHINE

I decided to follow my cousin’s advice and go out with multiple men at the same time. I have accepted communications, chatted on the phone and scheduled dates with three desi men. Luckily they are different enough that I won’t need flashcards.

Meet me at Macy’s: from his snap he’s a standard desi dude of Punjabi descent. He is 5’-6” which makes me nervous. What if he has that Napoleon Little Man Syndrome? In my heels we’re going to be the same height. I am actually 5’-2 ¾” and used to round up, until a 5’-3” woman went ape shit on me in a Minneapolis bar and REPRIMANDED for giving false height. Yikes, we’re both short. Just in case she was certifiable I stepped away before she poked my eyes out. I’m actually thankful for whatever height I got! My father is in denial and insists my mother is 5’-0”. This prompted me to measure her. She topped out at 4’-9”. (Sidebar: I added high heels to meat and alcohol as things I am not giving up for the sake of getting married).

Stutter Much: a fellow ABCD, lives in Connecticut, and works in finance for a cosmetics company. In his profile he states he’s a die-hard Knicks fan. I am sure this is so we ladies don’t doubt his heterosexuality. Which I appreciate. “They” say 10% of the world’s population is homosexual, which means there are 100,000 gay Indians or roughly 1/3 of the American population. I have overheard the aunties insist there are no “gay-shay” Indians, that we don’t come “in that kind”. Since Indians are uptight prudes who don’t discuss straight sexuality (despite being 1 billion strong) why would “underground” Bombay (Mumbai) discotheques ever register in the transoms of their deep-frying, temple-going, chai-drinking auntie minds?

Vicky: is a traveling consultant who told me wanted to meet a woman who spoke fluent Hindi, and how was mine? I said conversational at best. Now that I think about it, when I don’t know the Hindi word (which is often) I insert in the English one. So it is more hunt and peck Hindi…I should get me some Rosetta Stone. In any event Vicky has agreed to meet me when he comes back from Philly on Thursday. He has no photo, but he has a sleek and sexy voice, just a little touch of American mixed mostly with an Indian educated British accent. I cannot resist a well-suited, smartly scented man with a smooth American-Indo-British accent. Tom Ford has a cologne that is to die for! I am going to douse my man in it, once I find him that is!

Speaking of which, I should have some mantras chanted to enhance the timely resolution of my marriage.

Tom Ford Cologne

41. HOLA … NO-LA

I think most ABCDs can relate to this. On some level, we live in a nebulous Indo-American subculture. We’re American enough to blend into the suburbs and run for President. But not American enough to avoid the “ASIAN-AMERICAN” check box on every credit card application and census form we complete. Like me, ABCDs from Birmingham, Alabama and Columbia, Missouri to Phoenix, Arizona have spent a lifetime serving as ambassadors for all inquiries Indian. Yes, I have seen the magnificent Taj Mahal. No, I don’t know “that guy” Omprakash you once met in Omaha. Yes, Hindus believe in God. No, we don’t race camels down the streets of Delhi.

For the most part moving to New York ended my cultural attaché days. From the sound of the rumbling subway, to the sight of George Washington Bridge, my new life still takes my breath away. One day Manhattan will kick me down the stairs. Until then I want to remember how I feel now – giddy, free, possible.

A shout interrupts my reverie. Across the street a woman leans out of a mini-van and yells, ‘Hola chica’ followed by a stream of words I don’t understand. SURELY she is speaking to someone else. But we’re the only ones on the street. I have no choice but to ask, “Sorry? I don’t speak Spanish.” Why can’t I be witty on demand?

The combination of my Midwestern accent and my internationally Indo-Paki-Perisan-Greco-Latin appearance confuses her. She totally thinks I am Jenny from the Block, not Chaaya from Chandigarh. Then she says, “Can I park here?” Oh she CAN speak English. I point at the sign directly in front of her that reads “NO PARKING ANY TIME”. She sighs, “Do you think I’ll get towed if I leave my car here?” ARGH! Do I look like Rita the lovely Meter Maid?

I grew up following my parents’ animated conversations in Hindi and Punjabi. So I fully advocate preserving cultural heritage. However, public streets are not ideal for busting out your Spanish, Latvian or Tagalog. Despite what I “might look like”, she really should speak English if she wants my help.

This interchange annoys me and I go home to call Jane (Posts 14, 12, 9, 8, 7, 2) and complain. “Oh sweetie, it’s because of where you live,” she says. “Oh…You mean America?” I ask with fake innocence. Jane groans, “I mean Washington Heights! You can be a real pain in the ass.”

I know.

But I thought Manhattan was going to END my identity crisis, not start a whole new one!

40. TOYOTA PRIUS AND THE DESI-FASHIONISTA

Tonight I want to curl up on the couch with a book and pretend the other 8 million people in New York City don’t exist. But my phone rings. Indian Cowboy. I almost don’t answer, but my cousin’s “picky” lecture reverberates in my head.

“Hello?” I ask. “Can you hear me?” Indian Cowboy yells. The call sounds tinny, like he’s inside a Diet Coke can. I pull the phone away from my ear and reply, “Yes.” “Guess what?” he asks. “What?” I reply. “You’re above me,” he says. “Guess how!” “I don’t know,” I respond and set my book aside.

“I realize you don’t drive, but in New York we have cell phone while driving laws…” As he talks, it suddenly strikes me; his competitive pomposity and drinking are about control. Unfortunately for him, credit scores and blue laws can’t reshape my spirit to fit his ideal (subservient) female mold. God gave me a very good education and a mind and I plan to use both. “Actually, I AM familiar with New York freeways. I watch the traffic reports every morning on the news to get my bearings,” I snipe and reveal my inner geek. “I am impressed!” he says. “You should be,” I reply. This man is going to DRIIIIIIVE me to drink. “I put my head piece on and clipped the receiver to the visor to talk to you. That’s how you’re above me,” he explains.

“Uh-huh. What kind of car do you have?” I ask. “Toyota Prius,” he replies. For the love of the goddesses! The virile, country-line dancing, teetotaler folds himself into a teeny tiny electric car? Every conversation we have is more ridiculous than the previous. So I say, “I CANNOT be seen in that. It won’t match my outfit…EVER!” To his credit he roars and cannot stop laughing, which is not good. He is driving. Then poof! No cell phone tower for you! And the line goes dead.

In the silence I feel certain the dropped call is a sign from Durga, a reminder to trust my instincts. And so I do. While I want to get married, it won’t be with a caricature of a desi man!

Toyota Prius