379. 48 HOURS IN THE BIG APPLE

“What would you like to do while you are in New York?” I ask Possible-Mate-From-Chicago. He is coming into town on Friday and I want to get an idea, an entertainment game plan together. While I never tire and bore of New York, I never know what non-New Yorkers want to do in their 48 hours in the Big Apple. Well – other than Desi Brother. He is more of an urban explorer than me, the type of person who hits all five boros in 48 hours. He is one of the few people who comes to New York and drags me around my own City.

“I’d like to see a show,” he says. Okay – cool, I am down with 3 hours on Broadway. “Which show?” I ask. “Uhm, I don’t know – let me investigate and let you know,” he replies. “Sure thing. Any place special you want to eat?” I ask. “Hhhmm – well I like American food. Steak and Indian, too,” Possible-Mate-From-Chicago says.

Okay – we are not eating Indian food in New York, unless it is from Kati Roll or from the halal vendor outside his hotel. The expensive places like Mint and Tabla, are good, don’t get me wrong. But why would I pay $70 for something my mother makes that tastes WAY better and FOR WAY LESS money? “Hhhmm, I am sure we can find some nice Americana place for you.  I think we should ride the ferry to Staten Island, too,” I suggest. “Did I tell you? I am staying at the Hilton on the Avenue of the Americas," Possible-Mate-From-Chicago asks. "Yep," I reply. "Is that near you?" he asks. SOOOO NOT anywhere near me – but you know what, nothing is near me other than the GWB. “Don’t worry I can get there in about 30-40 minutes,” I reply.

“Holy smokes! Forty minutes?” he asks incredulously. “I thought you lived in Manhattan!” “I do,” I reply slowly. “Why does it take so long to get around? I can get to downtown Chicago in that much time.” “It just does,” I reply. “Now I am really interested in seeing what you love about it so much,” Possible-Mate-From-Chicago says.

Yes, and I am looking forward to showing him why I love New York so much!

378. HURRY UP AND WAIT – THE CONCEPT OF MA

The next day I am running all over Manhattan doing errands. Picking up tailoring from the West Village; take-out (kati rolls) from Midtown; office supplies (I am actually a little addicted to neon post-its, highlighters and pens, glorious pens) from the Upper East Side. It is actually stunning how much stuff I seem to think I need, despite living in a small space. And while I don’t need 50+ pairs of shoes or pens in all the colors of the rainbow, these are things are my drugs of choice.

My last errand is to pick-up dry cleaning in the Heights, but first I will hop onto a cross-town bus and cruise back to the West Side for an Uptown B or C, so I can catch an Uptown A. The ride through Central Park is eventless. The bus stops at 86th Street and in my typical crazed, competitive New York fashion I dash off the bus, pass a little old lady, who is laden in packets, and scamper down the subway steps. Only to wait.

A few minutes pass and as the train barrels into the station, I see the little old lady slowly creep and creak down the stairs. She looks up to see the train and in her disappointed eyes I see her realizing that she won’t be able to move fast enough to catch this train.

In that instant she becomes Ma, this fuzzy Hindu concept that I don’t know if my mother taught me, or if it something I invented. And while parents are important, both mothers and fathers, a mother is a special life force; because we physically lived and thrived inside of her until the time we were born. Who knows, maybe this little old lady never had kids, but she was someone’s daughter, and in some way, she still seems like Ma to me.

When I hear the “bing-bong” of the train doors and before the conductor can say “Stand Clear of the Closing Doors” I shove my body between the closing doors and people standing around me groan. New Yorkers DO NOT AT ALL like it when ANYONE blocks the doors from closing.

I stick my hand out the train and motion the little old lady towards the train. She sees me, quickens her pace (as much as she can) and boards the train. In the mean time I have gotten some irritated looks from my fellow train riders.They can bite me, I don't care what they think. I will always be motivated by doing the right thing. And it is not until the little old lady huffs and puffs her way on to the train do my fellow passengers realize what I was doing and their body positions relax with forgiveness.

As the train doors shut, I miss my parents in way I have not since I first moved to New York.

377. CHAK DE - PUNJABI FOR "GOT FOR IT"

Sometimes I think, if I just put in my IPod, blast it to top volume, that the music can make so much noise that there is no room for any original or unoriginal thoughts in my head. So I flop onto my couch, my super comfy couch that I sleep on more often than my bed, a couch that I love more than life some days, mostly because it feels like home, and randomly listen to my 416 songs.

Taylor Daynes sings, “tell it to my heart.”  Then the Hindi song Bole Churiyan from the movie Kabhi Kushi, Kabhi Gham follows,“ Bole chudiyan, bole kangna. Haai main ho gayi teri saajna. Tere bin jiyo naiyo lag da main te margaiya.” From a middle of a Cyndi Lauper song she croons, “What in this world keeps us from tearing apart. No matter where I go I hear the beating of your heart. I think about you, when the night is cold and dark. No one can move me the way that you do. Nothing erases the feeling between me and you. I drove all night…” Won't lie. This song makes me think of Town and Country, a man who I can get NO read on, whatsoever.

Then the Bollywood-Punju song, Karle Baby Dance Wance Hello (Karle Baby Dance Wance Utube Video) comes on and I remember why it is damn good to be Punju. The thought that Town and Country is Punju, too, is not lost on me - because when I am honest, I will admit, I'd really like to marry my own Punju kind. It makes no sense I know. Growing up in Minnesota, as an American, but you know, the government doesn't see me that way. When I fill out my census form every 10 year, they make me pick a race.

But this song - ah - it is SO great. First the beat is RIDICULOUS. Bollywood flicks are known for long winded song and dance numbers. But this song has a drum beat that is the best – I don’t know how anyone’s hips can move that fast.

In addition to an unstoppable beat, there is the use of, chak de. Which to me, the American Desi Girl means, go for it, against all odds, just fucking go for it. And the rhyming, oh the rhyming. It doesn’t get better than this, even if you don’t know what the hell they are saying, they sing so fast that you have sit back and enjoy. And I don’t care what anyone says, when/if, I get married I am SO having the DJ play this song. “Give me soniye chance wance. Ajaa mere kor heeriyee. Karle tu romance wance. Oh mein tenu kehenda Hello billo. O paale billo jhaapi shappi. Chale mein vakhawan ni delhi silli. Oye i m not so bholi sholi. Dont give me goli soli, I need you baby. You drive me crazy. How I miss you. Let me kiss you. Let me kiss you tonight….”

So what if the Indian government banned kissing from Bollywood in the 1980s, the best of Bollywood are gyrating with smoking hot bodies and doing everything on camera other than kiss. OMG! SO GOOD to be Punju!

After my musical reverie, I take off my head phones, look around my apartment and sigh. Not only was I unable to remove Town and Country from my mind, the Hindi film songs only made me remember him more, and now, he has written again, only this time he texts: You okay?

Blecky! 

376. A LITTLE BIT OF IMELDA

You-May-Have-Contacted-Me and I finish our date. We step onto the sidewalk and slowly walk to the subway station. “Thanks for meeting me,” he says. “Thanks for dinner that was very kind of you. Again, so sorry I was late – normally I am punctual,” I share. “Nah, it's fine, I understand,” he says.

We take a few more steps and then he says, “So I really want to hit the outlets this weekend. I am dying for some True Religion jeans; let me know if you have any interest in joining.” Sigh. I like to shop, a lot, but for me it is a solitary activity. Or one that involves a girlfriend. Plus, I have bad financial habits, scant savings, so it would serve me better to save my money. I mean how many pairs of jeans do I need? I only have one ass. Funny, this philosophy does not apply to shoes. I must have a little bit of Imelda in me! More shoes please!

I get on the subway, and the ride home is short and sweet, the way the MTA intended it to be. I get home, put on my jammies and flop onto the couch. I barely turn on the television and my phone rings. I let it go to voicemail. There is a little part of me that worries that maybe it is Mom calling so I get up and look at the phone number. Hhmmm. 718 area code.

I decide to listen to the message. “Hey Desi Girl, it is Tao, remember me? We met for dinner, at the restaurant TAO New York – with the giant Buddha. Well I wanted to let you know that I went on some dates, with some other girls. And I still like you –can we meet up again?”

Oh boy. I set the phone aside. Before I have the time to think about I might say to Tao, my phone buzzes again. This time a text message. I reach over and groan.

Town and Country texts: How are you?

Does he have some Desi Girl Radar? His timing is amazing. It is like Town and Country KNOWS that I have almost fully restructured my life, and almost completely purged him from my life, that I have almost moved on – because this is when he returns.

375. TRUST YOUR GUT

When I finally arrive into Port Authority I rush to the 44th Street exit and hurry up to Eighth Avenue. As soon as my phone connects with the satellites it starts buzzing like it just had electric shock therapy. I have missed text messages and phone calls from You-May-Have-Contacted-Me. Poor guy. I am 45 minutes late.

As I scamper down the street to Ninth Avenue, I text him back: Apologies! Massive Train Delay. Two Minutes away. I get to Kemia, find him and sit down. I cannot tell how tall he is, but he’s decent looking, black hair, dark eyes, tan skin.

“I was getting worried,” he says after I order a martini. “I know – I am SO sorry – but for some reason the train kept stopping at each stop,” I reply and sit back into my chair, so relieved to finally be here. “So how is working in New York?” I ask. He shrugs and leans back. “It’s fine for a few weeks. Never want to live here – this place is nuts,” You-May-Contacted-Me says. “Yeah, it’s not for everyone,” I reply.

“Do you know what I like?” he asks. I flinch, when it comes to desi dating, sometimes I never know what these guys will say or do – some of them are a little pervy. “What?” I ask slowly. “True Religion jeans,” he says dreamily. Okay, I can handle this. “There are outlets in Long Island, we should go,” he suggests. “How, we’d need a car,” I reply. “So we rent one,” he replies. “Do you like True Religion Jeans?” he asks. Clearly, because I am sitting on my ass, he cannot see that I cannot wear those designer jeans made for skinny girls. I am little more J-Lo than Cami Diaz, so I wear Jessica Simpson (another curvy, but short woman) jeans. “True Religion jeans are fine, but I don’t wear them,” I finally reply. “Do you wear jeans?” he asks. “Yes, when I feel like it,” I reply. He laughs.

“Do you think you’d ever want to live in India?” he asks. “No,” I reply immediately. He smirks. “Okay, so you have been asked this before,” he says and chuckles. “When I used to stay in Mumbai, Sachin and I used to race Lamborghinis,” he says very seriously.

All righty then. I can only presume when he says Sachin, You-May-Have-Contacted-Me is referring to India’s number one cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar. And while I am sure Sachin has to be friends with non-cricket players, I am just having a tough time with the entire statement. Wants to buy discount designer jeans in Long Island outlets. Racing Lamborghinis in crowded Mumbai? With someone as famous as Kevin Garnett.

Check please. Even if it is true, my gut says that this sounds too sensational, even for this Desi Girl who has an overly active imagination and lives through bomb scares in New York.

374. DESI GIRL IS LATE FOR HER DATE

The following day I dash down the steps to the A train platform just as the train pulls in. Oh this must be good luck! It is not often that the train and I arrive at the same time. Actually what is better luck is when I am stupidly racing down the stairs in my irresponsibly high heels, begging for an ankle fracture, and the train conductor sees me … and waits. Yes, waits!

I hop into train car number two and the doors shut right behind me. You-May-Have-Contacted-Me has come in from Philadelphia for a work assignment and we have a date at a place called Kemia. I choose it partially because it is convenient for me, but mostly because it has the BEST happy hour. From 3 to 8 pm, all the appetizers are half off and the martinis are $6. The last time Siobhan and I went there, we ate and drank like maharanis and the bill was something ridiculously inexpensive like $60, with tip, for both of us.  And when I say we eat and drank – we did. We had five appetizers (one was a salad) and beignets for dessert and countless martinis.

The train pulls into 175th Street on-time, with ease and no worries. At 168th Street we come into the station a little slowly, but I don’t think anything about it. It is not until we are half way to 145th Street that the train takes a break and stops due to traffic ahead. We wait 10 minutes, arrive into 145th Street and start again, only to take another 10 minute break JUST before pulling into 125th Street.

Fiddle faddle. I look at my watch and see that my date starts in 10 minutes, there is NO way I will arrive on time and there is NO way I can inform You-May-Have-Contacted-Me know that I am running late because I have no cell phone connection underground. At 125th Street I debate getting off the A Train and crossing the platform to the D. But the D will take me to Bryant Park and I would have to walk back west, so I stay put on my slow moving to train.

Arriving into 59^th Street is painful, because by this time, those of us who got on in Inwood and the Heights want to punch someone in the face because we’re annoyed with how long this has taken. What should be 20 minutes to Midtown, was 20 minutes to Harlem, and then another 20 minutes to Midtown. I don’t like to be late, especially not for a date, but we are at the mercy of the MTA.

I just hope my date is still there when I finally arrive. And if he is not, it won’t be the worst thing because I will have delicious Kemia delights to eat and drink! This is the one of many things I like about New York. You can go to restaurants and eat alone and no one looks at you like you are Sad Girl, with no friends in the City.