The Skinny

Not remembered. But, never forgotten.

2012-01-31T16:16:00.000-05:00

One February morning, as the chilly winter gave way towarmer days, he died. A frail, grey haired man whom you would so easily take for a loving grandpa. But he left behind no grandchildren, no children, nowife. No one who really loved him—not even the two little girls whom he had alternately suffocated with his neurotic affection and maniacal anger.

Sometimes, the girls reflect on the books he taught them tolove. The chocolates with which he indulged them. The yoga practice that heintroduced to them. But most times they remember the ugliness. The slammeddoors. The cruel words. The angry, harrowing silences. The derangedconspiracies.

To this day, the girls grieve the unusually agonizing liveshis madness created. To this day, they never grieve his death.

Say hello to this little love

2012-01-26T13:55:00.000-05:00

I volunteered to pet sit the new kitten. She wasjust getting over a bout of respiratory infection and it would be terriblyunwise, we decided, to leave her alone at home.

I walked into a living room scattered with cat toys. And quite suddenly a ball of fluffy whiteness emerged from under the TV console. I clucked andcooed, squawked and squealed—as I typically do when I see animals or babies. Her Daddy held her lovingly in his hands and introduced us. I grabbed her, held her in the palm of my hand—she weighed nomore than cotton candy—and smothered her with kisses.

Daddy left after instructing me to watch out for a list of signs the vet had provided him. When I had her all to myself I put her down on the floor andlay on the couch watching her attack the scratch post. But she was such a temptingball of fluffiness that I had to pick her up and place her next to me. Shewaited a bit, then climbed on top of me, walked the length of my stomach, stood onmy chest, proceeded to sneeze into my face, licked my lips with her sandpapertongue and curled up between my neck and my shoulder. Then, she purred andnapped. And I fell in love.

Meet Chibi. My obsession. My darling. My baby.

Fate, tempted. I, tormented.

2012-01-18T12:18:00.002-05:00

Oh, the arrogance of youth. I crowded my closet with many aclingy sweater and tank top. I bought skinny jeans like they were going out ofstyle. (I really wish they do, soon.) I even named this blog The Skinny.

Sure enough, I tempted fate. Hypothyroidism destroyed me. Asdid middle age.

Those clingy sweaters that once lay flat against my fat-freebody now cruelly show chunky contours. The skinny jeans don’t get past myknees. And, I am now forced to wear thatwhich I once scorned—big, loose clothes.

Take it from someone who’s been there. If you have a goodthing going for you—just shut the ef up.

Goodbye, Mr. Miranda.

2011-12-13T14:30:00.002-05:00

Nothing I say will even begin to capture the absolute delight of viewing a drawing by Mario Miranda. So, in his honor, I will simply post a couple of his fabulous pieces of work.

I spot a squirrel

2011-10-17T12:50:00.001-04:00

In front of me stands a wall of mirrors. Behind me a wall ofwindows. So, every morning as I savagely try to break my hair’s curly spiritand compulsively check my phone for the arrival of a bus, I see all that’shappening on the trees outside. Sometimes, it’s falling snow. Sometimes, rain.Sometimes, a gentle rustle of summer breeze. Sometimes an excited little sparrow.

One morning, a couple weeks ago, I spotted this little guy.He sat still for the longest time. I crept toward my window to check if he wasnapping. He wasn’t. He just sat there his bushy tail thrown over his back, likea scarf, perhaps shielding him from an unusually warm October sun.

Next year means sometime in the distant future.

2011-10-14T15:32:00.001-04:00

Toward the end of last year, as the leaves lost their colorand tiredly fell to the ground, I told myself—next year will be different.

So, my resolution was made pre-New Year. Seven days ofexercise. Weekend-only drinking. Daily breathing exercises. More reading. Morewriting. More relaxing. More time with ones who make me happy. More immunity againstcads. Less time thinking and rethinking headlines in my head.

Now, as the leaves begin to turn dusty brown, I realize thatI have done nothing of what I resolved. Had I not drifted, I would be skinny,healthy, happy, smart… and halfway through writing a self-help book for all youlosers out there.

But Rhonda Byrne might not have saved enough for her fast-approaching retirement. So, I'll give her another few years.

What are you looking at?

2011-09-08T14:31:00.001-04:00

I confess. I am a starer. I can’t take my eyes off thatbig, bearded man across the aisle in the subway who dozes open-mouthed, hisNook slowly slipping from his chubby, inconscious hands. Will he wake up beforethe Nook drops? Or, the woman at the table next to mine, in a tiny Cambridgerestaurant, who suggestively tells her dinner date that her husband is out oftown. Will she get lucky? Or, the two men in front of me in the crowded 88talking about their time in Suffolk County prison. Can I be anymorehyper vigilant? Or, the woman at the barwhose arms end at her elbows and who holds a glass of wine so very gracefully. Howdoes she do it?

Fascinating things are happening all around, all the time.And I don’t want to miss a thing. So, go ahead file me away under ‘impolite’. BecauseI’ll continue to stare.

It’s Ganpathi parab, today.

2011-09-01T11:46:00.001-04:00

Back in India for Ganpathi parab (fesitival of Ganpathi) we brought home a handsome clay statueof the elephant-headed deity and welcomed him with lamps that burned theold-fashioned way—with wicks and oil, decorated him with garlands of marigolds,strings of fragrant jasmine, tusks made of gold and offered him a delightfulspread.

Now, anyone who has read Hindu mythology knows just how muchGanpathi loves to over indulge. So my mom and my aunt busied themselves cookingup a feast. Rice cakes cooked in neat little cups hand-crafted from jackfruitleaves, Colocasia leaves smeared with spiced batter and rolled into thick logs,sliced and pan fried, coconut and lentil kheer,breadfruit, yam, potato and bitter melon fritters. Then the chakli, nevri, modak and laddoofor which I greedily awaited the end of the pooja.

Three days after this celebration it was time for Ganpathito ‘go back home’. We’d immerse the statue of this lovable, wise, generousdeity in a nearby lake with a little chant that invited him to return thefollowing year: Ganpathi bappa moriya, pudhchya varshilavkar yaa.

When your past hurts your present.

2011-07-18T10:57:00.000-04:00

He was compelled to stay in one place. So, I am compelled to move.

He sought little. So I seek it all.

The world around him changed, stood still, shook, crumbled, slowly rebuilt itself… and he allowed it. So, I am compelled to control, command and compose my world.

He stayed stagnant and found nothing. I am all over the place and have found nothing.

In doing everything he didn’t, I ended up exactly where he did—nowhere.

My personal brand is what?

2011-06-17T15:19:00.001-04:00

A tiring day had finally ended. The ‘peak-hour’ public transport schedule had indistinctly given way to the ‘off-peak’ one. Boylston Street was nodding off. A long line of white cabs waited. Yet, the Indian in me, hurried to reach the first in line lest all 13 cabs suddenly find customers and leave me stranded.

After I told him my destination, the cabbie—inevitably—made a statement couched in a question.

“You are Indian?”

“Yes.”

“I’m from Russia.”

“Ah, wonderful.”

“What do you do here?”

“I’m a writer.”

“A waiter? A waiter in a restaurant?”

“No, no. A writer.”

“Ah, so nice. I am so happy when immigrants are successful. My son is an anesthesiologist. And my other son will be a dentist soon. All of us immigrants are bankers and doctors and engineers and at Seven Eleven…”

“True. True.”

“You write for book? Magazine? Newspaper?”

I mumbled a reply. I neither confirmed nor denied. I didn’t have the heart to shatter this man’s impression of immigrant success by telling him I peddle stuff.

I should have told him I was a waiter.

Corrupt circles.

2011-04-27T13:14:00.000-04:00

Sure, Indians paid attention to a fasting old man between a cricket match and a Shah Rukh Khan movie release. But, lets face it—Anna Hazare’s fast will not stir the comatose citizenry of my country.

Before you condemn my cynicism, let me point out to you that the Minister for Law and Justice in India is none other than Veerappa Moily aka Oily Moily, the man who was caught on tape trying to bribe an ‘independent’ legislator to defect to his party.That was in 1984. Tapes of his other corrupt and unlawful acts have probably since been erased after successfully bribing those who attempted to divulge dirty details.

Nothing else need be said.

Aging means more than getting old.

2011-04-07T13:13:00.001-04:00

It was almost noon. Lunch was waiting for my sister whom we would fetch from school soon. But before that my mother decided to check on the clothes flapping on the line outside. I was four and staying away from school because of a bout of chicken pox that had left tempting scabs for me to pick. As I typically would, I went along with my mother, my pudgy brown fingers clutching her delicate fair hand. The clothes would have lost their fresh, soapy scent and turned crisp and dry and smell like the Indian sun. My job was to gather the pegs and sort them by color.

As we opened the door to our backyard we saw—at the far edge of the fence—a prattle of parrots feasting on beautiful golden sunflowers.

Red beaks. Green bodies. Laughing yellow petals. A swathe of cornflower blue sky. My mother’s hand in mine. Decades later that moment remains extraordinarily clear in my memory.

However, I cannot remember what I had for lunch on Sunday. Sadly, aging means more than getting old. It means getting senile.

Good bye, plum. Hello, prune.

Holi Hell.

2011-03-22T15:07:00.002-04:00

Holi. What a beautiful concept! To wave goodbye to dull winter and welcome gorgeous spring with the festival of color.

Amidst this beauty and between sips of magical bhaang lassi, seen only through the eyes of the Indian woman, is barbarism. In the Northern parts of India, where there's more money than manners, more chauvinism than chivalry, more estates than education—Holi is a time when herds of men think nothing of harassing and attacking a woman.

This isn't quite like the 'eve teasing' that exists in the Southern parts. Where rough teenagers and dirty middle-aged men whistle or shout lewd remarks. (Not that this is acceptable.) Still, us women from the South raised with true grit will—more likely than not—strike back with a threat to 'bobbit' the teasers who then scurry away in fright.

But not the women in the North. As tough as they are in their wheat fields and around their kitchen fires the primitive, coarse culture of the North has defeated them.

So Universities and schools are closed during the week of Holi. And women and girls don't dare ride any forms of public transport.

The British have the Duchess of York and Heather Mills, the Americans have Bush and Palin and Lohan and Snooki and Beck and O'Reilly of whom to be ashamed.

Indians? We have millions of degenerate men.

PS: This is not to say I do not respect and love Indian men. My grandfather, Manjunath Murdeshwar, my uncle Ashok Murdeshwar and my dear friend Sanjay Bhat are remarkably wise, sensitive and liberal men.

Waking up to a new day.

2011-03-01T10:33:00.000-05:00

I miss waking up to blue skies. To golden rays of sun peeking delicately into my window. To the hypnotic sounds of a morning mantra escaping a neighbor’s prayer room. To feuding crows and a hopeful cuckoo yearning for elusive rain. To the milkman announcing his arrival rather too loudly. To street vendors calling to housewives as they wheel their wooden carts laden with fresh vegetables down the street.

I miss waking up in India.

Making the move.

2011-02-09T12:35:00.003-05:00

I’m considering a career change. One where I don’t have to do a jot of thinking.

My top choices:

Concierge at a spa in Naples, FL
Parking lot attendant at Kendall Cinema, Cambridge
Teller at a bank in Boca Raton, FL

The job description for a concierge at the spa reads: Call guests to confirm scheduled services. Accept and log cash tips. Welcome and acknowledge all guests. Speak with others using clear and professional language.

Dream job, here I come.

This doc is a dumdum.

2011-02-02T12:26:00.000-05:00

From time to time, I visit the Fox news site. Just in case the rotten right wingers are planning on taking over America, I should know to leave in a hurry. And have my straightening iron and a can of roach spray on the ready.

Today, I chanced up an article written by a psychiatrist, Dr. Keith Ablow, about President Obama’s State of the Union address. The article was rubbish. So, I won’t discuss it here. But the ending was priceless. So, I’ve copied it here for your reading pleasure.

“Uh, one other thing. It’s really an aside, but I want to mention it. Stop appropriating Bill Clinton’s facial expressions and trying to make them your own. It can be distracting when one man tries to channel another, especially when the mask isn’t held perfectly in place.”

I don’t know where and whether Dr. Ablow practices. But I sure as hell won’t be seeing this man even if my sanity is hanging by a hair.

Class Struggle.

2010-12-29T13:31:00.001-05:00

When I was eight, my teacher in the third standard (or, third grade, as they say in America), Ms. Constance Powell taught us the difference between weather and climate. The short-term changes versus the long-term averages—I got it. As, I am sure, did most girls in the class.

Which has me wondering whether the Fox news crew who speak about global warming—not as a scientific observation rather a hunch from the liberals—entirely missed the class.

Some classes that the right wing half-wits also seem to have missed. Spelling (oligarchy), Geography (Africa isn’t a country) and History (Reagan didn’t invade Panama).

Scrupulousness, be damned.

2010-12-16T17:16:00.001-05:00

I run down five flights of stairs on any given morning to make the 88 that stops across the street from my apartment. It’s normally on time—8:41 or 8:42. However, some days it’s remarkably late. Which is fine when the sun is shining, the sky is blue and the birds are singing. But the remaining 360 days, when the cold winds whip around me, dark clouds threaten to drown me, or heaps of snow try to swallow me, I wish I weren’t a beatnik at heart.

Because, then, I would have hooked up with a deceitful lawyer, a banker with no contrition, even a corrupt politician with no morals. And I would no longer have to wait for a bus to whisk me away to the salt mine.

Rather I’d spend my days at a yoga studio and a coffee shop pretending to write my Booker prize-winning book or just sit around and drink all day.

I am contemplating hypnosis to go from beat to blatant gold digger.

All for a 60-second spot

2010-12-12T17:45:00.000-05:00

In my book, few things are more distressing than spending a cold, grey, rainy Sunday writing TV commercials for Mother's Day, drawing upon old memories—some sad, some sweet—and wishing my mother was still around.

At peace. At last.

2010-11-03T12:10:00.001-04:00

I opened the door to my little apartment, was enveloped in heavenly warmth and realized just how happily content I was.

I had none of the things upon which people often stake their happiness—multi-million dollar bonuses, designer clothes, expensive art, sparkling diamonds…

In fact, I was happy because I had nothing at stake. No loans. No mortgages. No college fund to save toward. No bratty kids who would turn into pimply teenagers. No diamonds that I feared I’d lose. No multi-million dollar accounts to invest. No expensive art to insure. No one to compete over fortune or fame.

I have nothing. And nothing makes me happy. (Not to be confused with:nothing makes me happy).

Choo shoe.

2010-10-11T12:44:00.000-04:00

As if my cheap pair of jeans and old, fleece sweater weren't tell tale signs of my impoverished state, I announced to the sales associate at the Jimmy Choo store, "Just here to browse. Cannot afford a thing here."

If you need anyone to state the obvious, you know where to find me.

My failing vocabulary.

2010-10-09T10:43:00.000-04:00

“Anthony Bourdain,” I declared, “is an ass. I love his show but he IS an ass.”

“Agree,” my friend said, “he is a rogue.”

I realized that chilly Fall morning, as we walked along Fifth Avenue, that my vocabulary was drying up. ‘Rogue’ was the perfect word to describe Anthony Bourdain. But my decade-long stint in America had turned me into a bit of an ass myself. And what was even more disconcerting was that I made my living as a wordsmith.

Still, I take comfort in the fact that I do not substitute ‘bring’ for ‘take’, ‘lay’ for ‘lie’ and I do not say ‘off of’. At least, not yet.

However, if that day should arrive, you have my permission to shoot me.

Love stories in a loveless land.

2010-09-12T19:56:00.000-04:00

Aalam Aara, the very first movie made in India in 1931, was about the tremendous but tragic love between a prince and a gypsy. Every movie made since then is about love. Love in Indian movies is childish, without nuance, sophistication, delicacy or dignity. It is singular and simple. Unabashedly vulgar and at once bashfully chaste. Love between a Hindu man and a Muslim woman, a poor boy and a rich girl, an Indian and a Pakistani, a Brahmin and a beggar, a doctor and patient, soldier and spy... love is everywhere.

Well, everywhere, except between husband and wife.

In a country where most marriages are based on money, estates, castes, horoscopes, politics, parents' wishes, dowry, convenience... perhaps on-screen romance is the only romance millions of Indian couples will ever know.

To be Glenn Beck.

2010-08-29T21:11:00.001-04:00

To be drunk on one's power to mobilize 87,000 Americans to attend a rally. (Whether it's 87,000 or 1,000,000, no one is entirely sure. Because Glenn Beck cannot count (he can't spell, either. Remember O-L-I-G-A-R-C-Y?) Of course, no one who attended the rally can count or spell, either. ) To be alarmingly unaware of one's own nitwittedness. To be a celebrity by simply harnessing one's irrationality and idiocy. To be able to function daily while mouthing lie after lie after lie.

What must it be like to be Glenn Beck? I haven't the foggiest.

Strawberries for you.

2010-08-08T19:30:00.000-04:00

Did you like the strawberries I left for you today? They probably reminded you of the same thing they remind me. My pink dress I wore as a child with little strawberries along its edge. You picked the dress for me because you knew I would love it. I loved it because you picked it for me. You suggested I wear it often because you knew it would make me happy. And I wore it because I wanted you to be happy.

We had not seen a real strawberry, then. Only read about it and seen its pictures in books. It was fantastic and foreign. Maybe that's what made the dress special for us.

One day we'll be together again and we'll talk about the dress. You will be my mother and I, your child. And it'll be just like old times.

Human. All too human.

2010-07-19T21:00:00.004-04:00

“If I were to ever fill out an application to adopt a child,” I said to Dr. K, “I would be declined.”
“Why?” she asked.

“Well, I have judged and have been jealous, been hurtful and horrific in my anger, deceitful and domineering, self-righteous and selfish, callous and complacent. I have let people down. I have been an ingrate. I have driven drunk and bounced checks. I have turned down the hungry and the homeless. I have given up on people who never gave up on me. I have...”

“So has every human being,” Dr. K interrupted, “And you are only human. Adopting a child does not demand perfection. It simply demands an open heart.”
The open heart of a flawed human being. Now, is that really enough?

NOTE: To save you the trouble of shooting me emails asking whether I am planning on adopting, I'd like to tell you now: I am not. I am reading The Red Thread by Ann Hood which got me thinking about several things.

Then a hiss, now a swish.

2010-07-05T19:32:00.001-04:00

Kimba is a long haired, grey and white cat who is frosty at best and furious at worst. The first few times I met her, she hissed with hostility warning me that I was simply not welcome.

Now, she seems resigned to the fact that I will, occasionally, visit. She’s inhospitable and impersonal but no longer hisses. She simply swishes her tail in annoyance and shoots me baleful looks for sitting on her couch, sleeping in her bed and watching her TV.

In a cat's eye, they say, all things belong to cats. Obviously, Kimba agrees.

Come on, come on, come on and stay.

2010-06-20T20:43:00.001-04:00

‘House guests’, Mark Twain said, ‘were like fish. They were only good for three days.’
My American aesthetician, who clearly agrees with Twain, remarked that I must be so relieved that my house guests had left. I wasn’t.
My Iranian aesthetician, on the other hand, remarked that I must be so sad that my house guests had left. I was.

My bar is stocked, my linen is clean and to all my house guests I say, ‘stay just a little bit longer.’

Don’t call me, teetotaler. I’ll call... No, I won’t.

2010-06-01T19:48:00.002-04:00

They’re square, uptight and downright vanilla. Teetotalers. They ask for water while you pore over the wine list. They tell you ‘we’re fun even without a drink’ then proceed to talk about ‘manycore’ prototypes with an air of superiority. They are pretty certain there’s a shiny halo over their head. The rest of us know that the shiny thing over their head is a glow sign that reads BORE.
Do you know that those of us who drink are more philanthropic than teetotalers? Besides being happier and healthier? And wealthier, too? Oh yeah, drinkers earn at least 10% more than teetotalers.
I liken having a drink to wearing sequins or a boa to a party. It’s gives you extra oomph.

Cheers.

Few foxes grow good.

2010-05-24T15:10:00.000-04:00

It has been my nightly habit for a few years now to search for signs of aging in a lighted mirror that magnifies my reflection seven fold. A few weekends ago, as I scoured my face for a new wrinkle or age spot, I realized that the signs of aging were not confined to the image in the mirror. They were, in fact, all around me. In the neti pot that irrigated my nasal passages, in the yoga toes that straightened and stretched my toes, in the alpha-beta peel, in the bottle of La Mer cream, in the iPhone app that calculated every calorie I consumed to keep a slowing metabolism from turning me into a whale and in the active mind and body vitamins I popped without fail.

Despite all the cream and care, this fox is growing gray. And, hopefully, growing good too.

Seeking comfort from Fraiser and a friend.

2010-05-18T20:25:00.000-04:00

Five years ago, when I was trying to heal my distraught heart, I chose to live in a little blue house by the heaving, swelling Atlantic ocean determinedly far, far away from civilization.

That’s when I turned to Fraiser in his sprawling Seattle apartment with Marty, Daphne, Eddie, Roz and Niles. Evening after evening, I watched the reruns. I also turned to an old friend who chatted with me for hours, shared my agony, laughed, gossiped, advised, indulged and spoiled me.

Without the familiar comfort of my friend’s love and Fraiser’s farcical life, I doubt I would have felt better.

Blue Alert.

2010-05-11T13:10:00.000-04:00

I see you run. I see you smoke. I see an orange ticket on your silver car. Do you know Kathy saw it all happen, before it actually happened?

I lost you. You lost her. We lost each other. All that's left now is bits of sadness tangled up on a Somerville street.

Us versus them.

2010-05-09T17:23:00.003-04:00

We met after 20 long years and within two quick minutes we headed straight to the past—our school days. Remember Ms. Fernandez? And trigonometry? And sports day? Soon, we tore right into the girls who were ‘super stars’ back then. X, she told me, was a mom and a wife. So is Y, I snickered. And Z too, we chortled in glee. Then we reeled off a list of girls who had ended up as, well, nothing—stay-at-home moms. The super stars, we declared, were nothing but dim bulbs. We were successful career woman and they were family women. While we were showered with promotions and bonus packages, they showered grubby kids. We dazzled crowds with our presentations, they bedazzled kiddie costumes. We had industry-changing game, they had play dates. “Poor them”, we said and raised our drinks to toast each other.

Then, we dropped our large sunglasses from our foreheads to shade our eyes, picked up our over-sized bags and headed out of the chic cafe feeling terribly smug. She went up Broadway and I, briskly down W72 street (women, like myself, don’t stroll) and swung into Central Park that was leafy, warm and green. I continued thinking about the women whom we had categorized as failures and realized none-too-happily that my mother was one of them. But I never considered her a failure because she stayed home. She carved flowers from tomatoes and radishes, arranged the most gorgeous bouquets, cooked healthy, hearty meals, raised two somewhat sane daughters against frightening odds (my sanity I ascribe to my mom, neuroses to my dad) , resisted pressure to follow any trend, was quietly brave and selflessly strong, learned several languages merely overhearing brief conversations and was brilliant without bluster.

Apparently, I was no different than them. Just as they pitied my lack of family, I pitied their failure to have anything but a family.

I won’t trade my life for anything in the world. But I must say this to them: my copy makes no difference in any one's life. Your cupcakes, on the other hand, do.

2005 to Present.

2010-04-04T20:52:00.000-04:00

Five years ago, one cold rainy day in April, an Accela—running terribly behind schedule and full of irritable travelers—brought me to Boston. It was a grim time. My past was far away, my present empty and my future without expectation.

Five years later, my life has turned out better than I ever imagined it would. I could attribute it to Lady Luck. But I prefer to give credit to another lady—my mother.

A real drip.

2010-03-28T13:55:00.002-04:00

I live a painfully earnest life. My apartment is scoured clean every week, my bills are paid on time and filed away, I have read the latest best sellers, caught up on world news, donated to charity, eaten my spinach, exercised at least 5 times a week, advised friends on matters of the heart and other body parts... In short, I am a crushing bore.

So imagine my joy when I overslept this morning and missed gym.

A cocktail catastrophe.

2010-02-22T20:01:00.003-05:00

From my dark, crowded closet, a little cocktail dress coaxed me out of my warm bed before the first blush of dawn. For that dress, I braved snow, sleet and slippery streets as I drove to a forlorn and freezing gym, endured a maniacal trainer, gave up luscious desserts and skipped dinners, lunches and breakfasts.

Now that I look tolerably thin in the little dress, there isn’t a single soiree to which I am invited.

My regret.

2010-02-15T11:30:00.002-05:00

One muggy October afternoon in Austin, a tall, strong man was as vulnerable as a child. But I could offer him neither comfort nor cheer. Because I was fighting the heavy hand of defeat, storming the heavens with pleas, raging and despairing, hopeful and wretched all at once.

Not a day goes by where I don’t regret the fact that my pain was so gripping that it prevented me from consoling another aching soul.

India: feckless and feeble.

2010-02-06T09:29:00.004-05:00

The son of one of the richest, most-corrupt political families in India rides a train surrounded by posse of personal bodyguards and is declared a daring leader. Pish-tosh, people. What Rahul Gandhi did was merely symbolic. It's not the real thing.

Remember Mahatma Gandhi (no relation to the pseudo leader mentioned above)? He was all alone in the first-class train car when he was ordered out. And cold and miserable in the non-white Pietermaritzburg railway station waiting room. And remember Rosa Parks, all of 18 and all alone on that bus in Montgomery?

What has happened to us? When did we become a slumberous, easily-appeased bunch?

My sanctuary.

2010-01-24T18:17:00.004-05:00

This is where I retreat. Late on Sunday, when I have let go of the week that has gone by and haven’t quite embraced the one that awaits, I sit still on my white couch, still in a bare apartment, still with the yellow tulips before me and still with the wafting gentleness of the lavender candle.

Because after this, I will hurtle madly into Monday.

The tuck shop

2010-01-07T15:00:00.009-05:00

Every afternoon, giggling girls in blue uniforms stood in a queue that snaked down the long school corridor. The line was for sugary treats dispensed by a sharp, old nun who ran the tuck shop from behind a small window. She made sure she took our coins before she handed us the candy. Humbug was perhaps my favorite—brown, hard, round and wrapped in twists of crinkly cellophane. Then, there were the pencil candies—red and white pencils made entirely of sugar.

Once we collected our candy and left the scrappy little window, we nabbed a spot on the chaotic playground and savored every tiny morsel of sweet sugariness. When the bell rang, we returned to class dreaming happily of more tuck that waited for us the next day.

Now that I think about it, I have a sneaky feeling our school had a secret deal with the city dentists.

In memory of Malini

2009-12-19T07:58:00.006-05:00

Some days, the warm sweetness of bread pudding waited for me. On others, a dollop of comforting sheera. Or soft slices of cake. In an unremarkable house a remarkable woman softly and ferociously loved me. Her smooth, fresh skin smelling of Pond’s Dreamflower soap filled me with cozy contentment. Her quiet courage was my lesson for life.

That she was my mother and I her daughter was no coincidence. It was a divine plan.

Not playing a part

2009-12-09T16:58:00.007-05:00

One of the best things about me—the other being my 85 lb, Double 0 body—is that you don’t have to guess whether I am displeased with you or not. You will know. (Just ask my partner. He knows when he’s in the doghouse.)

If I invite you over to dinner, I won’t start bitching about your sweater before the elevator hits Level 1. I won’t fetch you from the airport, if I don’t like you. Or, drop you off, for that matter. I won’t call you on your birthday or send you thoughtful gifts, if I think you don’t deserve them. Heck, I won’t even write you a courtesy email every new year, if I don’t care about you.

I’m too plucky to pretend, people. Too goddamn plucky.

Martini makes everything better

2009-12-07T14:27:00.003-05:00

End of one year. The threshold of another. How different was this year. And yet, not at all. How pensive December makes me. How little sense life makes with every passing year.

How to get through it all? Grey Goose. Plenty of it. Cheers!

Clean freak

2009-11-22T17:43:00.014-05:00

In a rather tragic proof of my compulsive cleaning habit and the power of ‘streak-free’ products, a little bird flew into my spotless window pane. The crash shocked the bird and me, too. I gasped and gaped while the bird flapped its wings in confusion, turned quickly around and flew back to the bare branches of the tree outside my window. Perhaps it rued its decision not to fly South with the rest of the flock. I certainly lamented my abnormal need for absolute clean.

Today, in a move that would leave my mom and Kim and Aggie fretting, I left a few smudges on the glass pane. These smudges are definitely tormenting me. But I’ll deal with it for the sake of my feathered friends—who, hopefully, will start taking migration seriously.

A whole lotta life

2009-11-15T09:46:00.009-05:00

A village I don’t remember. A city I want to forget.
One conclusive rejection. One ultimate acceptance.
Black and white photos with edges frayed. Colorful sarees hanging limply in a row.
A dead mother. Her love alive.
Lovers who come back for more. True love right outside my door.
Betrayal from a friend. Healing from a stranger.
Success—spectacularly sweet and crushingly sad.
Bare home filled with memories.
A solitary gray hair that I try hide.

This, my dear, is my life.

The view from my couch

2009-11-07T10:55:00.006-05:00

Now that the red, orange and golden leaves have dropped and only bare branches remain, I can see the town that lies behind my apartment building. As the velvety night quickly falls, I see twinkling street lights, a crude Kappy’s sign, curvy red letters of Walgreens, cars hurrying home—stopping impatiently at a red traffic light, then relieved at the quick change to green. I don’t know the name of that town. I don’t want to know. Because it doesn’t matter whether it’s Medford or Manhattan, La Jolla or Lubbock. All that matters is that people are rushing back to a warm home. And, if they’re lucky, to a warm embrace.

Forever gone

2009-10-27T16:58:00.012-04:00

We left the streets of Manhattan and its screeching sirens behind. And under gray Princeton skies we laughed. Then, almost a decade later we met again. And as the yellow leaves fell softly to the ground we laughed once more. Somethings last forever, you said.
But we both know that even forever comes to an end.

A nugget of nonsense

2009-10-05T13:29:00.003-04:00

I ate a chicken nugget. And, miraculously, lived to tell the tale. Not only does this dreadful piece of deep fried doodoo masquerade as food, it is apparently the food of choice parents pick for their kids in restaurants.

Clearly, the world has gone mad.

Where's the fairness?

2009-09-30T13:36:00.009-04:00

Why should Roman Polanski be immune to punishment? Oscars shouldn’t allow exception. Neither should beauty, wealth, status nor connection. But they do.

I’ve walked away scot free because of my looks (never in India, of course). I’ve also been punished for lack of wealth and connections (only in India, of course). One left me feeling guilty. The other, resentful.

Here’s hoping for some justice.

As wise as an owl and as old as the hills

2009-09-28T16:36:00.006-04:00

I used to be a black and white kind of a girl. I knew no gray. Since then, I've aged and mellowed and found middle ground. And now I shake my head at others who live in the extremes. Like the American media, for instance. They’re caught up in the best, the greatest, the strongest, the most, the worst, the newest, the loudest, the smallest…

Back in the day I would've said they're the dumbest.

Your wall. My wall.

2009-09-17T11:51:00.004-04:00

Since most of us belong to a generation that grew up without the Internet, we all remember writing and receiving letters. So, I want to ask each of you—do you recall receiving a letter, reading it, replying on the very same letter and letting it sit on your kitchen table? Probably not. Because that would not only be dreadfully bad mannered, it would be absurd.

The same goes when you reply to my note on your wall on Facebook. That field you see is called ‘comment’. Not ‘reply’.

Missing

2009-09-07T08:41:00.007-04:00

There are a bunch of testicles missing from the White House. Have you seen them?

So, Tim Geithner stays. The man who accepted gifts from the banking industry and who didn't pay $35,000 in taxes over several years has a plum job. But Van Jones is gone because he criticized the Bush administration and the right-wing lynch mob is on the loose.

On the bright side, you-know-who can finally buy some skinny jeans instead of the mommy pair he's been wearing.

Milk, cream and alcohol

2009-08-22T09:03:00.005-04:00

Working, working, working in air-conditioned misery as a feeble summer lies dying outside, as clients try to squirm away, as the clock ticks on, as the spirit flounders and flops, as news gets drearier, I want John Lee Hooker's doctor to write me a prescription.

French skies and cinnamon

2009-07-18T17:18:00.006-04:00

One beautiful day, we lay on soft, warm sand under impossibly blue skies talking about Carla Bruni and cinnamon. What a happy day that was!

Break free, my sisters.

2009-07-07T14:47:00.006-04:00

A note to Indian women—especially my friends.

They have come between you and your dreams, between you and infinite possibilities, between what is and what could have been. Your fears, your risk-averse attitude, your concern for what ‘they’ say…

Courage is delicious. And freedom, addictive.

Live.

Danke schön, darling

2009-06-22T14:29:00.005-04:00

Rainy May day. Wild Horse Café. Penguins. Sea dragons. Steamers. Soma. Beach. Whales. Sweetest songs. Sunday brunch. Lynch Park. Sashimi. Califone. Stitches. Kisses. Leonard Cohen. New York. Goodbye. War. Therapy. Peace. Hampshire College. Tortellini pizza. Surgery. Jelly beans. Canary Row. Silver car. Cinema Paradiso. Bobcats. Celtics. Juno. Monsoons. Magic show. Pig's ears. Frog's legs. Synecdoche, NY. Pho. Nashua, NH. Breadfruit. Bitter words. Deceit. Drama. Doubt. Defeat.

Thank you for all the joy and pain.

A familiar smell in an unfamiliar town

2009-06-15T09:53:00.003-04:00

After the streets had been cleaned but before the townsfolk were up, as I walked quickly to the City Hall parking lot, I noticed that Somerville, grey skies pregnant with unshed rain, smelled like Bangalore.

A prayer for me

2009-06-08T11:36:00.006-04:00

My prayer was urgent and demanding. In the cold, quiet crypt that had seen at least one murder, held many secrets, heard many petitions, witnessed many repentances, mine was just another request. But as I walked out of the old, heavy cathedral, I felt like the devoted might—that my prayer had the power to make even the impossible, possible.

One Friday morning

2009-06-04T09:54:00.005-04:00

White clouds were dollops of freshly churned butter against a blue sky. The yellow sun was a perfect yolk. Wispy dandelions carelessly floated about. Ducks and swans and geese rested. The wind rolled gently over me in soothing waves. I walked to the edge of Lake Furzton and saw my trembling reflection in the mossy water. Then, I thought of you and the perfect morning dissolved into a painful lump and lodged in my throat.

Wallingford does wonders

2009-05-15T12:52:00.010-04:00

On a quiet stretch of highway, where the road snaked and curved, beneath tall trees covered in spring-green leaves, by a blue sign that read ‘Entering Wallingford’, peace swept over me. Just like that, the anguish of the past few weeks fell away, heaviness lifted and I was wrapped in serenity.

How marvelous! A little town tucked away in Connecticut reached out to comfort a stranger passing by.

One more about mom

2009-05-09T08:18:00.010-04:00

The sun rose quietly over the sleeping city and gently wiped away the sprinkling of lingering darkness. To a seven year old, this early hour was both unknown and exciting. I was awake to listen to a bird, my mother claimed, screamed, “Anchu tushechi" \'thəshēchi\—Anchu that’s who she is—from its perch on the old, heavy, mango tree in our neighbor’s garden.

All of a sudden, the morning silence was shattered by a series of loud chirps. I heard chirp chirpchirp chirp, chirp chirpchirp chirp. But not my mother. She believed everything in the universe celebrated me. Even this bird that not only knew the affectionate nickname she had picked for me but, also, apparently spoke Konkani.

The gullibility factor

2009-05-03T09:16:00.010-04:00

I score really high on the gullibility factor quiz. I am not gullible at all—the quiz says so. How, then, did I see kindness and concern where I should have really spotted cunning and deceit?

Time to retake that quiz.

Spring has arrived in Somerville

2009-04-30T09:39:00.007-04:00

Suddenly, the bare branches on the tree outside my window are covered in uncertain green leaves. Suddenly, there are brassy, flirtatious bees buzzing around shy buds. Suddenly, a loud bird has built a scraggly nest and moved in.

Suddenly, it’s spring.

Travel Tales-3

2009-04-19T07:42:00.003-04:00

The street is too narrow. The sun is too hot. The yellow guavas too ripe. Beneath a dusty old awning, four brown dogs curl up and sleep in a heap. Rickshaws fly past. Old beggars wait for generous alms. Street vendors shout. Sale signs offer everything at half price. Shoppers bargain. Orange jilebis sell like hot cakes.

Nothing ever changes on Commercial Street.

Travel Tales-2

2009-04-14T12:46:00.004-04:00

On a hot, sunny afternoon, a lunch of creamy chicken, rumaali roti, saffron rice and shandy is made even more decadent when the finger bowl arrives. The delicate fragrance of rose petals lingers on my fingers, long after rinsing, and makes me wish my vacation could go on just a little bit longer.

Travel Tales -1

2009-04-08T13:45:00.002-04:00

How many weary travelers, I wonder, are comforted daily by Marmite and toast, tea and Carry on Screaming played in a loop at Huxley’s Restaurant and Kitchen in Terminal 5 in Heathrow Airport?

Bound for Bangalore

2009-03-15T07:57:00.004-04:00

In five days, I will be smack in the middle of the colorful, noisy, smelly chaos of India. I will be among people who always follow rules and never take chances. Who have never loved. Who never lose but also probably never win. Who love convention and fear censure. Who never stray from proper, pedestrian and prevalent traditions.

I will be home. I will be a stranger.

A week of endings

2009-03-06T10:20:00.015-05:00

Far away, there's a little cozy blue house. Far away, there's an ocean quietly sighing. Far away, there's a soft grey cat waiting for me. Far away, is the smell of Dove on pale brown skin. Far away, are happy mornings feasting on pancakes and eggs, lazy afternoons chasing skittish crabs on the beach and evenings drunk on blueberry martinis.

These are simply memories now. Fading slighty, altered a little for my benefit, some happy, some sad. But all far away. Because this is the end.

Smarter than you think?

2009-02-22T20:46:00.008-05:00

Brain surgeons, like rocket scientists, are allegedly extraordinarily intelligent. There is, of course, no such endorsement of copywriters.

Dispensing sympathy and spicy martinis, my friend said I have something surgeons and scientists don’t. He has promised to call me the instant he figures that 'something' out.

An odd, old man

2009-02-08T08:49:00.011-05:00

Kutti maam was an old, bent, defeated man I met when I was nine. My uncle had appointed him our tutor—naturally, without consultation or our consent. So Kutti maam visited us at six every evening—interrupting our precious playtime. We didn’t need his help but he needed the money. And with an understanding far beyond our years, my sister and I sacrificed our play and indulged him by asking his help with our math homework.

Over the years, I grew to love this odd, reclusive, kind, brilliant, miserable man.

Kutti maam didn’t help me master math. But he did help me recognize the delights of Shakespearean plays, cucumber sandwiches and Piccadilly Circus.

Pausing

2009-02-01T08:33:00.005-05:00

I stayed still this past summer for the very first time.

All my life, I had never the luxury of taking a breather. My father’s neuroses, my mother’s love, fickle fate… many things had prevented me from pausing. The respite felt extravagant. Reckless, even. It felt good.

I might do it again.

How a big decision was made

2009-01-25T09:44:00.011-05:00

I spent my school years in a grim, grey building, wearing a prim, blue uniform, with teachers doubtlessly trained by Wackford Squeers, in ‘houses’ that divided and united us, learning unnecessary lessons in nuclear physics and needlecraft, doing endless exercises in getting out of a chair without dragging it across the floor…

Seventeen was my escape. Its pages filled with teenagers with big, blonde hair, pegged jeans, Wayfarer sunglasses and oversized T-shirts. Not to mention, full-page posters of Bon Jovi, Motley Crue and Poison.

I can tell you with certainty that my decision to move to impossibly cool America is entirely due to a teen rag.

Mocking the morons

2009-01-20T12:38:00.003-05:00

The world has succumbed to the magic of exceptional speeches from an unexceptional person. The world is full of idiots.

When I’m done mocking them, I’ll feel sorry for them.

Winter Blahs

2009-01-19T08:53:00.005-05:00

Grey skies drop white flakes. Trees shed leaves and stand brown and barren. The golden sun hides. Color altogether disappears.

This cheerless winter landscape is foreign to me. And will forever be. Because a culture shock as extreme as this will never have an ‘adjustment phase’.

Writer's block

2009-01-11T15:34:00.004-05:00

There’s so much I want to write about. Like this 37-year old woman who was baptized today because she didn’t know what would happen to her after death. (Pssst, Shea, we haven't the foggiest, either). Or, that one time I sat with an Allen wrench, washer and screw and didn’t know what to do. Or, the feeling of being so far away even when I’m so close to someone. Or, the two gray hairs on my head… But I can't.

I should try asemic writing.

A new year. A new me.

2008-12-23T09:14:00.005-05:00

Over the next few days, I will sit by a frozen lake and reflect. I will ponder every frantic, disconnected, angry, hopeful, desperate, miserable, joyous moment of the year gone by—over and over again.

But enough of profound things.

Next year, I will head to a tropical island to be drunk and lounge-chair bound. I will obsess only about looking bodilicious in my Victoria Secret bathing suit. Oh, and naturally, about making sure my hair is perfectly straight.

Here’s to 2009.

Losing my mind and my money

2008-12-14T11:27:00.008-05:00

I turned to Zen for serenity. When I, naively, began to meditate I thought that hours of stillness would silence the deafening noise of the tangled, jangled, knotty chaos in my head. Instead, the chaos snaked their way into my stillness.

I’m not surprised the Zen center doesn’t have a money-back guarantee.

Tough times

2008-12-10T10:54:00.010-05:00

I hear the wealthy in Bombay are inconsolable. First, the cruel and callous Indian government failed to protect Harbour Bar, their favorite watering hole. Then, rubbed salt in their wounds by forbidding them from sailing.

Scotch and sailing lost at one fell swoop. Life sure is a bitch.

I fall to pieces

2008-12-01T13:03:00.014-05:00

If I weren't a hack, I could have told you how I feel. But I am, so I can't. Ergo, Patsy Cline to the rescue:

"I'm crazy for trying
And crazy for crying
And I'm crazy for loving you."

And what do I find here?

2008-11-16T21:25:00.003-05:00

It was where Bryan Adams supposedly bought his first real six-string. And where Nanci Griffith said love was on sale. So when I spotted my first Five and Dime, smack in the middle of downtown Santa Fe, I just had to walk in.

The store was exploding with things—paintings, ashtrays, Mexican spices, Breathe Right strips, batteries, fake Stetson hats, pink princess dresses, dog treats, salted pistachios, lipsticks… everything except a six-string and love at a discount.

Angry all the time

2008-11-02T11:02:00.002-05:00

I asked Dr. G, a professor of Psychology at UT, Austin and my thesis adviser, about a very angry person I happen to know from a safe distance. Angry people, he said, have only two emotions—‘poor me’ and ‘I hate you’. Anger fuels depression and depression causes anger, he added.

Looks like the girl who’s steaming mad is actually very sad.

The Lesser Choice

2008-10-29T13:14:00.004-04:00

One man is better than his campaign. The other is lesser than his campaign. The lesser man with the better campaign might win.

The less said about this situation, the better.

Picking up the tab. Again.

2008-10-18T10:12:00.011-04:00

This week, Wall Street was buzzing, as usual, with bankers in navy blue designer suits, crisp cornflower blue shirts and unimaginative yellow ties. They were crowding around a Maserati car exhibition. Clearly, the catastrophic stock market crash seemed to have done nothing to deter them from living large. How many will buy a car with the money I paid toward the bail out, I wondered?

This took me back to my first year in college when Chief Minister ‘oily’ Moily’s daughter flaunted her expensive clothes in class. Not one to be impressed, I turned to my friend, Bindu, and said, “Your Dad and mine paid for her clothes.”

With an aunt like this, who needs enemies?

2008-10-13T16:04:00.006-04:00

When Prema was 21, her aunt urged her to marry a gauche, small-town engineer. Fat girls, like Prema, her aunt said cannot afford to be choosy. So Prema married a man she found repulsive.

Her aunt wasn't entirely wrong. Fat people in our society find dates, jobs, upgrades from economy to first-class, health insurance, college admissions—just about everything—rather elusive. However, instead of suggesting Prema get on a treadmill, her aunt suggested she get into a dreadful relationship.

A short, unhappy marriage and a long, ugly divorce later, Prema has lost those excess pounds. It's a pity she hasn't been able to lose a loathsome relative.

My last meal

2008-10-01T20:28:00.006-04:00

If I were ever on death row, my last meal would be my friend, Radhika’s crab curry. I would feast, with gluttonous pleasure, on Dungeness crabs floating in a river of delicious red masala. I would crack the shell and lustily, noisily, messily devour the sweet meat. And I would eat long after I'm full.

Then, I would die happy.

A better me

2008-09-26T14:04:00.006-04:00

Of the many cheesy lines in the movie, perhaps ‘you make me want to be a better man’ gets top cheesy points in As Good As It Gets. Still, that shabby line did stir something in me. I wondered if I would ever come across someone who’d make me want to be a better me.

I think I have.

Foreign affairs

2008-09-17T20:22:00.011-04:00

Let’s say we were playing a game of free association and I said ‘sexy’, I'm certain you’d never, ever respond by saying ‘Indian man.’ However, once upon a time, long, long, long, long ago, sexy Indian men did exist. Hard to believe but there’s proof—the Kamasutra and the temples of Khajuraho.

Today, in place of the virile Indian man, there’s a corpulent engineer. In place of the manly V, there’s the bulging belly.

But don't you worry about me. I love foreign men.

Ah, the irony

2008-09-09T21:02:00.013-04:00

My father is a massive bore. He is one of the dullest, most insipid, colorless, drab, literal men I’ve ever met. Like a typical Indian man, he imposed his life—bland and flat—on his wife and his daughters. Which meant, growing up, my sister and I did nothing.

As a child, I would gaze out of the window on many rainy days and imagine myself on Noah’s Ark. Spot a bird high in the sky and dream of flying away to a distant, magical land. Read many books and live many lives. See a neighbor in her garden and create a thrilling and mysterious world for her.

What can I say? I guess I owe my imagination to a man with absolutely none.

A nice cup of tea

2008-09-01T17:39:00.004-04:00

I agree with George Orwell that a nice cup of tea invariably means Indian tea. With him, I also agree that tea must be made in small quantities—like in a teapot. That the pot should be warmed beforehand, that the tea should be put straight into the pot, that the pot should be taken to the kettle and not the other way around, that the leaves must be given a good stir then allowed to sink to the bottom, that a breakfast cup is the perfect cup, that one should pour the cream off the milk before using it for tea and that it’s not milk first in the cup, it’s tea first.

While we agree on the method, we disagree on the taste.

Orwell liked his tea strong. Six heaped teaspoons of tea for four cups of water, he said. I, however, like my tea light and flavorful.

Strong tea, Mr. Orwell, is for truck drivers.

Sparrows on Saturdays

2008-08-14T14:21:00.012-04:00

When the rusty old MBTA train chugged into the Salem station, I gazed vacantly out of the window and saw, through its cloudy glass, a little sparrow dart and flutter over a thorny bush.

The sparrow took me back to my childhood. On sleepy Saturday afternoons, Kaveri (or Jaya or Muniyamma or Rangamma; whoever the help at the time) would spread a sackful of rice on the narrow strip that was our backyard, pick out stones and winnow the chaff.

Small, plump sparrows that lived in a pomegranate tree down our street, would twitter around, swoop in on a mound of rice, nervously pick up a beakful and flit off. In the true spirit of Indian tolerance, the birds were never chased away.

Now, rice comes packed in sealed plastic bags and the Saturday ritual has disappeared. So have winnows and sparrows.

In a church, a convert

2008-08-10T09:27:00.013-04:00

One Saturday evening, when the summer air was salty and cool, I walked down a winding little street in Marblehead to a tall, old Unitarian Church. The church buzzed with people, who like me, were attending a Jazz show. The difference was that I found Jazz at best boring and at worst noisily discordant.

Then Ernie Andrews began to sing. He had a deep, cigarette voice and young, jaunty energy. He danced and flirted, charmed and chatted, joked and laughed with us. And when he sang, I tapped my feet to the doo-de-doo-doo-doo and smiled at the obsolete graciousness of the scenes he painted.

When he was done, we stood up to applaud the 80-year old man from Los Angeles. That was when I realized his songs had left me feeling just simply, completely, perfectly happy.

On beauty

2008-07-06T11:18:00.023-04:00

To say that Indians—my mother not included—consider my looks rather unappealing would not be untrue. With no beauty to fall back on—I cultivated other talents. Trivia, for example. I can tell you the male:female ratio in Latvia (1:1.9). And a dramatic, flippant manner that directed attention away from my looks (or lack thereof) and toward my clever and comic talk.

This astute strategy I owe to an aunt. Over a summer lunch of crabs and clams many, many years ago in Bombay, she gushed over my sister’s good looks. “Just like Nargis,” she went on. Then she turned to me and between mouthfuls of crab curry and rice paid me a mala fide compliment. “You, too, look like an actress,” she said. “Like Rameshwari.”

A few receipts. And a lot of pluck and spunk.

2008-07-01T20:32:00.003-04:00

Before Christian returned to Manhattan, he showed me how to fill up the tank in my shiny, new, silver car. I saved that receipt. Put it away in—what the car owner’s manual calls—the auxiliary box. Then, the next time I filled the tank—clumsily, timidly, all by myself—I saved that receipt too. And, the next time, when I was a little more certain, I saved that one as well. I have three years worth of receipts piled up in the auxiliary box.

They remind me that I can overcome all odds (and not just the ones at gas stations). They also remind me that gas was once very, very affordable.

We're Indian, stupid

2008-06-17T16:51:00.015-04:00

Perhaps you’ve heard that Indians in Manhattan are very, very rich. There’s an euphoric glow of hedge-fund wealth around them. And the unmistakable swagger of Ivy-league education. Most Saturday evenings, as they nurse $20 cocktails in dimly-lit, upscale, downtown clubs, there’s toxic talk about fake charity receipts that can save taxes, devious plans to charge the evening’s excesses to corporate accounts and unabashed wheeling and dealing to buy a promotion from the boss who, also, rather conveniently, happens to be Indian.

You don’t need a keen sense of smell to catch a whiff of Gurgaon under the Issey Miyake Intense.

Waistline woes

2008-06-13T19:01:00.012-04:00

After a dinner of sesame chicken and steamed rice, half a dozen crab rangoons, a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut and two summer ales, I decided to catch up on the day's news. As if mocking my excess, The New York Times reported that Japan is measuring the waists of its people to keep them from getting overweight. There is even a government prescribed waistline limit.

If I were in Japan right now, I’d be in big, fat trouble.

When hope is all hype

2008-06-05T11:51:00.003-04:00

I am glib and the gullible fall for it. To them, my most incredulous words are credible. Still, I only make people buy stuff they can very well do without. No real harm done.

However, when the gullible fall for glib that affects lives, finances, policies, countries… it is calamitous.

My simple life

2008-06-03T20:43:00.003-04:00

When I moved to Massachusetts, I saw, for the first time, a woodpecker and marveled at the determined wood pecking of the tiny bird, spotted a robin red breast, came face-to-face with a blasé raccoon, saw a skunk and smelled its bitter-salty pungent reek, gasped at an extravagantly red cardinal, watched skittish deer graze in a parking lot, exclaimed when whales swam across the frothy blue ocean, discovered what chipmunks look like and even learned to identify a Wisteria vine and a Weeping Willow tree.

Makes me wonder if this pastoral living is chipping away my hard-nosed, worldly personality...

Looking for a sign. Part 2.

2008-05-28T11:04:00.002-04:00

Apparently, the dinosaur in the sky did mean something. It took some explaining for me to get it.

For crying out loud! I do the easy crossword. And can't even complete it. So save the cryptic clues for someone else, God.

Looking for a sign.

2008-05-23T20:32:00.005-04:00

Whenever people wanted answers to daunting questions, they looked to the heavens and they always received a sign—or so the Bible, the Bhagvad Gita, the Quran… will have you believe.

So I sat by the tranquil ocean this morning, looked up into a clear blue sky and asked for a sign that would help me resolve my dilemma. For the longest time, nothing happened. Then, a vaporous white cloud floated by and quickly formed a dinosaur. Exactly like the Tyrannosaurus rex in the Fossil Halls of the American Museum of Natural History.

A dinosaur? Thanks for nothing, God.

For Mother’s Day, a visit from Mom

2008-05-11T20:24:00.007-04:00

It’s funny how a Hallmark holiday that I would normally scoff at takes on a completely different meaning when I cannot actually participate in it. Gushy, gooey TV commercials and soppy emails in my inbox suggesting the perfect Mother’s Day gift had me all teared up.

Of course, my mother can’t bear to see her favorite little daughter blue, so she showed up in my dream this morning. In that dream, she tidied up my home, pointed to my bedroom window and suggested how I could fix it. My little apartment did need tidying up and the window indeed did need my attention.

Thank you and Happy Mother’s Day to you, my darling Mommy.