Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-2)

I try hard not to distract myself at work, but this is what happens, always. I started writing my assignment at lunch time, but blanked out till lunch was over, and when I started staring at my codes again, ideas started flowing again. I had to get them out. I wanted to make an outline, but ended up wasting two hours worth of time finishing it up. It doesn’t matter. I am not paid hourly. They won’t let me go home at the end of eight hours either. When I am here ten hours of the day, I might as well take a two hour break and rejuvenate. I don’t chat, or watch youtube videos at work at least. I know a lot who do that.

I send an email to Manisha trying to arrange a girl’s lunch. It’s been a long time that we went out, and talked. About our jobs, our husbands and our children. About our feelings. It feels good to do that. Only after the lunch, we will send emails justifying that everything we vented out of frustration wasn’t as we had projected. Suddenly we feel the guilt. Like when I told them about Ruchi dancing to the tunes of Hannah Montana in front of the mirror. For one minute they were my best friends trying to share my life with me, and the next I had patch up saying that it only happened once, maybe she saw some kid doing it. I didn’t want my parenting skills to be judged by any of them. We were still egoistic Indian ladies who will pretend to have perfect children and a perfect family except the Mother-in-law and have a perfect job. Any imperfection is projected as a failure on our part.

Coming to think of it, Manisha and Neena, and I have nothing in common. We all work for different companies, and have different life styles, but long ago, we met at a desi potluck party and have been going strong since. Neena has a boy and a girl, I have a girl, and Manisha has two girls who are close in age range, and get along fine. Somehow husbands need to enjoy each other’s company too. I think being Indians in an unknown land has forged us into a team rather than form an interest based friendship. We need someone local to call and talk to, to share our lives. We serve that purpose perfectly. Each one of us is a good listener.

Since we are going to be in this together for a long time, let me introduce you to the ladies.

Manisha Gupta is a realtor, married to a techie, age forty. Mother to two girls, one is fourteen, and the other twelve. Leads a conservative life. Money-wise and value-wise. Shops at outlet stores for the Armani suits on deepest of the discounts, and has no qualms wearing clothes that many people tried out, and has gathered dust in the store for several days. Carries varieties of purses, again, dusty-musty ones, I think. Her house, possibly biggest floor plan in that community, is filled with every copper and bronze Krishna and silver Ganesha she ever laid eyes on. There are intricate items from India all over the house. Her house actually is a mini cost plus market. Husband is a techie, and hasn’t changed his job ever since he moved to America. Her client base is mainly the North Indians, who keep her busy even during a recession. It is a good time to buy, according to them. They buy with everyone, and they buy when everyone isn’t. But they are mostly businessmen owning Indian restaurants and Indian grocery stores, hardly affected by a recession, unlike us, the “Gultis” as we are collectively called, the people of Andhra. We all came with a sole mission of typing lines and lines of code. Probably we will set a Guinness world record.

Oh, while we are at it, I should probably tell you about the weird, but interesting habits of Manisha. She doesn’t like to remove plastic covers on anything that she bought until they have used it for a few days. It’s easy to return that way, she says, in case they don’t like it any more. She doesn’t use her dishwasher to wash dishes, but stores washed dishes in it so that she doesn’t have to open up the cabinets of her gourmet kitchen for everyday stuff like plates and pans. While the cabinets are neatly arranged with expensive French China with gold rim, and the hanging pots are all the shiny Allclads, the dishwasher has Ikea plates and pots, and pans. I have no clue when she uses the fancy stuff, since she always brings out the disposable ones even if she has only one family for dinner, and gets food done from a Gujarati lady, who packs them in ready to serve containers. May be one day she will auction them off when are antique, or give them as a gift to her daughter when she marries. When it comes to money, with Manisha, you never know.

Neena Deshpande is from Pune, and every inch Puneri-Maharashtrian. Stick thin and fair skinned, she never has a stray hair on her head, or stray lint on her carpet. She is an assistant to a researcher, but knowing her control habits, we are not sure who is assisting whom on the research. Husband is an investment banker, but he has no say into the investment choices Neena makes. You only know so much, she says, but I know more than you because I read Wall Street Journal, and Money magazine. Her husband agrees. Wait, we don’t know how he feels about it. He has never disagreed publicly. He never does. Neena never lets him to.

Neena is a Brahmin too. She likes to remind us of the fact every now and then by carrying out elaborate poojas, or declaring that “In India Brahmins never had to experience that”. She is proud of her Brahmin lineage and thinks that it makes her superior to everyone else, somehow. She does all things upper middle-class women do. Her house looks straight out of homes and gardens magazine when we visit, but she insists that her kids mess it up usually, which no one believes. Her kids play with one toy a day. If today is stuffed toy day, no planes will fly in the house. If it’s a kitchen play day, they will not run with a ball to the yard. They eat and drink only at the table, and clean up after themselves. They watch TV for a stipulated hour. The program has to be preapproved by Neena. She doesn’t like them watching anything she doesn’t think worth of their time. She is a control freak, and has kept home and work totally under control. Everyone seems to like her first, love her next, and try to get away from her next, before she attempts to run their lives, or rather fix, according to her.

To be continued....