“Would you like to go to a book signing party?”
“No thanks, I have to attend parent-teacher conference”
“Would you like to go to author’s tea tonight?”
“No thanks, I have a dinner planned”
“Are you trying to avoid me?”
“Why would I?”
“I have a feeling that after we chatted last week, you have been avoiding me”
“You are right. I don’t feel it’s right to continue to flirt with you while I enjoy my married life on side”
“I haven’t even touched you”
“Doesn’t matter. Emotionally cheating someone is worst than doing it physically”
“We are soul mates”
“I don’t buy all that”
“We share a connection that people don’t share with the persons they live with. It’s very rare”
“I don’t want to get into all that. It’s simple for me. I can only love one person at a time, and I choose Shekhar over you. Please don’t contact me again”
“If you say so, why not. But whenever you want to come back, I will greet you with my arms open”
“Will you leave your wife and kids, and come to me?”
“No. You are mature enough to understand”
“You are mature enough to understand that I reject the proposal to be your virtual mistress”
“You took me where my real partners never took me”
“I strayed”
“You lived”
“I should kill myself”
That was the end of my virtual affair with the greenish blue eyed stranger, or so I thought. Shekhar didn’t bother enough to know why I was happy some days and what made me sad sometimes. He treated life as he always did, and while I nursed my broken heart. Ruchi thought it was unemployment taking a toll on me, and tried to engage me into bike rides along the trails every evening. I recovered. But the hurt didn’t go away.
Then one fine day my greenish blue eyed stranger released a new book. About a woman who was just like me, and a man just like him. Only I remained loyal to him, like Meera to Krishna, in the end. The readers loved it, and he was crowned the next Salman Rushdie. He wrote every detail that we lived. He copied every email we exchanged. He wrote about my white dress, about my diamonds, about our walk along the lake, about the twinkle in my eyes. He wrote about my fantasies, about my longings, and about my desires that I shared with him, only. He wrote about my dreams unfulfilled. He didn’t write the rejection, and made me feel rejected again.
I ignored him, and his book, but the world didn’t. She sounds so real, she feels so real, they said. Is she for true, they asked. He denied, of course, and rejected my presence again. She is my fantasy he said, and I search for her in every woman, only to fail.
I shut down my virtual world, and got back to Manisha and Neena, and our kids, and the failing job market, the plunging Dow Jones, and Shekhar. Shekhar didn’t notice anything, but I feel guilty. I punish myself in weird ways, like skipping food, not putting on makeup, not shopping, not exercising and sometimes eating loads of ice-cream. One day Shekhar asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t tell him. He thought a little vacation with the colored drinks with tiny umbrellas on a sandy beach will help, and on our vacation, he gifted me a book to read. The one my stranger wrote for me. I hugged him, and cried till my eyes dried out, and told him that it was the story of my life. He said he understood, and told me that I should let myself loose, and enjoy life uninhibited, like her. He said that he wants to see the wildness in me unleash, and I told him he didn’t understand what I meant. He told me to forget everything, every failure, every sorrow and live life as it happens, as it unfolds. I closed my eyes and let him kiss me. While he kissed me, I opened my eyes and wondered if I should tell him what happened between the writer and me, and wondered how he would react if he were to see the wild encounter we had, virtually. My eyes tear up, and Shekhar holds me tight, and whispers “Did you enjoy”. Yes, I did, and no, I didn’t.
Showing posts with label Indian chiklit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indian chiklit. Show all posts
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-10)
I want to hold on to the email for a while before replying, even though my heart is already jumping up and down with excitement from the attention I have been getting. My thumbs start twitching, and I write a reply, right away.
“Do you use you cell phone for emails?” he asks.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Please type on the computer. There are too many spelling mistakes”
How dare he, but, I don’t show my anger “I don’t want to double check”
“I thought you want to be a writer?”
“I don’t remember telling you that”
“You enrolled”
“So did you”
“I write well enough”
“I never read any”
“May be you should”
“Sure, when I am done reading everyone who sold more copies than you”
“You are rude”
“You are not polite yourself”
“Can we IM?”
“Why? What’s wrong with SMS?”
“It’s more intimate”
“As long as it’s not leading to sex, I wouldn’t call it intimate”
“Intimate: involving warm friendship, according to the dictionary”
“That is one of the several meanings”
“Life is always about picking and choosing what you want”
“I choose not to have any conversation with you”
“Why, if you choose to answer?”
“I am happily married”
“So am I, and I am not asking you to marry me”
“I didn’t say that, but I don’t feel the need to chat with you where as you do feel it”
“Two writers talking about literature is not the same as husband and wife talking about filing taxes”
“I am an introvert. I never talk to anyone unless I need to”
“Really! You typed thirty lines before declaring that”
“Doesn’t matter. I have to do today’s assignment. See you in class, later”
“What are you writing about? I am writing about the beautiful girl who married an old man, and how she was duped”
“It’s so silly”
“You haven’t even read the story”
“I heard the plot”
“Story is all about how you treat it”
“Nice talking to you, I will catch you later”
“Hey, do you want to come to an author’s meet with me tomorrow, evening?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so”
“I have a pass with me, but my wife doesn’t like to go to such functions. Rushdie is the chief guest. I will email you the venue, and keep my phone with me. If you decide to come, just call me before seven”
I didn’t acknowledge the last message. Partly hoping to tell him that I never got it, partly because I didn’t want to show that I wanted to go. What would I tell Shekhar? That I have a date with another author? What would he think of me? Or, should I put the gender equation behind me, and just treat my stranger as someone I share my interests with? Whatever the reasoning can be, the next day I leave at six, after sending an SMS that I will be there. I didn’t want to show excitement, as usual.
“You look gorgeous”, he said, as expected. I have heard it so many times already that I don’t even know who lies, and who really means it. I acknowledge his icebreaker with a simple thank you, and head into the community center with him. His picture on the internet doesn’t do justice to his true features. I like looking into his eyes when talking to him. The greenish blue eyes tell me stories. Which ones, I don’t know. He flirts endlessly, and I enjoy the attention, as long as it is platonic. He suggested going to the restaurant at the lake, and I said yes, completely ignoring Rushdie’s speech, the supposed highlight of the evening. We walk along the lake, talking about things that didn’t matter, of the books we read, of the stories we heard, and of the reality we assumed. It was like meeting your best friend after a decade. So much has already happened in life that you don’t bother telling about any of that, unless it really came up. We ignored telling each other that we were married, we had kids, and we had jobs. I was unemployed actually. That evening, I felt so rejuvenated that I asked Shekhar to come out for a walk with me, and avoided talking about anything that mattered. I two timed myself, and nothing ever excited me so much. Not even my first love.
“Did you have a good time?” asked Shekhar that night, in the bed.
I didn’t know what to say, except a hmm.
“Did you make any friends?”
“Hmm”
“Who? Writers? Publishers?”
“A writer”
“Do we know him?”
“He is not that famous”
“What did your lover say?”
“huh?”
“Mr. Rushdie the great! Did you tell him how much you love him?”
“No. I didn’t get to meet him”
“I thought all this white dress and ensemble for his eyes only”
“I didn’t feel like meeting him”
“Who was that interesting that you skipped meeting him?”
“I am tired. Can we sleep?”
“Sleep already?”
“Hmm”
“You look so beautiful today. Did anyone tell you?”
“Yeah. I was crowned Ms. California”
“No.. I mean it. There is a twinkle in your eyes that I saw when we were dating”
“That’s because I am dating someone else now”
“Who.. the rich and old Shekhar?”
“No, busy and indifferent Shekhar”
“Do you like him?”
“No, I love him”
“How much?”
“Look who is asking”
“Tell me”
“More than he loves me”
I wanted to tell Shekhar that I had the most beautiful evening in the recent days, but feared, that he might not like it, no matter how many times he told me that there shouldn’t be secrets between a husband and wife, and they should be each other’s best friends. Today, I didn’t feel that he was my best friend who should know everything about me.
“Do you use you cell phone for emails?” he asks.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Please type on the computer. There are too many spelling mistakes”
How dare he, but, I don’t show my anger “I don’t want to double check”
“I thought you want to be a writer?”
“I don’t remember telling you that”
“You enrolled”
“So did you”
“I write well enough”
“I never read any”
“May be you should”
“Sure, when I am done reading everyone who sold more copies than you”
“You are rude”
“You are not polite yourself”
“Can we IM?”
“Why? What’s wrong with SMS?”
“It’s more intimate”
“As long as it’s not leading to sex, I wouldn’t call it intimate”
“Intimate: involving warm friendship, according to the dictionary”
“That is one of the several meanings”
“Life is always about picking and choosing what you want”
“I choose not to have any conversation with you”
“Why, if you choose to answer?”
“I am happily married”
“So am I, and I am not asking you to marry me”
“I didn’t say that, but I don’t feel the need to chat with you where as you do feel it”
“Two writers talking about literature is not the same as husband and wife talking about filing taxes”
“I am an introvert. I never talk to anyone unless I need to”
“Really! You typed thirty lines before declaring that”
“Doesn’t matter. I have to do today’s assignment. See you in class, later”
“What are you writing about? I am writing about the beautiful girl who married an old man, and how she was duped”
“It’s so silly”
“You haven’t even read the story”
“I heard the plot”
“Story is all about how you treat it”
“Nice talking to you, I will catch you later”
“Hey, do you want to come to an author’s meet with me tomorrow, evening?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so”
“I have a pass with me, but my wife doesn’t like to go to such functions. Rushdie is the chief guest. I will email you the venue, and keep my phone with me. If you decide to come, just call me before seven”
I didn’t acknowledge the last message. Partly hoping to tell him that I never got it, partly because I didn’t want to show that I wanted to go. What would I tell Shekhar? That I have a date with another author? What would he think of me? Or, should I put the gender equation behind me, and just treat my stranger as someone I share my interests with? Whatever the reasoning can be, the next day I leave at six, after sending an SMS that I will be there. I didn’t want to show excitement, as usual.
“You look gorgeous”, he said, as expected. I have heard it so many times already that I don’t even know who lies, and who really means it. I acknowledge his icebreaker with a simple thank you, and head into the community center with him. His picture on the internet doesn’t do justice to his true features. I like looking into his eyes when talking to him. The greenish blue eyes tell me stories. Which ones, I don’t know. He flirts endlessly, and I enjoy the attention, as long as it is platonic. He suggested going to the restaurant at the lake, and I said yes, completely ignoring Rushdie’s speech, the supposed highlight of the evening. We walk along the lake, talking about things that didn’t matter, of the books we read, of the stories we heard, and of the reality we assumed. It was like meeting your best friend after a decade. So much has already happened in life that you don’t bother telling about any of that, unless it really came up. We ignored telling each other that we were married, we had kids, and we had jobs. I was unemployed actually. That evening, I felt so rejuvenated that I asked Shekhar to come out for a walk with me, and avoided talking about anything that mattered. I two timed myself, and nothing ever excited me so much. Not even my first love.
“Did you have a good time?” asked Shekhar that night, in the bed.
I didn’t know what to say, except a hmm.
“Did you make any friends?”
“Hmm”
“Who? Writers? Publishers?”
“A writer”
“Do we know him?”
“He is not that famous”
“What did your lover say?”
“huh?”
“Mr. Rushdie the great! Did you tell him how much you love him?”
“No. I didn’t get to meet him”
“I thought all this white dress and ensemble for his eyes only”
“I didn’t feel like meeting him”
“Who was that interesting that you skipped meeting him?”
“I am tired. Can we sleep?”
“Sleep already?”
“Hmm”
“You look so beautiful today. Did anyone tell you?”
“Yeah. I was crowned Ms. California”
“No.. I mean it. There is a twinkle in your eyes that I saw when we were dating”
“That’s because I am dating someone else now”
“Who.. the rich and old Shekhar?”
“No, busy and indifferent Shekhar”
“Do you like him?”
“No, I love him”
“How much?”
“Look who is asking”
“Tell me”
“More than he loves me”
I wanted to tell Shekhar that I had the most beautiful evening in the recent days, but feared, that he might not like it, no matter how many times he told me that there shouldn’t be secrets between a husband and wife, and they should be each other’s best friends. Today, I didn’t feel that he was my best friend who should know everything about me.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-9)
The alarm rings promptly at six in the morning. I don’t have to wake up. I don’t have to go anywhere. My services are not needed by anyone, any more. I wake up, bound to habit, shower, and get dressed in the floral dress I ordered from Coldwater creek, to look like the mother of a teenager in one of the magazines. I prepare a very delicious breakfast for Ruchi and Shekhar, and wait for them to wake up. Only they wake up, eat their breakfast, dash off the door. Without noticing my dress, or my hair, or the breakfast. I try not to notice that, and turn on my computer. I check my mail, I reply to all my girl friends, send ha-ha responses to forwarded jokes, and read every piece of news that didn’t matter. Soon, I got bored, and started cleaning out the fridge. That was done in an hour.
Actually I cleaned out the entire kitchen, and spilled a few things on my pretty flower dress. I called the cleaning lady and tried to cancel her Saturday appointment. Only she didn’t let me do it. I trusted your job to pay the mortgage she said. She was right. She is making a weekly trip to our house ever since Ruchi was born. We moved around the mountains in the past few years, and she made it to our place, 9 am sharp, wherever it was. Rain or shine. Because she knew she is the one who will end up cleaning in the end. Be it a week, or two. She told me that she was lagging behind mortgage payments since people are cutting back, and she, along with cable television gets the axe. I couldn’t tell her not to come. I think my unemployment for the week covers her monthly wages and tips.
It’s only 10.30, and I have nothing to do. Now I feel that I should have taken a long bubble bath. Bored, I pick up a book. It bores me even more. When I didn’t have time, it was a luxury to read books, and I made time for them. Now there is too much time, and I don’t feel like reading suddenly. I start my laptop, and look for Ruchi on the net. There is only one Ruchi Potluri on Myspace, or rather google, making it easier for me. Nothing that I didn’t want to know, except that she has hots for the same man that I have, and it’s a weird feeling for a mother. Except that shaggy haired, shiny blue eyed Calvin is on her google chat. Just because I have a parental control on her computer doesn’t mean I have to spy on her, but a jobless mother is the most dangerous thing in the world. Or make it a laid off mother.
I cancel my girl’s lunch citing schedule problems. I am not ready to tell anyone that I am laid off yet. The moment people know, they will start asking the obvious what next question. It’s not that I go and sit in their house begging for their attention if I lose my job, but people always make you feel inconsequential when you are jobless. They will show off how busy they are even when it doesn’t make a difference in my life. May be when I had a job, I might have done something like that to hurt them, unknowingly. Whatever the reason is, joblessness is the height of intellectual failure in my ladies circle.
Intrigued by the powers of google, fuelled by boredom and loneliness, I try to hunt down Shekhar on the net. Clean slate. Except for the linkedin and alumni websites, there is no record of him being a bad man like Satish. But then, may be Shekhar’s girl friends are happily married women. Bored housewives. Makes me cringe. I am one right now. Bored at home, and a wife. What if I had an affair with Shekhar, like Shobhana in Mitr? Knowing Shekhar, he wouldn’t encourage me. Rather, he wouldn’t have time for an affair. But there are unknowns about everyone. Shekhar is human too, not God Rama. It’s been long enough for our marriage to be a little bored. It’s Ok to be bored, as long as we want to rekindle the flame together. It’s only a problem when we look elsewhere.
I log on to my class, and start working on my assignment and on the whim, enroll in to two more writing classes. They are only a few hundred dollars at University extensions and are online. At least they will keep me busy. My classmates are all writers, according to them. But when I go to each of their websites, it’s nothing but rehashed lines of poetry from random poems. Same old love being red, emotions running deep. But they respected their art, and gave it prominence in their life. I respect that sentiment. Some have written books too. I haven’t heard of any of those books. Never saw them in any bookstore. Never read any reviews. That doesn’t make them unworthy. Just my random observation. Not being judgmental. There is a lot printed, there is a lot read. If I missed something, it’s not the end of the world for any writer. I start my assignment. My instructor wants me to take the newspaper, find three interesting articles and write an article. Interesting, though I don’t find anything interesting in Wall Street Journal except that the Dow Jones is shedding.. And investors are hibernating.
I leave my assignment mid-way, read my admirer’s letter again, and look him up on google. He is no Salman Rushdie, but he is a middle aged gentleman with greenish blue eyes. He has written books that haven’t enchanted anyone, but there are a few fans on his website. He is working on his next novel, probably another love story of sorts. I smile as I think of the possibility of being the inspiration of his novel, of having my quirks in one of his characters. But now that I that I have written an almost rude letter not acknowledging his interest in me or my writing, I have killed that wish. Or maybe not. I see a new email from him. May be to curtly say thank you for responding, anyway!
Actually I cleaned out the entire kitchen, and spilled a few things on my pretty flower dress. I called the cleaning lady and tried to cancel her Saturday appointment. Only she didn’t let me do it. I trusted your job to pay the mortgage she said. She was right. She is making a weekly trip to our house ever since Ruchi was born. We moved around the mountains in the past few years, and she made it to our place, 9 am sharp, wherever it was. Rain or shine. Because she knew she is the one who will end up cleaning in the end. Be it a week, or two. She told me that she was lagging behind mortgage payments since people are cutting back, and she, along with cable television gets the axe. I couldn’t tell her not to come. I think my unemployment for the week covers her monthly wages and tips.
It’s only 10.30, and I have nothing to do. Now I feel that I should have taken a long bubble bath. Bored, I pick up a book. It bores me even more. When I didn’t have time, it was a luxury to read books, and I made time for them. Now there is too much time, and I don’t feel like reading suddenly. I start my laptop, and look for Ruchi on the net. There is only one Ruchi Potluri on Myspace, or rather google, making it easier for me. Nothing that I didn’t want to know, except that she has hots for the same man that I have, and it’s a weird feeling for a mother. Except that shaggy haired, shiny blue eyed Calvin is on her google chat. Just because I have a parental control on her computer doesn’t mean I have to spy on her, but a jobless mother is the most dangerous thing in the world. Or make it a laid off mother.
I cancel my girl’s lunch citing schedule problems. I am not ready to tell anyone that I am laid off yet. The moment people know, they will start asking the obvious what next question. It’s not that I go and sit in their house begging for their attention if I lose my job, but people always make you feel inconsequential when you are jobless. They will show off how busy they are even when it doesn’t make a difference in my life. May be when I had a job, I might have done something like that to hurt them, unknowingly. Whatever the reason is, joblessness is the height of intellectual failure in my ladies circle.
Intrigued by the powers of google, fuelled by boredom and loneliness, I try to hunt down Shekhar on the net. Clean slate. Except for the linkedin and alumni websites, there is no record of him being a bad man like Satish. But then, may be Shekhar’s girl friends are happily married women. Bored housewives. Makes me cringe. I am one right now. Bored at home, and a wife. What if I had an affair with Shekhar, like Shobhana in Mitr? Knowing Shekhar, he wouldn’t encourage me. Rather, he wouldn’t have time for an affair. But there are unknowns about everyone. Shekhar is human too, not God Rama. It’s been long enough for our marriage to be a little bored. It’s Ok to be bored, as long as we want to rekindle the flame together. It’s only a problem when we look elsewhere.
I log on to my class, and start working on my assignment and on the whim, enroll in to two more writing classes. They are only a few hundred dollars at University extensions and are online. At least they will keep me busy. My classmates are all writers, according to them. But when I go to each of their websites, it’s nothing but rehashed lines of poetry from random poems. Same old love being red, emotions running deep. But they respected their art, and gave it prominence in their life. I respect that sentiment. Some have written books too. I haven’t heard of any of those books. Never saw them in any bookstore. Never read any reviews. That doesn’t make them unworthy. Just my random observation. Not being judgmental. There is a lot printed, there is a lot read. If I missed something, it’s not the end of the world for any writer. I start my assignment. My instructor wants me to take the newspaper, find three interesting articles and write an article. Interesting, though I don’t find anything interesting in Wall Street Journal except that the Dow Jones is shedding.. And investors are hibernating.
I leave my assignment mid-way, read my admirer’s letter again, and look him up on google. He is no Salman Rushdie, but he is a middle aged gentleman with greenish blue eyes. He has written books that haven’t enchanted anyone, but there are a few fans on his website. He is working on his next novel, probably another love story of sorts. I smile as I think of the possibility of being the inspiration of his novel, of having my quirks in one of his characters. But now that I that I have written an almost rude letter not acknowledging his interest in me or my writing, I have killed that wish. Or maybe not. I see a new email from him. May be to curtly say thank you for responding, anyway!
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-8)
“So mom, you will be home now?”
“Yes, that’s what it looks like”
“Listen, I am sorry to hear that”
“No need to be. Your mother is strong enough to get back on her own two feet”
“I know mom, you are a strong woman, and I admire that”
“Aren’t you happy that I will be home, taking better care of you?”
“I don’t know. I never thought that you care any less for me”
“Hmm”
“I like the fact that you work, you have a life of your own rather than cling to daddy for support all the time”
I look at Shekhar, and he smiles. Then, he hints that we should talk about good things, and have a good time. I can pretend to be having a good time, but deep down, I know that I won’t. I am hurt by the news of my impending layoff, no matter how expected and wished for it was. Suddenly I don’t have any drive to be a writer, or to be a mom in floral dress and high heels watching matinee with kids. But I don’t feel like rushing my resume to my network either. I will take it slow, this time. Savor each day, and do something meaningful. Now that we are almost settled financially, I think I can take that liberty. Life on unemployment will be a new chapter. Probably I will write it with golden letters, with the nicest of my cursive.
Krishna. My dream.
Lahiri. My dream.
Helicopter parenting. My another dream.
Hovering wife. My other dream.
Enjoy life. My sole dream.
Back to school. My impossible dream.
Go to India, and take a real vacation. Probably just a dream.
Fall in love, head over heels. My wish.
I eat ice-cream, slowly and carefully moving my spoon the bowl to catch every melted drop. I get tired, and sit back to watch it all melt. But before that Ruchi takes over, and finishes off. She is still babbling about things that I don’t know about, and don’t care about, and I have tuned out, already. She will probably share news of her medical checkup on Myspace, or not. Being the geek she is, she might be discussing puzzles and trivia on her page. I wondered who her friends were though. Or look it up myself. After all, there aren’t many Ruchi Potluris in the world.
I keep checking my emails, hoping for another beautiful email, so much that Shekhar snatches the phone from me, and switches it off. He doesn’t know what I am waiting for secretly. Am I cheating on him, emotionally? Am I allowed to be this excited over a letter of plain admiration of my writing skills? Am I allowed to imagine that the guy has a crush on me? Or is that I have a crush on this guy? Is he the shaggy blond haired, shiny blue eyed boy that I never had a crush on, growing up, because I grew up in an atmosphere where it was not decent for me to do so? What would Shekhar think of me if he knew that I was keeping a secret from him, first time in our married life? What would my admirer think of me if he knew I already have a crush on him? Just by google stalking him? Will I scare him away forever? Or will he want to take to the next step, take me for a tramp? Ruchi surely wouldn’t like me to do this. I decide to write a curt reply, so that there is no room left for another poetic letter from his side, and kill my middle-aged crush.
I see Shekhar talk to his daughter and forget everything else around him. He does the same when he is with me. But why am I not able to give everyone around me everything I have got? Why is this small nook deep inside my soul that always craves for something that I never had? I feel like the kid at the candy store holding a bag full of most decadent chocolates in the whole world, and secretly wish to eat the gummy bears when no one is watching me.
Shekhar brings another round of ice-cream, and without complaining about my weight, or calories, I share it with him. With extra show of love. Probably all the guilt in my heart of having a secret crush on a stranger makes me do it. Like the drunkards who shower too much love on their wives the day after they passed out on the couch. I don’t like this. I want my job back, so that I have something to obsess on. Keep my mind occupied for the good part of the day. I curse the higher ups for having found my group as an overhead, and I curse Greenspan for everything else. Blame has to be placed, and it won’t be on me.
I switch on my phone again. Shekhar pulls it, switches off, and I pull it back again, telling him it’s for personal email, and I am done worrying about work.
I send a quick and curt email to my crush, telling him that I appreciate his words, and that I would write a bigger email, but I have thousands of other tasks to take care of. There! I killed any fancy ideas that he might have about me, when he sent that email. Especially if he was hoping to be inspired.
“Yes, that’s what it looks like”
“Listen, I am sorry to hear that”
“No need to be. Your mother is strong enough to get back on her own two feet”
“I know mom, you are a strong woman, and I admire that”
“Aren’t you happy that I will be home, taking better care of you?”
“I don’t know. I never thought that you care any less for me”
“Hmm”
“I like the fact that you work, you have a life of your own rather than cling to daddy for support all the time”
I look at Shekhar, and he smiles. Then, he hints that we should talk about good things, and have a good time. I can pretend to be having a good time, but deep down, I know that I won’t. I am hurt by the news of my impending layoff, no matter how expected and wished for it was. Suddenly I don’t have any drive to be a writer, or to be a mom in floral dress and high heels watching matinee with kids. But I don’t feel like rushing my resume to my network either. I will take it slow, this time. Savor each day, and do something meaningful. Now that we are almost settled financially, I think I can take that liberty. Life on unemployment will be a new chapter. Probably I will write it with golden letters, with the nicest of my cursive.
Krishna. My dream.
Lahiri. My dream.
Helicopter parenting. My another dream.
Hovering wife. My other dream.
Enjoy life. My sole dream.
Back to school. My impossible dream.
Go to India, and take a real vacation. Probably just a dream.
Fall in love, head over heels. My wish.
I eat ice-cream, slowly and carefully moving my spoon the bowl to catch every melted drop. I get tired, and sit back to watch it all melt. But before that Ruchi takes over, and finishes off. She is still babbling about things that I don’t know about, and don’t care about, and I have tuned out, already. She will probably share news of her medical checkup on Myspace, or not. Being the geek she is, she might be discussing puzzles and trivia on her page. I wondered who her friends were though. Or look it up myself. After all, there aren’t many Ruchi Potluris in the world.
I keep checking my emails, hoping for another beautiful email, so much that Shekhar snatches the phone from me, and switches it off. He doesn’t know what I am waiting for secretly. Am I cheating on him, emotionally? Am I allowed to be this excited over a letter of plain admiration of my writing skills? Am I allowed to imagine that the guy has a crush on me? Or is that I have a crush on this guy? Is he the shaggy blond haired, shiny blue eyed boy that I never had a crush on, growing up, because I grew up in an atmosphere where it was not decent for me to do so? What would Shekhar think of me if he knew that I was keeping a secret from him, first time in our married life? What would my admirer think of me if he knew I already have a crush on him? Just by google stalking him? Will I scare him away forever? Or will he want to take to the next step, take me for a tramp? Ruchi surely wouldn’t like me to do this. I decide to write a curt reply, so that there is no room left for another poetic letter from his side, and kill my middle-aged crush.
I see Shekhar talk to his daughter and forget everything else around him. He does the same when he is with me. But why am I not able to give everyone around me everything I have got? Why is this small nook deep inside my soul that always craves for something that I never had? I feel like the kid at the candy store holding a bag full of most decadent chocolates in the whole world, and secretly wish to eat the gummy bears when no one is watching me.
Shekhar brings another round of ice-cream, and without complaining about my weight, or calories, I share it with him. With extra show of love. Probably all the guilt in my heart of having a secret crush on a stranger makes me do it. Like the drunkards who shower too much love on their wives the day after they passed out on the couch. I don’t like this. I want my job back, so that I have something to obsess on. Keep my mind occupied for the good part of the day. I curse the higher ups for having found my group as an overhead, and I curse Greenspan for everything else. Blame has to be placed, and it won’t be on me.
I switch on my phone again. Shekhar pulls it, switches off, and I pull it back again, telling him it’s for personal email, and I am done worrying about work.
I send a quick and curt email to my crush, telling him that I appreciate his words, and that I would write a bigger email, but I have thousands of other tasks to take care of. There! I killed any fancy ideas that he might have about me, when he sent that email. Especially if he was hoping to be inspired.
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-7)
That there is a pink slip party in my company after the company stock price rivaled a Cheeseburger, and fears of becoming another Lehmann started becoming real. I wanted to be at office on my day off, but I tried hard to be not disturbed by the thought. Besides we were ready to face it, financially. In this economy, even if it happens to me, it will not be taken as a rejection of my skills.
Whatever! I picked up the phone and called a know-all at work. It was confirmed. Me, and my team were one of the several teams that were let go because of the company was supposedly taking drastic measures to save money, and all of us were promised three months worth severance. But that would happen Friday, not today. If I wanted, I could take my sick time off since I hadn’t used it at all. Such is life! There were times when I was really sick, and needed a little rest, but anyway went to work because I would be doing it the day after if I skipped one day.
It’s like the doctor telling a patient that his days are numbered. I will be losing my job, in three days. Come Monday, I will have Monday morning blues. Blues for not having a place to drag my feet to. Blues for losing the structure in my life. Blues for not getting a paycheck. Should I tell Shekhar and Ruchi now? I get up, shower, and let the salty warm water from my tears mix with the hot water and flow through. I don’t have to be sad for letting go from a job that I hated every minute for the past ten months, but I am sad. For being rejected.
I get dressed, and hear Shekhar and Ruchi giggle. Like a bunch of teenagers.
“What’s happening?”
“Just Daddy-Ruchi time”
“Why did you guys stop?”
“Because you came and it isn’t daddy-Ruchi time anymore”
“Why not?”
“It’s family pillow fight time!”
And then I was hit with pillows all over. Somehow it felt like being laid off. The action didn’t hurt, but the sentiment did. Of hitting. I decide not to spoil their mood and tell them to get ready and get going. We can have a family outing, and enjoy.
I was in the kitchen, fixing up breakfast, and Shekhar came to me. Ruchi was in the shower. I could hear her sing “Last time I freaked out” and jump around in the tub.
“Hey, why are you so sad?”
“Do I look sad?”
“Yeah”
“Then maybe I am sad”
“That’s why, my question, why are you so sad?”
“Yes, I am sad”
“Once again, why are you sad?”
“Because I am losing my job”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. I will bring no pay check come next week”
“So, what does the package look like?”
“I don’t know”
“File for unemployment immediately. Don’t forget”
“You are not going to say any words of sympathy?”
“Why should I? I know you were waiting for this moment”
“Was I? Funny that I don’t remember”
“I do. Remember what you said when we were watching Lehmann employees walk out with boxes of stuff after the Feds took over?”
“I said why didn’t they take over my company too, and let us out like this. That was a joke. A bad joke”
“Dreams come true, my princess, there is a good fairy on your shoulders always, making all your wishes come true”
“Yes my prince, I do believe you. If not for her, I would be in a dungeon. She summoned you to save me”
“And I did. I am your knight in shining Armani.. Driving my Audi in the darkest of the nights to save you.. From the evil clutches of spinsterhood”
“Yeah, Robin hood, have your protein drink”
“When is the last day?”
“Friday”
“You want me to come and pick you up?”
“I have no Audi Sire, but I am capable of sliding my Merc out of that garage, one last time”
“Good luck. Keep your phone on, and pick it up when I call. Don’t sit crying somewhere”
“Why would I cry? I am happy that I have my freedom at last”
“Write. Read. Enjoy life with Ruchi”
“And you”
“I am always with you”
“Near, yet so far”
“You are reading too much chicklit”
“They are a good transition after too much of Princess Diaries”
“Love you”
“Me too”
“Listen.. Ruchi told me this morning”
“What?”
“About her physical change. I didn’t have to ask”
“Kidding me?”
“No, she explained the whole thing to me”
“Wow. I don’t believe you”
“Your wish. But I am telling you..”
This girl surprise me! She had no qualms telling her dad, but did so much drama with me! I am sure, if she ever has a boyfriend, Shekhar will know before me! I pour the shake into glasses, while I think what will become of my life, come Monday. Will I end up being a desperate housewife for attention? Will I be able to put this failure of sorts behind me and start life anew? Only time will tell. I forgot all about the lengthy email in all this ruckus. I slip to the bathroom, with my phone to read the email. Something makes me uncomfortable to read it in the living room. I might smile, my eyes might shine if there is something good written about me. I didn't want Shekhar to notice that twinkle in my eyes for a stranger, and his words.
Whatever! I picked up the phone and called a know-all at work. It was confirmed. Me, and my team were one of the several teams that were let go because of the company was supposedly taking drastic measures to save money, and all of us were promised three months worth severance. But that would happen Friday, not today. If I wanted, I could take my sick time off since I hadn’t used it at all. Such is life! There were times when I was really sick, and needed a little rest, but anyway went to work because I would be doing it the day after if I skipped one day.
It’s like the doctor telling a patient that his days are numbered. I will be losing my job, in three days. Come Monday, I will have Monday morning blues. Blues for not having a place to drag my feet to. Blues for losing the structure in my life. Blues for not getting a paycheck. Should I tell Shekhar and Ruchi now? I get up, shower, and let the salty warm water from my tears mix with the hot water and flow through. I don’t have to be sad for letting go from a job that I hated every minute for the past ten months, but I am sad. For being rejected.
I get dressed, and hear Shekhar and Ruchi giggle. Like a bunch of teenagers.
“What’s happening?”
“Just Daddy-Ruchi time”
“Why did you guys stop?”
“Because you came and it isn’t daddy-Ruchi time anymore”
“Why not?”
“It’s family pillow fight time!”
And then I was hit with pillows all over. Somehow it felt like being laid off. The action didn’t hurt, but the sentiment did. Of hitting. I decide not to spoil their mood and tell them to get ready and get going. We can have a family outing, and enjoy.
I was in the kitchen, fixing up breakfast, and Shekhar came to me. Ruchi was in the shower. I could hear her sing “Last time I freaked out” and jump around in the tub.
“Hey, why are you so sad?”
“Do I look sad?”
“Yeah”
“Then maybe I am sad”
“That’s why, my question, why are you so sad?”
“Yes, I am sad”
“Once again, why are you sad?”
“Because I am losing my job”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. I will bring no pay check come next week”
“So, what does the package look like?”
“I don’t know”
“File for unemployment immediately. Don’t forget”
“You are not going to say any words of sympathy?”
“Why should I? I know you were waiting for this moment”
“Was I? Funny that I don’t remember”
“I do. Remember what you said when we were watching Lehmann employees walk out with boxes of stuff after the Feds took over?”
“I said why didn’t they take over my company too, and let us out like this. That was a joke. A bad joke”
“Dreams come true, my princess, there is a good fairy on your shoulders always, making all your wishes come true”
“Yes my prince, I do believe you. If not for her, I would be in a dungeon. She summoned you to save me”
“And I did. I am your knight in shining Armani.. Driving my Audi in the darkest of the nights to save you.. From the evil clutches of spinsterhood”
“Yeah, Robin hood, have your protein drink”
“When is the last day?”
“Friday”
“You want me to come and pick you up?”
“I have no Audi Sire, but I am capable of sliding my Merc out of that garage, one last time”
“Good luck. Keep your phone on, and pick it up when I call. Don’t sit crying somewhere”
“Why would I cry? I am happy that I have my freedom at last”
“Write. Read. Enjoy life with Ruchi”
“And you”
“I am always with you”
“Near, yet so far”
“You are reading too much chicklit”
“They are a good transition after too much of Princess Diaries”
“Love you”
“Me too”
“Listen.. Ruchi told me this morning”
“What?”
“About her physical change. I didn’t have to ask”
“Kidding me?”
“No, she explained the whole thing to me”
“Wow. I don’t believe you”
“Your wish. But I am telling you..”
This girl surprise me! She had no qualms telling her dad, but did so much drama with me! I am sure, if she ever has a boyfriend, Shekhar will know before me! I pour the shake into glasses, while I think what will become of my life, come Monday. Will I end up being a desperate housewife for attention? Will I be able to put this failure of sorts behind me and start life anew? Only time will tell. I forgot all about the lengthy email in all this ruckus. I slip to the bathroom, with my phone to read the email. Something makes me uncomfortable to read it in the living room. I might smile, my eyes might shine if there is something good written about me. I didn't want Shekhar to notice that twinkle in my eyes for a stranger, and his words.
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-6)
“I read your black”, said Shekhar, playing with the little ties on my dress.
I looked up at him, surprised, and happy, and not wanting to show any excitement of a little girl, said “Hmm”
“You write beautifully”
“Hmm”
“Been imagining your bare back in black ever since”
“Hmm.. But only I didn’t write anything to that effect”
“It’s all in imagination”
“Yours runs wild”
“Because you are beautiful and lucky, and I lust for you”
“Liar”
“Shhh” and he seals my lips so that we don’t talk anymore, but how I crave to talk only, sometimes, and cuddle only sometimes.
“Hey, you”
“Umm”
“Want me to fix you a drink”
“Uhmm”
“Let’s go downstairs”
“You go ahead, I will change and come”
“It’s Ok. She is sleeping. Here, wear my shirt on top”
“You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah..”
“Want to quit your job?”
“Hmm?”
“If you want to, that’s OK. I know you have been working too hard already”
“I love it better than sitting at home and not finding another one”
“You can write”
“You really think I can write?”
“Yes. Go ahead and write something. If it doesn’t work out, you will at least know that you tried”
“You are so sweet”
“You are not.. You are plain sexy”
I tried hard not to bring up Ruchi into a conversation that was so intimate, and an evening that was just about us, after a long time. We were discussing just us, or rather just me. No distractions. But a mother has got to do, what she has to.
“Listen, we are going to the doctor tomorrow”
“You.. alright?”
“Yes, it’s just that Ruchi..”
“Oh, the cervical vaccine? Does she need to skip school to get that vaccine? Imean, how urgent is that? She is not even sexually active, or I believe so!”
“Ruchi started her period”
“Which one?”
“Menstrual”
“What! She is so little”
Shekhar looks at me, so shocked, as if it’s all my mistake!
“In case you haven’t noticed, she is almost as tall as me, and taller than several kids her age”
“But it can’t be true.. did you check?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not something that you check. We will go the doctor tomorrow, and go out for the rest of the day”
“I will take a day off as well”
“Ruchi doesn’t want you to know”
“I am her dad! She tells me everything”
“But this is different”
“Yeah.. in your grandma’s days”
“Shekhar, you don’t understand.. let her get used to it first”
“Shh.. don’t you ever come between me and my daughter”
“I am serious”
“Let me handle things my way. I need to know what happens to her just as much as you do. I have changed more diapers than you have ever. I have taken care of all night feedings ever since she was born. I have taken her to the first day of preschool, and cheered her on every other occasion. I deserve to be included in this”
“You won’t be less of a parent if you wait till she is ready to talk”
“I will talk to her tomorrow morning”
“Whatever”
“Stay out of it, will you? ”
I didn’t want to spoil the rest of the night with a fight with Shekhar, but I had to look for ways to convince dear daughter that I was not a tattletale even though I told Shekhar, and she should still continue to trust me.
I try to enjoy the drink, but Shekhar is already flipping channels..I sleep in his arms for I don’t know how long, till he wakes me up and takes me back my room. I switch on my phone when he falls asleep, as if I had an email from a secret lover.
Only this time, there is another email that needs more attention. I forget all about the long and lovely letter, by a man I didn’t know.
I looked up at him, surprised, and happy, and not wanting to show any excitement of a little girl, said “Hmm”
“You write beautifully”
“Hmm”
“Been imagining your bare back in black ever since”
“Hmm.. But only I didn’t write anything to that effect”
“It’s all in imagination”
“Yours runs wild”
“Because you are beautiful and lucky, and I lust for you”
“Liar”
“Shhh” and he seals my lips so that we don’t talk anymore, but how I crave to talk only, sometimes, and cuddle only sometimes.
“Hey, you”
“Umm”
“Want me to fix you a drink”
“Uhmm”
“Let’s go downstairs”
“You go ahead, I will change and come”
“It’s Ok. She is sleeping. Here, wear my shirt on top”
“You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah..”
“Want to quit your job?”
“Hmm?”
“If you want to, that’s OK. I know you have been working too hard already”
“I love it better than sitting at home and not finding another one”
“You can write”
“You really think I can write?”
“Yes. Go ahead and write something. If it doesn’t work out, you will at least know that you tried”
“You are so sweet”
“You are not.. You are plain sexy”
I tried hard not to bring up Ruchi into a conversation that was so intimate, and an evening that was just about us, after a long time. We were discussing just us, or rather just me. No distractions. But a mother has got to do, what she has to.
“Listen, we are going to the doctor tomorrow”
“You.. alright?”
“Yes, it’s just that Ruchi..”
“Oh, the cervical vaccine? Does she need to skip school to get that vaccine? Imean, how urgent is that? She is not even sexually active, or I believe so!”
“Ruchi started her period”
“Which one?”
“Menstrual”
“What! She is so little”
Shekhar looks at me, so shocked, as if it’s all my mistake!
“In case you haven’t noticed, she is almost as tall as me, and taller than several kids her age”
“But it can’t be true.. did you check?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not something that you check. We will go the doctor tomorrow, and go out for the rest of the day”
“I will take a day off as well”
“Ruchi doesn’t want you to know”
“I am her dad! She tells me everything”
“But this is different”
“Yeah.. in your grandma’s days”
“Shekhar, you don’t understand.. let her get used to it first”
“Shh.. don’t you ever come between me and my daughter”
“I am serious”
“Let me handle things my way. I need to know what happens to her just as much as you do. I have changed more diapers than you have ever. I have taken care of all night feedings ever since she was born. I have taken her to the first day of preschool, and cheered her on every other occasion. I deserve to be included in this”
“You won’t be less of a parent if you wait till she is ready to talk”
“I will talk to her tomorrow morning”
“Whatever”
“Stay out of it, will you? ”
I didn’t want to spoil the rest of the night with a fight with Shekhar, but I had to look for ways to convince dear daughter that I was not a tattletale even though I told Shekhar, and she should still continue to trust me.
I try to enjoy the drink, but Shekhar is already flipping channels..I sleep in his arms for I don’t know how long, till he wakes me up and takes me back my room. I switch on my phone when he falls asleep, as if I had an email from a secret lover.
Only this time, there is another email that needs more attention. I forget all about the long and lovely letter, by a man I didn’t know.
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-5)
I sit in the bathroom, blanked out. I don’t know how to embrace life anymore. I am neither old enough to stop thinking about me, nor am I young enough to be so self-centered. Ruchi is an inch shorter than me, and in a year, she will probably be taller. Shekhar doesn’t bother much if I cook, or if I cater. He has given me more independence than I want him to. When we were newly married, I would crave for me time. These days, everyone has given me back to my world. Only I get a weird feeling that I don’t belong there. I don’t even know where I belong. I don’t feel passionate about work, or about life. Shopping, traveling or even exercising doesn’t excite me about anything. The high that I got buying two hundred dollar shoes isn’t even matched buying nine hundred dollar shoes these days. Everything looks so bland. Like someone drained every color of life, but didn’t leave a white canvas for me to fill it again. It’s all discolored.
I shower, looking at myself in the mirror. I look old. Not old enough to cover creases on my neck with a scarf, but old enough to feel a not-so-tight skin around the thighs. Even after working out whenever I could, and watching what I eat. Probably I feel so because I compare myself with Ruchi. I don’t feel pretty. My face doesn’t have a single acne scar, but it looks jaded. For a vague reason, I remember the story of Snow white, and the line “magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all”. My mirror had told me today that I am not, any more. I don’t feel jealous, but I don’t feel happy either that my daughter is a head turner, like mother. I don’t feel proud at all. Probably the day she gets into Harvard, or Stanford, I will feel the same, again. Clueless, even when I show my happiness.
Shekhar walked in to the bathroom, and went straight to the closet, patting me on his way, asking if it was a lucky night. I didn’t say anything, but continued to blow dry my hair, running my fingers through them. I am thinking of ways to bring up the subject. It shouldn’t spoil the rest of the evening for us. It’s been so long that Shekhar came home early, and I was fresh out of the shower, and didn’t have to worry about going to work the next day. Ruchi had already gone to sleep after eating Mac-n-cheese. That’s one habit that hasn’t changed yet. Though she eats two packets instead of one, and uses only sachet of cheese, and no butter at all. I wonder what the mistake was though. I made sure we bought only organic milk, didn’t give her too much fat after she was eight, made sure she stayed active every day, and still the onset of her period was early. It’s not hereditary either. I wonder if I should tell her grandparents, or that would embarrass her further. I remember my mom didn’t tell anyone until I was sixteen to avoid any sexual advances towards me. Now I should start guarding my daughter. From her own friends, and from Shekhar’s friends, when drunk. Especially Prakash, who always runs his hands on every kid’s back. I have heard Manisha’s daughter complain that he runs his hands on the back of her bra, and tries to hug her till her breasts touch his chest when he congratulates her. She absolutely hates him, and avoids him at all costs these days. So, next potluck with that group of friends will be only when Prakash can’t make it. We will have to invite him for the bigger parties though. I will just advise Ruchi to avoid him.
I finish rubbing some night cream on my body and wear a black lacy lingerie I bought last month, but never bothered to open the package, and remove the stickers, and pretend to read a book. I don’t want to be the needy one. I hear the shower, which means Shekhar has noticed my new dress. I feel sleepy reading Candance Bushnell’s Trading up, and the book does nothing to keep me awake. These are women of my age, still hunting for Mr. Perfect, or Mr. Big in the Big Apple. I have nothing to relate to. May be that’s the reason I am not able to enjoy the book. On the other hand, I didn’t enjoy Lipstick Jungle either. Three married women in Big Apple, and their marital and parenting woes. But there were so many affairs going on, I couldn’t relate with that either. I hardly find anyone attract me, sexually, except Shekhar these days. Not even John Abraham showing off every inch of his body. Somehow Shekhar with his receding hairline and a paunch looks sexier. May be it’s just about being comfortable with each other, and not just visual anymore. May be it’s true love. May be it’s loyalty. May be I just never found someone who could attract me, and sweep me off my feet. Whatever the reason is, I haven’t strayed in the past twelve years. Not even once.
Shekhar walks to bed, removes the book from my hand, and kisses me. I forget all about Ruchi, all about work, and all about the day off next day. It’s been a month that we made love on a weekday. So hectic life had become. When Ruchi was born, we would sneak in an afternoon session every weekend, but now that she has grown up, and is out of the house for most of Saturday, we end up reading something we haven’t read in a while, or watching a movie, or even going out for a walk. Sometimes it’s worse, we pay bills, and discuss investments. Actually we are treating out home like a corporation, and doing everything to make it a smooth well-oiled machine. We have succeeded at that. I shouldn’t be complaining.
My phone vibrates. It’s an email, from one of my classmates from the Writing Class. I browse through, it’s too long to be reading on a phone. I smile when I see that it was from a man. May be he is a gay man, I wonder, having not received a single love letter from anyone who loved me. It’s always been a line or two scribbled on a beautiful card. When someone told me that they write poems for the wife on a post it, and leave them on her steering wheel, I was literally speechless. Shekhar’s idea of showing love is a leaving a full tank car for me in the garage on days that I travel. So far, I love the way he loves me. Shekhar switches off the phone, and pulls me back in the bed, and I forget all about the letter.
I shower, looking at myself in the mirror. I look old. Not old enough to cover creases on my neck with a scarf, but old enough to feel a not-so-tight skin around the thighs. Even after working out whenever I could, and watching what I eat. Probably I feel so because I compare myself with Ruchi. I don’t feel pretty. My face doesn’t have a single acne scar, but it looks jaded. For a vague reason, I remember the story of Snow white, and the line “magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all”. My mirror had told me today that I am not, any more. I don’t feel jealous, but I don’t feel happy either that my daughter is a head turner, like mother. I don’t feel proud at all. Probably the day she gets into Harvard, or Stanford, I will feel the same, again. Clueless, even when I show my happiness.
Shekhar walked in to the bathroom, and went straight to the closet, patting me on his way, asking if it was a lucky night. I didn’t say anything, but continued to blow dry my hair, running my fingers through them. I am thinking of ways to bring up the subject. It shouldn’t spoil the rest of the evening for us. It’s been so long that Shekhar came home early, and I was fresh out of the shower, and didn’t have to worry about going to work the next day. Ruchi had already gone to sleep after eating Mac-n-cheese. That’s one habit that hasn’t changed yet. Though she eats two packets instead of one, and uses only sachet of cheese, and no butter at all. I wonder what the mistake was though. I made sure we bought only organic milk, didn’t give her too much fat after she was eight, made sure she stayed active every day, and still the onset of her period was early. It’s not hereditary either. I wonder if I should tell her grandparents, or that would embarrass her further. I remember my mom didn’t tell anyone until I was sixteen to avoid any sexual advances towards me. Now I should start guarding my daughter. From her own friends, and from Shekhar’s friends, when drunk. Especially Prakash, who always runs his hands on every kid’s back. I have heard Manisha’s daughter complain that he runs his hands on the back of her bra, and tries to hug her till her breasts touch his chest when he congratulates her. She absolutely hates him, and avoids him at all costs these days. So, next potluck with that group of friends will be only when Prakash can’t make it. We will have to invite him for the bigger parties though. I will just advise Ruchi to avoid him.
I finish rubbing some night cream on my body and wear a black lacy lingerie I bought last month, but never bothered to open the package, and remove the stickers, and pretend to read a book. I don’t want to be the needy one. I hear the shower, which means Shekhar has noticed my new dress. I feel sleepy reading Candance Bushnell’s Trading up, and the book does nothing to keep me awake. These are women of my age, still hunting for Mr. Perfect, or Mr. Big in the Big Apple. I have nothing to relate to. May be that’s the reason I am not able to enjoy the book. On the other hand, I didn’t enjoy Lipstick Jungle either. Three married women in Big Apple, and their marital and parenting woes. But there were so many affairs going on, I couldn’t relate with that either. I hardly find anyone attract me, sexually, except Shekhar these days. Not even John Abraham showing off every inch of his body. Somehow Shekhar with his receding hairline and a paunch looks sexier. May be it’s just about being comfortable with each other, and not just visual anymore. May be it’s true love. May be it’s loyalty. May be I just never found someone who could attract me, and sweep me off my feet. Whatever the reason is, I haven’t strayed in the past twelve years. Not even once.
Shekhar walks to bed, removes the book from my hand, and kisses me. I forget all about Ruchi, all about work, and all about the day off next day. It’s been a month that we made love on a weekday. So hectic life had become. When Ruchi was born, we would sneak in an afternoon session every weekend, but now that she has grown up, and is out of the house for most of Saturday, we end up reading something we haven’t read in a while, or watching a movie, or even going out for a walk. Sometimes it’s worse, we pay bills, and discuss investments. Actually we are treating out home like a corporation, and doing everything to make it a smooth well-oiled machine. We have succeeded at that. I shouldn’t be complaining.
My phone vibrates. It’s an email, from one of my classmates from the Writing Class. I browse through, it’s too long to be reading on a phone. I smile when I see that it was from a man. May be he is a gay man, I wonder, having not received a single love letter from anyone who loved me. It’s always been a line or two scribbled on a beautiful card. When someone told me that they write poems for the wife on a post it, and leave them on her steering wheel, I was literally speechless. Shekhar’s idea of showing love is a leaving a full tank car for me in the garage on days that I travel. So far, I love the way he loves me. Shekhar switches off the phone, and pulls me back in the bed, and I forget all about the letter.
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-4)
I park the car at Ruchi’s afterschool. It’s dark already. Winters are dreadful with their dark skies. I wait for spring. Perpetually. Sometimes I wonder if I should just enjoy what every season has to give than sit and sulk. The grey skies won’t fade away, and the sun won’t shine just because I wish them to. I am told many times already that the world doesn’t revolve around me. If I wish to be sixteen, and hush myself in my own cocoon, I am allowed to. But the world will change, outside me. Whether I like it or not. Life moves on. I have learnt this hard lesson trying to hold on to the spring of my life, only to be greeted with premature winter and wilting leaves. I don’t blame Shekhar also. He had his own ideas of enjoying life to the fullest, and I had mine. It’s just that I didn’t understand that they don’t have to be the same necessarily for a couple. We still love each other, but we have our personal life separated from married life, for better or for worse. I have been unsuccessful in defining them clearly, yet.
I see Ruchi walking to the car, which is very unusual, but I wait. She bangs the door shut, and sits inside, without saying a word to me. I try not to lose my temper at the show of pre-teen attitude, and try talking to her.
“What’s wrong Ruchi?”
“Nothing”
“Why the long face?”
“Um-um”
“I am asking something”
Silence.
“Ruchi?”
“Yeah.. It’s just something that’s happening. Oh, you will say it’s nothing to worry about anyway. What’s the use of telling you?”
I don’t know when my daughter started feeling that I won’t care, or worry.
“Ruchi, tell me, maybe I can listen?”
She started crying already. It was no use asking her anything sitting in the front seat. I should have understood that something was wrong when she came out walking. I drive to the nearest Starbucks while Ruchi sobs on, like some tragedy has befallen her. I think of different scenarios that might have gone wrong. May be she had crush on shaggy boy Calvin, and he found love in someone else’s arms.. no, may be eyes at this age. May be she didn’t get a good grade on math. May be she got pregnant like Manisha’s daughter? God no! That can’t be true! I am trying to be a good mother.. I am a good mother. Don’t give me a bad child. I won’t be able to live with it. I am suddenly scared, and try to look at her face for any tell tale signs in the rear view mirror, but there isn’t enough light. I pull over at Starbucks, and order a Caramel Machiato, and a hot chocolate for Ruchi.
“Make it Soy, please”, I heard Ruchi say. As far as I knew, she had no allergies to diary, until last night. Suddenly I feel my feet go cold as I worry of unknowns about Ruchi.
“So, tell me what happened?”
“Nothing serious”
“You are telling me that you are crying just because you feel like? Not because something happened?
“It’s not like that”
“Calvin got a girl friend”
“I don’t even like Calvin!”
“Oh yeah, you like that Indian boy who asks you about Indian movies and is five inches shorter than you”
“Mom, would you stop it?!”
“What happened?”
“It’s just that..”
“Just that, what?”
“I have noticed something”
“Okay”
“Physically change”
“Hmm”
“I don’t know if you already noticed, but it’s been almost two months now”
“What!?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. It was so embarrassing. And I knew what was happening. You talked to me, Ms. Suzie told me. It was a little earlier than any of you thought it would be, but like you said, it’s natural”
I deep breathe, trying to memorize what a mom should say at this moment, without letting kid feel emotionally alienated.
“Sweety, I am not sure if you I understand you right”
“Mom, we are sitting in Starbucks and discussing this! I can’t make anything clearer than this!”
“Okay, can you re-tell everything you said, using different words?”
“Mom, I am going through natural phase of my body that is affecting my life, and I am very embarrassed to talk to you, or anyone about it. I know it’s too early, none of my friends have experienced it yet, and you didn’t either when you were my age”
“Oh my God! You are pregnant!”
Silence.
“Are you crazy, mom?!”
“You should have talked to me before. It might be too late already”
“What? How could you think I would do anything like that! I don’t even have a boy friend.”
Silence on my side. We were already being stared by an elderly couple. Mother without a ring, and daughter with a natural physical change were interesting that watching evening news about dead body trading. Plunging moral values of the person sitting next to you are always worrisome than the Dow Jones that might wipe off anything that remained in retirement funds. I don’t care about anyone who doesn’t know me, or my family. They can let their imagination run wild, just like I do about other strangers. It’s a habit for some; it’s a hobby for some. They call it studying faces. Except the couple here was judging faces.
“You are a freak mom!”
“Watch your words, Ruchi!”
“You watch your thoughts, Mom! I am not like Manisha aunty’s daughter!”
“Don’t take her name. I think I made it clear”
“Just because you don’t, doesn’t mean the whole world forgot about her. Everyone teases her at temple, and at school, and no one has forgotten”
“Ok, let’s not worry about others. Tell me what’s ailing you”
“Hmm”
“What?”
“I got my period two months ago”
“What?!”
“Yeah. I took your pads from your bathroom in case you haven’t noticed”
“I don’t keep them in the bathroom”
“Ok, your closet, with your private stuff”
“How could you? Why did you hide it?”
“It’s not something great that should be shared with everyone.. besides I was embarrassed. You will tell dad”
“He is your dad. He should know what’s going on with you”
“I don’t like it”
“It doesn’t work like that”
“I don’t care. Just don’t tell him, yet”
“OK. I won’t. What went wrong that you had to tell me, now?”
“I haven’t had my period ever since, and now I feel funny around my tummy. It’s getting hard, and everything irritates me”
“Hmm.. you sure you didn’t”
“No, I didn’t sleep with anyone”
“I meant, you counted right?”
“Yes. I know how to count 28, I top in math always”
“Let me take you to the doctor tomorrow”
“Am I alright?”
“Yes, it’s normal. Happens to everyone. Happened to me, your aunt, a lot of my friends”
“Hmm..”
“It’s Ok”
“You will take a day off for me?”
“Yes. You come before anything else in my life”
“What about your manager? Will he make you a target?”
“I don’t care”
“I can wait if you have any problems at work”
“Ruchi”
“Can we go out for lunch, after doctor’s?”
“Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“P.F.Changs. Like we did when I was in third grade”
“Sure”
I send an email to my manager that I am sick, going to the doctor. Sent another one to Shekhar that we needed to talk, tonight. We bought a few muffins and another round of lattes, for both of us, with soy for Ruchi, and fat free for me. Suddenly my girl had grown up, and I hadn't taken time to notice. I pick her up every evening, and we do homework together, I attend her sports, I talk to her before she sleeps, sometimes early mornings, and we play tennis on the weekends. Never noticed anything. Was I so preoccupied? Was I so careless? Or Ruchi was so careful? I decided to pay extra attention from now onwards as I started the car to go home, with Ruchi next to me, opening and closing the glove box, humming some Hannah Montana song that didn’t make any sense to me. I smile at my own naivety for thinking that she could be pregnant when I didn’t even that her periods started.
I see Ruchi walking to the car, which is very unusual, but I wait. She bangs the door shut, and sits inside, without saying a word to me. I try not to lose my temper at the show of pre-teen attitude, and try talking to her.
“What’s wrong Ruchi?”
“Nothing”
“Why the long face?”
“Um-um”
“I am asking something”
Silence.
“Ruchi?”
“Yeah.. It’s just something that’s happening. Oh, you will say it’s nothing to worry about anyway. What’s the use of telling you?”
I don’t know when my daughter started feeling that I won’t care, or worry.
“Ruchi, tell me, maybe I can listen?”
She started crying already. It was no use asking her anything sitting in the front seat. I should have understood that something was wrong when she came out walking. I drive to the nearest Starbucks while Ruchi sobs on, like some tragedy has befallen her. I think of different scenarios that might have gone wrong. May be she had crush on shaggy boy Calvin, and he found love in someone else’s arms.. no, may be eyes at this age. May be she didn’t get a good grade on math. May be she got pregnant like Manisha’s daughter? God no! That can’t be true! I am trying to be a good mother.. I am a good mother. Don’t give me a bad child. I won’t be able to live with it. I am suddenly scared, and try to look at her face for any tell tale signs in the rear view mirror, but there isn’t enough light. I pull over at Starbucks, and order a Caramel Machiato, and a hot chocolate for Ruchi.
“Make it Soy, please”, I heard Ruchi say. As far as I knew, she had no allergies to diary, until last night. Suddenly I feel my feet go cold as I worry of unknowns about Ruchi.
“So, tell me what happened?”
“Nothing serious”
“You are telling me that you are crying just because you feel like? Not because something happened?
“It’s not like that”
“Calvin got a girl friend”
“I don’t even like Calvin!”
“Oh yeah, you like that Indian boy who asks you about Indian movies and is five inches shorter than you”
“Mom, would you stop it?!”
“What happened?”
“It’s just that..”
“Just that, what?”
“I have noticed something”
“Okay”
“Physically change”
“Hmm”
“I don’t know if you already noticed, but it’s been almost two months now”
“What!?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. It was so embarrassing. And I knew what was happening. You talked to me, Ms. Suzie told me. It was a little earlier than any of you thought it would be, but like you said, it’s natural”
I deep breathe, trying to memorize what a mom should say at this moment, without letting kid feel emotionally alienated.
“Sweety, I am not sure if you I understand you right”
“Mom, we are sitting in Starbucks and discussing this! I can’t make anything clearer than this!”
“Okay, can you re-tell everything you said, using different words?”
“Mom, I am going through natural phase of my body that is affecting my life, and I am very embarrassed to talk to you, or anyone about it. I know it’s too early, none of my friends have experienced it yet, and you didn’t either when you were my age”
“Oh my God! You are pregnant!”
Silence.
“Are you crazy, mom?!”
“You should have talked to me before. It might be too late already”
“What? How could you think I would do anything like that! I don’t even have a boy friend.”
Silence on my side. We were already being stared by an elderly couple. Mother without a ring, and daughter with a natural physical change were interesting that watching evening news about dead body trading. Plunging moral values of the person sitting next to you are always worrisome than the Dow Jones that might wipe off anything that remained in retirement funds. I don’t care about anyone who doesn’t know me, or my family. They can let their imagination run wild, just like I do about other strangers. It’s a habit for some; it’s a hobby for some. They call it studying faces. Except the couple here was judging faces.
“You are a freak mom!”
“Watch your words, Ruchi!”
“You watch your thoughts, Mom! I am not like Manisha aunty’s daughter!”
“Don’t take her name. I think I made it clear”
“Just because you don’t, doesn’t mean the whole world forgot about her. Everyone teases her at temple, and at school, and no one has forgotten”
“Ok, let’s not worry about others. Tell me what’s ailing you”
“Hmm”
“What?”
“I got my period two months ago”
“What?!”
“Yeah. I took your pads from your bathroom in case you haven’t noticed”
“I don’t keep them in the bathroom”
“Ok, your closet, with your private stuff”
“How could you? Why did you hide it?”
“It’s not something great that should be shared with everyone.. besides I was embarrassed. You will tell dad”
“He is your dad. He should know what’s going on with you”
“I don’t like it”
“It doesn’t work like that”
“I don’t care. Just don’t tell him, yet”
“OK. I won’t. What went wrong that you had to tell me, now?”
“I haven’t had my period ever since, and now I feel funny around my tummy. It’s getting hard, and everything irritates me”
“Hmm.. you sure you didn’t”
“No, I didn’t sleep with anyone”
“I meant, you counted right?”
“Yes. I know how to count 28, I top in math always”
“Let me take you to the doctor tomorrow”
“Am I alright?”
“Yes, it’s normal. Happens to everyone. Happened to me, your aunt, a lot of my friends”
“Hmm..”
“It’s Ok”
“You will take a day off for me?”
“Yes. You come before anything else in my life”
“What about your manager? Will he make you a target?”
“I don’t care”
“I can wait if you have any problems at work”
“Ruchi”
“Can we go out for lunch, after doctor’s?”
“Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“P.F.Changs. Like we did when I was in third grade”
“Sure”
I send an email to my manager that I am sick, going to the doctor. Sent another one to Shekhar that we needed to talk, tonight. We bought a few muffins and another round of lattes, for both of us, with soy for Ruchi, and fat free for me. Suddenly my girl had grown up, and I hadn't taken time to notice. I pick her up every evening, and we do homework together, I attend her sports, I talk to her before she sleeps, sometimes early mornings, and we play tennis on the weekends. Never noticed anything. Was I so preoccupied? Was I so careless? Or Ruchi was so careful? I decided to pay extra attention from now onwards as I started the car to go home, with Ruchi next to me, opening and closing the glove box, humming some Hannah Montana song that didn’t make any sense to me. I smile at my own naivety for thinking that she could be pregnant when I didn’t even that her periods started.
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-3)
It’s already six, and I need to get going now. I have to pick up Ruchi, and help her with homework. Ruchi is turning into a Geek Goddess. Here I am, trying to give her every opportunity to rock her life with sports and creative arts, and the girl buries herself deep in to Math and literature. She tells me that she doesn’t have to be good at everything that she does when it comes to playing tennis, but she always reminds me that since her grades might be affected, she wants to make sure she is fully rested before her Friday test. She will play with the cell phone for an hour, but not spend so long styling her hair. She has an easy maintenance haircut too. Geekiness hasn’t come into the way of talking about boys though. Of course she always reminds me that she is not one of those girls who think they have a crush. She tries hard to convince me that studies are her sole interest in school, and there is no way she will have a crush on any boy in her class. Not even Calvin with shaggy blond hair and shiny blue eyes, which I can’t believe at all.
I check my email one last time, hoping to hear some comments about my writing. Manisha said nice. I am sure she didn’t read. If she did, she didn’t understand. My writing deserved more than “nice”. Neena pointed out a few spelling errors, and commented that I saw something that others didn’t, but then, that I was a writer. Encouraged, I send it to Shekhar, and log out. Or rather shut down. I want to save energy. It’s not going to add up into the company savings and they won’t stop laying off people, but I do this for the environment. I shut down my computer, turn off the lights on my side, and decide to take the stairs, instead of the elevator. I haven’t been exercising of late, and when I sit down these days, I can feel my muffin top above the pant. That’s the reason I have switched to sundresses over the weekend and stopped wearing the jeans. Ruchi is almost as tall as me, and wears skinny jeans. I feel awkward. Frankly, I am not too old to be comfortable with the changing body, nor am I am twenty year old with all tight muscles. I almost break a sweat when I reach my car, but I haven’t given up. I am not going to give up so fast, and accept that age happens, and ageing does too.
Tomorrow will be another day. I have to get my clothes ready tonight so that I am not scrambling for something in the morning, failing to find matching underwear. It will be a long day after the release tomorrow. I expect a lot of problems. Shekhar says get used to it. He shows off his been there, done that attitude, but fails to understand that I am a woman and I want to experience life differently. He could doze off on the sofa after eating Chinese food after a long day, but I can’t. After all, I get an hour with Ruchi every day. I need to know everything that’s happening in her life, right from garden club, to Calvin, to math test. I refuse to sacrifice anything for anything. I want the best of both worlds. My paycheck is too precious to sit at home and look at Ruchi grow. But Ruchi is too precious to spend my time battling someone’s dirty code on weekends.
I start the car, and turn on some loud music. I get so tired by the silence at work. There are times when I don’t hear anything but the clanking of the keyboard all around, with rhythmic strokes. People rarely talk, and if they do, it’s only about the project. Happy hours are already history, and everyone has started bringing brown bag lunches to save a bigger better rainy day fund. They eat at their desks, and drink at their desks, like they are chained to them. They are tired, they are worn out, but they won’t admit it. No one tells anyone anything about their insight on the project. People are just happy that there is something to work on, and try hard to be the noticed as a justified paycheck. Managers try to avoid developers. They want to avoid the questions on impending layoffs actually. They try to keep short meetings, walk in last, walk out first. They don’t go with the clique to drink a good latte anymore. Everyone has become a cubicle slave, willingly and literally.
Personally, I would be glad if they told me that tomorrow was my last day. Shekhar earns enough to carry us on in this financial turmoil. I would love to be home for a few weeks and be a soccer mom. Like the lady I met at park last week. She looked so happy with life. Attending book club meetings, going to library with kids every other day for story readings, watching matinee movies, playing with them at the park, learning floral arrangements, cooking for the ones she loves, and bringing healthy portions of homemade granola for the kids to savor after a tiring game at the park. She was so well dressed too. Like the women in magazines. Floral dress and high heels. I am tired of this life in black, white and gray. May be a pink slip would be a welcome change, and bring out other colors in life. May be it will be a blessing in disguise. May be Ruchi would love to have a mother who is at her beck and call. May be Shekhar will love the fresh homemade food for lunch. May be he will fall in love with the wife that is not as tired as him at the end of the day. Who know? Life may take a different route, altogether.
I merge into the freeway, only to be slowed down. Shekhar always tells me to take the surface streets and get home faster, but I would rather park my car behind another one on a freeway and move when he does, slowly, without worrying about a pedestrian crossing, or the signal turning red. Actually, this is the only time I get to relax, without having to do the next item on my checklist. I call mom too. Every day, weekday. Last year, mom gave a scare to us after she was admitted into the hospital for high blood pressure. I know, she rambles on, she talks coldly, sometimes she loves that I call, sometimes she gives me an indifferent response, but I will still call her, everyday. Life has surprises and shocks in store, always. One day, if I get a shocker, I want to be able to face it, without guilt. I should hear her voice every day, till then. It might be next five years, ten years, or many unknown years. Anyway, we talk about her morning walks with dad, her lunch invites of the day, her maid-woes, her latest writings and readings. Just hearing her talk helps.
I check my email one last time, hoping to hear some comments about my writing. Manisha said nice. I am sure she didn’t read. If she did, she didn’t understand. My writing deserved more than “nice”. Neena pointed out a few spelling errors, and commented that I saw something that others didn’t, but then, that I was a writer. Encouraged, I send it to Shekhar, and log out. Or rather shut down. I want to save energy. It’s not going to add up into the company savings and they won’t stop laying off people, but I do this for the environment. I shut down my computer, turn off the lights on my side, and decide to take the stairs, instead of the elevator. I haven’t been exercising of late, and when I sit down these days, I can feel my muffin top above the pant. That’s the reason I have switched to sundresses over the weekend and stopped wearing the jeans. Ruchi is almost as tall as me, and wears skinny jeans. I feel awkward. Frankly, I am not too old to be comfortable with the changing body, nor am I am twenty year old with all tight muscles. I almost break a sweat when I reach my car, but I haven’t given up. I am not going to give up so fast, and accept that age happens, and ageing does too.
Tomorrow will be another day. I have to get my clothes ready tonight so that I am not scrambling for something in the morning, failing to find matching underwear. It will be a long day after the release tomorrow. I expect a lot of problems. Shekhar says get used to it. He shows off his been there, done that attitude, but fails to understand that I am a woman and I want to experience life differently. He could doze off on the sofa after eating Chinese food after a long day, but I can’t. After all, I get an hour with Ruchi every day. I need to know everything that’s happening in her life, right from garden club, to Calvin, to math test. I refuse to sacrifice anything for anything. I want the best of both worlds. My paycheck is too precious to sit at home and look at Ruchi grow. But Ruchi is too precious to spend my time battling someone’s dirty code on weekends.
I start the car, and turn on some loud music. I get so tired by the silence at work. There are times when I don’t hear anything but the clanking of the keyboard all around, with rhythmic strokes. People rarely talk, and if they do, it’s only about the project. Happy hours are already history, and everyone has started bringing brown bag lunches to save a bigger better rainy day fund. They eat at their desks, and drink at their desks, like they are chained to them. They are tired, they are worn out, but they won’t admit it. No one tells anyone anything about their insight on the project. People are just happy that there is something to work on, and try hard to be the noticed as a justified paycheck. Managers try to avoid developers. They want to avoid the questions on impending layoffs actually. They try to keep short meetings, walk in last, walk out first. They don’t go with the clique to drink a good latte anymore. Everyone has become a cubicle slave, willingly and literally.
Personally, I would be glad if they told me that tomorrow was my last day. Shekhar earns enough to carry us on in this financial turmoil. I would love to be home for a few weeks and be a soccer mom. Like the lady I met at park last week. She looked so happy with life. Attending book club meetings, going to library with kids every other day for story readings, watching matinee movies, playing with them at the park, learning floral arrangements, cooking for the ones she loves, and bringing healthy portions of homemade granola for the kids to savor after a tiring game at the park. She was so well dressed too. Like the women in magazines. Floral dress and high heels. I am tired of this life in black, white and gray. May be a pink slip would be a welcome change, and bring out other colors in life. May be it will be a blessing in disguise. May be Ruchi would love to have a mother who is at her beck and call. May be Shekhar will love the fresh homemade food for lunch. May be he will fall in love with the wife that is not as tired as him at the end of the day. Who know? Life may take a different route, altogether.
I merge into the freeway, only to be slowed down. Shekhar always tells me to take the surface streets and get home faster, but I would rather park my car behind another one on a freeway and move when he does, slowly, without worrying about a pedestrian crossing, or the signal turning red. Actually, this is the only time I get to relax, without having to do the next item on my checklist. I call mom too. Every day, weekday. Last year, mom gave a scare to us after she was admitted into the hospital for high blood pressure. I know, she rambles on, she talks coldly, sometimes she loves that I call, sometimes she gives me an indifferent response, but I will still call her, everyday. Life has surprises and shocks in store, always. One day, if I get a shocker, I want to be able to face it, without guilt. I should hear her voice every day, till then. It might be next five years, ten years, or many unknown years. Anyway, we talk about her morning walks with dad, her lunch invites of the day, her maid-woes, her latest writings and readings. Just hearing her talk helps.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
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....
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....
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-1)
This is Part-1 of probably thirteen. At this point, I am not sure. Comments, critiques and suggestions are most welcome. The title is a working Title, and the blogs will be first drafts. Oh, it's a work of fiction, and any resemblence to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Black. I am omnipresent in the atmosphere, in the elements. I am the deepest of the clouds formed during the strongest of the storm, the richest of earth, the darkest of midnight sky. I am black, I am achromatic.
O revered one, they tell me, we honor you with the noble opportunity of wrapping the bodies of the innocent graduates standing at the threshold of the beginning of a new life so that you teach them the virtue of absorbing the knowledge that comes in thousands of hues. I am perplexed when they despise me as a bad omen and dress the bride in the purest of whites. Little do I know the arts of displaying a spectacular spectrum of rainbow colors to lure enthusiasts to fall in love with my innocence.
They dip the funeral in all my shades to honor the life that lay still reflecting nothing from the colors of existence. Like me, it lay bare, exposing its soul to the elements, colorless, dark and thus black. There is no light, they complain. I challenge them, immerse your soul in your own light and radiate your own thoughts, not the reflected one.
God chose to create and develop all forms of life in dark and I embrace them with open arms till they blossom into beautiful and colorful beings of nature.
I read aloud my prose, just like my writing class instructor has advised to, so that I catch any words that are out of sync, or just plain misspelled. Job as a software engineer isn’t fun as I had expected fifteen years ago, before joining engineering. Everyone seemed to be taking up Information Technology, and going to US making big bucks within years. I didn’t want to be left behind. Besides, Architecture was a princely course that my parents couldn’t afford. They advised me to be a software engineer and make a life for myself. They weren’t wrong. Today I make more than a hundred thousand dollars per year, an amount my Indian parents have stopped converting to dollars. But I slog ten hours a day at work to make it happen. To add to the woes, there is Ruchi, my darling daughter, already ten years old, and growing fast, physically and mentally. Boys. Math. Music. These are the only topics of prominent importance in her life. I feel lonely sometimes, but I am not complaining.
I remember what happened to Manisha Gupta’s daughter. Manisha kept insisting that she brought up her daughter so conservatively that she wouldn’t dare to date anyone, leave alone have sex underage. The girl was a plain Jane, Manisha wouldn’t allow her to wear miniskirts, or groove to the latest Disney tween queen medleys. The girl was made to attend religious classes in the temple and sing bhajans at the temple during the weekends. The voice was a magnet of sorts for the devotees. But, the girl shocked the daylights out of her mother and everyone when she became pregnant at thirteen. Manisha wouldn’t have told any of that to us, but the girl called me first and asked me to talk to her mother. She was so scared. All her conservative ideologies notwithstanding, Manisha took the girl to India, had an illegal abortion, and came to US, life as a clean slate, physically. I can’t imagine what the girl went through emotionally. I don’t think Manisha cared though.
I shouldn’t let that happen to Ruchi though. I have to be a balance of east and west, and let her enjoy the positives life has to offer, without being an over bearing parent. Easy said, than done. I am fully aware of that. But we will see what happens when it does happen. Right now, my focus is to get my creative juices flowing, so that I show interest in my job again, and not treat it like cubicle slavery. Some days, I am haunted by lines of codes written by some offshore contractor, and some days, my boss shows me a glimpse of hell handing out morning support and evening code red call. But I can’t complain. There is just too much competition. Especially in this market. If I make any noise, there are younger people ready to put in more hours, and charge less, and perhaps do everything that I can. So I keep my lips sealed.
Actually taking a writing class to relieve stress is a sham. Deep inside, I nurse my dream of being a Rushdie. Of being a Lahiri. But I know that’s not possible. No one will bail me out with a million dollar writing contract and sing laurels of what I dish out, mixing history and my surroundings. If I share it with Shekhar, he will probably laugh at me. I dream. I dream big. But I don’t do the work to bring that dream into the light of reality. Dreams are only my escapes from reality. I will continue to be a code coolie probably until my retirement, and see lines of codes attacking me and blurring out when I have dementia. Such is the story of my life.
I proof read my work of art and upload it to the assignments section, and send a copy to Neena and Manisha. They will send their prompt “wah-wah” replies within minutes. I don’t think they read either, but they are too good to tell me the truth. Shekhar on the other hand has told me not to bother him with lengthy emails containing my story plots, or non-rhyming poems. It’s beyond comprehension, he tells me. I tell him that it’s beyond his imagination. That leads to days of silent communication later, which of late has become a norm of our married life. Sometimes I wonder why we stay married after a certain point. If not for the sex we have once in a week, sometimes once in two weeks, there seems to be no connection. He is in his own world, and I am in my own world. Neena and Manisha seem to know more than Shekhar about the happenings of my life. Ruchi has become a shared responsibility like the mortgage, car payments and bills.
But, I am still grateful that at least we try to connect with each other. Last year Minal Shah’s husband had an online affair, and got caught. That too, how! The girl he had an affair with posted every single detail of their relation on a weblog! Or is it called blog? The whole world got to have a look at it. Everyone thought Minal would file for divorce, but they just moved out of the state and started life anew. I wonder what Minal says now, when they have a fight. May be she teases him. Or maybe they don’t fight at all. May be it’s just a living arrangement now. Minal after all has been a homemaker all her life, and wouldn’t want to handle responsibility of two teenage boys suddenly! Of course she could have made Satish pay up, but she decided not to. She made an honorable decision, said my mother, who visited at that time. But she was living a life without respect, each moment. How could she even see Satish’s face without thinking about “details” that still lie on the internet for everyone’s amusement? How can she pretend to put all that behind her and move on?
To be continued....
Black. I am omnipresent in the atmosphere, in the elements. I am the deepest of the clouds formed during the strongest of the storm, the richest of earth, the darkest of midnight sky. I am black, I am achromatic.
O revered one, they tell me, we honor you with the noble opportunity of wrapping the bodies of the innocent graduates standing at the threshold of the beginning of a new life so that you teach them the virtue of absorbing the knowledge that comes in thousands of hues. I am perplexed when they despise me as a bad omen and dress the bride in the purest of whites. Little do I know the arts of displaying a spectacular spectrum of rainbow colors to lure enthusiasts to fall in love with my innocence.
They dip the funeral in all my shades to honor the life that lay still reflecting nothing from the colors of existence. Like me, it lay bare, exposing its soul to the elements, colorless, dark and thus black. There is no light, they complain. I challenge them, immerse your soul in your own light and radiate your own thoughts, not the reflected one.
God chose to create and develop all forms of life in dark and I embrace them with open arms till they blossom into beautiful and colorful beings of nature.
I read aloud my prose, just like my writing class instructor has advised to, so that I catch any words that are out of sync, or just plain misspelled. Job as a software engineer isn’t fun as I had expected fifteen years ago, before joining engineering. Everyone seemed to be taking up Information Technology, and going to US making big bucks within years. I didn’t want to be left behind. Besides, Architecture was a princely course that my parents couldn’t afford. They advised me to be a software engineer and make a life for myself. They weren’t wrong. Today I make more than a hundred thousand dollars per year, an amount my Indian parents have stopped converting to dollars. But I slog ten hours a day at work to make it happen. To add to the woes, there is Ruchi, my darling daughter, already ten years old, and growing fast, physically and mentally. Boys. Math. Music. These are the only topics of prominent importance in her life. I feel lonely sometimes, but I am not complaining.
I remember what happened to Manisha Gupta’s daughter. Manisha kept insisting that she brought up her daughter so conservatively that she wouldn’t dare to date anyone, leave alone have sex underage. The girl was a plain Jane, Manisha wouldn’t allow her to wear miniskirts, or groove to the latest Disney tween queen medleys. The girl was made to attend religious classes in the temple and sing bhajans at the temple during the weekends. The voice was a magnet of sorts for the devotees. But, the girl shocked the daylights out of her mother and everyone when she became pregnant at thirteen. Manisha wouldn’t have told any of that to us, but the girl called me first and asked me to talk to her mother. She was so scared. All her conservative ideologies notwithstanding, Manisha took the girl to India, had an illegal abortion, and came to US, life as a clean slate, physically. I can’t imagine what the girl went through emotionally. I don’t think Manisha cared though.
I shouldn’t let that happen to Ruchi though. I have to be a balance of east and west, and let her enjoy the positives life has to offer, without being an over bearing parent. Easy said, than done. I am fully aware of that. But we will see what happens when it does happen. Right now, my focus is to get my creative juices flowing, so that I show interest in my job again, and not treat it like cubicle slavery. Some days, I am haunted by lines of codes written by some offshore contractor, and some days, my boss shows me a glimpse of hell handing out morning support and evening code red call. But I can’t complain. There is just too much competition. Especially in this market. If I make any noise, there are younger people ready to put in more hours, and charge less, and perhaps do everything that I can. So I keep my lips sealed.
Actually taking a writing class to relieve stress is a sham. Deep inside, I nurse my dream of being a Rushdie. Of being a Lahiri. But I know that’s not possible. No one will bail me out with a million dollar writing contract and sing laurels of what I dish out, mixing history and my surroundings. If I share it with Shekhar, he will probably laugh at me. I dream. I dream big. But I don’t do the work to bring that dream into the light of reality. Dreams are only my escapes from reality. I will continue to be a code coolie probably until my retirement, and see lines of codes attacking me and blurring out when I have dementia. Such is the story of my life.
I proof read my work of art and upload it to the assignments section, and send a copy to Neena and Manisha. They will send their prompt “wah-wah” replies within minutes. I don’t think they read either, but they are too good to tell me the truth. Shekhar on the other hand has told me not to bother him with lengthy emails containing my story plots, or non-rhyming poems. It’s beyond comprehension, he tells me. I tell him that it’s beyond his imagination. That leads to days of silent communication later, which of late has become a norm of our married life. Sometimes I wonder why we stay married after a certain point. If not for the sex we have once in a week, sometimes once in two weeks, there seems to be no connection. He is in his own world, and I am in my own world. Neena and Manisha seem to know more than Shekhar about the happenings of my life. Ruchi has become a shared responsibility like the mortgage, car payments and bills.
But, I am still grateful that at least we try to connect with each other. Last year Minal Shah’s husband had an online affair, and got caught. That too, how! The girl he had an affair with posted every single detail of their relation on a weblog! Or is it called blog? The whole world got to have a look at it. Everyone thought Minal would file for divorce, but they just moved out of the state and started life anew. I wonder what Minal says now, when they have a fight. May be she teases him. Or maybe they don’t fight at all. May be it’s just a living arrangement now. Minal after all has been a homemaker all her life, and wouldn’t want to handle responsibility of two teenage boys suddenly! Of course she could have made Satish pay up, but she decided not to. She made an honorable decision, said my mother, who visited at that time. But she was living a life without respect, each moment. How could she even see Satish’s face without thinking about “details” that still lie on the internet for everyone’s amusement? How can she pretend to put all that behind her and move on?
To be continued....
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