Mimosa, with samosa

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-9)

2009-05-14T22:38:00.001-07:00

I don’t know how this is justified. Having a crush on someone you won’t have any relations with. That too when you are trying to salvage your stable relation in life. But I am loving the feeling of getting on a mental high with R. In a few hours that we spent together today, he made me realize how good the company of someone emoting verbally is. He has showered me the attention and flirtatiousness I have never gotten from any man in my life. For everyone I am the Mrs. Shah that needs to be respected. I don’t understand how women cheat on their husbands. Even a stray attraction is causing ethical havocs in my mind. May be that’s where culture comes into play. But then, culture is not a barrier to love and lust, as history has proven time and again.

Jignesh doesn’t even notice my happiness over nothing, and life is as usual in the Shah household. Silent, and dead emotionally. My two daughters are back on track with their singing and dancing and math, like good Indian kids. Madhuri has forgotten or pretends to forget everything she went through and has moved on with better things in life.

I didn’t think it would be that easy after that suicide attempt. We still go to her counseling sessions twice a week where she is supposed to talk to a psychiatrist about her mental state, as of now, and looks like she has no plans to do anything dangerous any more. Her grandparents think that it was all because of me, pestering her to do well in studies and pressurizing her with Kumon and stuff while she has a bright future singing bhajans in the temple on the weekends. I am conditioned to ignore their existence by now, and I carry on as if they were invisible.

My daughter needs to live life on her own terms and learn from her own mistakes. No one will tell her what to do, and she will not follow their heartless decisions and sacrifice her soul.

I sit down, sipping a cup of cold orange juice when I hear a thud upstairs. My girls can be very loud at times. They forget that they are old enough to stop jumping up and down the beds and furniture. I put my drink to the side and go to check on them, only to see my father-in-law lying in the bathroom, unconscious. Another call to 9-1-1 and here we are the hospital, signing paperwork while supporting Jignesh’s mother and answering thousand questions by her, asking thousand questions to the doctors. He is in coma we are told.

His mother sits on the chair as if the doom’s day was declared and Jignesh stood against the wall, without uttering a word. I wanted someone to say something, that they feel sad, that they are heartbroken, but they seal their lips. On a whim, I go and hug Jignesh, and next thing I know is he is crying, with his head over my shoulder, holding me tight. I forget all about the ailing old man and wonder if I didn’t take the first step to open my arms for him.

I go home to be with the girls, worried that they shouldn’t have invited someone over, or shouldn’t have slashed their wrists over nothing. Madhuri has made me an overly cautious mother. Nimisha will bear the brunt of the air of mistrust her sister has created. But, better safe than sorry.

I cancel the next day’s appointment for our marriage counseling. There was something I noticed in the folder that we got from the front desk.. It was a checklist to screen us for other psychiatric illnesses, and the one that Jignesh completed showed all signs of depression. He said he had suicidal tendencies. He said he never feels loved. He said he felt disinterest in life. How could he? With all the attention we gave him? His parents gave him enough attention, enough love. Wasn’t that not enough for him? I wanted to leave everything and go hold him and tell him that I love him more than anyone else in the whole world. I nag, but only to love him more. I pick up the phone, and send him a lovely email to make him loved, and supported, and notice Vani’s email.

These days Vani is trying to be a writer. She writes, but I don’t see a writer. I may be wrong. I am not the one who would spend time reading some Indian author and analyze their lives. I am rather content reading “The Firm” and “The Associate” that won’t have any associations with my life, and my thoughts. I read Black, and I have to agree that Vani is improving. It won’t be long before she dishes out the samosa-ic episodes of her life and ours in some bindi-bangle-sari book and pass it off as a thin fiction. Especially with a good story like Madhuri’s, you never know. I send a “great” comment to keep her happy, and move on with my life. Sixteen years after we married each other I send him a love note to tell him that he is loved and appreciated by his family, and moreover by his wife. I hope it gives him the much needed support.

The next few weeks went very fast. There were so many things happening around us. Iyer bought a house, and just for preparing his paperwork, gave me a three percent commission. I felt guilty for charging such a hefty amount for almost no work, and returned half a percent. That was the end of him in my life. But now that he is pleased with my services, there will be many more Iyer clients. We had a moment at the new house when we went for the walk through and were waiting for the seller’s realtor to show up. It felt as if I will give in and ruin sixteen years of faithful married life, but I didn’t. I closed my eyes and all I could see was the little paper that Jignesh ticked of “not loved”, and I pushed away any thoughts that would pollute my mind and my body.

My father-in-law is in a care center, still in coma, and I shuttle my mother-in-law once every evening to see him. At first Jignesh and the kids came everyday and spent two hours in the evening. Then it became an hour a day, and these days it’s once during the week and once during the weekend. But I can’t see my mother-in-law’s face if she doesn’t meet her husband. I forget, I forgive and move on with life with a larger heart, and she probably is guilty of her actions now. She doesn’t say anything, but her silence says a thousand words. There is something nice about being a bigger person, and I am enjoying that vague emotion.

Neena had a tragic accident in the fire, and has lost her house. I am playing mommy to her kids also while she is recovering. Shri has blanked out emotionally, and I am amazed by the love he has for Neena. I heard he quit his job to be with her at this difficult time. She is mostly on sedatives and looks a little, may I say, scary, but he sits outside her room and spends his days and nights on a small chair. I have to get her paperwork done for the insurance, and find them a new house to move in soon. This time it would be without commission.

I spy my girls. Every move them make on the internet and in real life, I am scared that they are doing something wrong. Madhuri has matured a lot, and probably that was the end of exploration for now, and Nimisha doesn’t show any signs of doing the mistake her sister did. I am on guard anyway. I am conditioned to be now. I make an effort to talk to their friends, and their parents and know them well. My girls still don’t wear the teen fashion nor do they follow teen icons. But that is their personal choice.

Jignesh and I never made it to the counselor’s office, but we have opened up a lot to each other. I have learnt to let go, and he has learnt to cling on to what is his to keep it his. We are not picture perfect happy couple but we are happy. I still think Shri loves Neena a lot and she is very lucky to have him in her life, and so is Vani. With all her crazy moods, she should be glad that she has everything a woman wishes for. A great career, a loving husband and a lot of money. I pick three things that make me happy everyday and try to focus on myself and my relation with Jignesh than compare him to others and lose heart. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail. That is life, and it will go on.

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-8)

2009-05-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

So, Mr. Iyer will come to look for houses today. I don’t know what kind of a character this person is, but just to be on the safe side, I get my clickety-clakity black high heels and a black Armani A-line dress to go with the grey skies. I pull my hair into a tight pony tail, and wear a Movado with a diamond. Accentuate that diamond with a pair of cubic zirconia earrings and a pendent that look like diamonds, and stuffed my blackberry in a Gucci purse and get going. Jignesh look at me as if to say you could have dressed up like this and we could have gone out for a mini vacation, but I know what happens on our weekends that I am home.

Parents and kids will be dropped off at the temple so that they can socialize while the kids learn singing and dancing, and Indian culture. We will go to Costco and Trader Joes to do the weekly groceries. I will be in my sweats, without a shower, without make up, and he will be in his shorts and a T-shirt, unshowered as well. We will do groceries, and come home, clean up everything, pay the bills, discuss financial matters and it will be time to pick the kids and parents. Before we snap our fingers, it will be Saturday night, and if we are not invited to one of our friends house for a potluck, we will be hosting one.

Sunday morning will either be after party clean up, or a lazy day with everyone sitting in front of the TV, and me working in the kitchen, or looking up MLS. Sometimes either Vani or Neena send emails, or call for a while, but other than that, there is really nothing much. In between somewhere Jignesh will want to have sex, and we just do it. No noise, no voice to our feelings. Just a physical act. One wall is shared with kids, and the other one with parents. Not a word about how it was, or what we want. A toy would satisfy our needs better in a bathroom than us together.

I don’t know if all arranged marriages are like this, or is it just mine. At times like this, I do feel that having sex with your partner before marrying is vital. May be that is the reason I didn’t freak out when Madhuri said that she was pregnant. In the back of my mind, I always wanted her to explore her options before settling down, but safely. I am glad that my daughter didn’t end up like me, listening to parents and ending up with someone who can’t even pleasure you, and still keeping your mouth shut, because that would be a silly complaint to make.

I wonder what happens when we see our counselor on Friday evening. Would he ask us why agreed for an arranged marriage? Would he try to brand us as victims of a culture, or would he laugh at the insensitivity of the practice? Would he wonder why we have parents living with us each moment of our marriage shared with them? Would he ask Jignesh to loosen up? Would he ask me to stop nagging? What would that experience be like? On one hand I am glad it’s not an Indian who will blurt it out probably in a potluck party in a half drunken state, but on the other hand, I would have been comfortable with someone who knows what it is like to grow up in a country that is set on morals that are a world apart from the one you live in. Jignesh might have his fears also, but he never talks. So I will never know. The counselor will know more than me. Or I will know more through the counselor.

I slip out of the house with no guilt for skipping my grocery duties of the day, ignoring the whining of my mother-in-law about her poor dear son has to take care of the house as well as work. They don’t really care that I work at least five hours a day, including weekends, take care of the house and them, and the kids, shuttle them all around the town for their various classes. They think that just because I put on pretty clothes and a pretty lipstick, my job is a cushy one, and I get paid to look pretty and giggle with my clients. If that were the case, I would not be a realtor. I would be a Geisha. I am stuck in a career that is perfectly alright with my lack of ambitions and my lifestyle. I am not complaining, but it gives me no happiness to be around people who think that there is no energy or intelligence or skill needed to run this career, or at least put it on a cruise control.

Mr. Iyer was waiting for me at the local Starbucks coffee shop, and told me to join him there before we set out on our house hunt. Typically the clients come to my house first, and we discuss the areas, the price range, I run fake paperwork to come up with a preapproval number and pretend to go through a lot of documentation to get information on property taxes, mello roos for the area. But Mr. Iyer said he doesn’t want to do all that gimmicks and he knows what he can afford. Oh, he was rude enough to say that he didn’t need a realtor to tell him how much of his money should be invested in real estate, and I wasn’t angry at him at all. I smiled at his rudeness and the amount of my commission for a job that didn’t need me to pretend to do a lot of work.

I didn’t know how he looked. I didn’t want to ask him to send his picture. That would sound like an internet date. He knew how I looked probably, going by his internet knowledge. My name and a realtor tag shows at least fifty of my pictures, all probably ten years old. Still he will be able to recognize me. I walk into the Starbucks store, imagining some well dressed middle aged guy looking like Kamal Hassan in his Dockers and Polo Ralph Lauren T-shirt, and here he was, the only Indian guy meeting the profile of Mr. Iyer sitting in a designer sweat suit and sneakers reading Wall Street Journal with a cup of coffee. Suddenly I felt over dressed, but then reminded myself that I am a professional, and I need to portray a serious image at all times with clients.

“Mr. Iyer?”
“Yes?”
“I am Manisha Shah, your realtor”
“Oh yes, Mona! I didn’t recognize you”
“Sorry, the pictures are a little dated”
“Oh no, you are prettier than the pictures project you to be”
“You are being generous”
“No, if I were to be generous, I would tell you that you are one MILF, but since we are meeting each other under an ethical relation, I shall just tell you that you are a pretty woman”
“Thank you”
“So, shall we go?”
“Yes, I brought a list of houses we will see today. I will give them to you as soon as we go to my car. You let me know if you want to see all of them, or focus on a few”
“Let’s get that list and go in my car”
“I don’t let my clients drive. It’s part of my job description”
“I don’t feel comfortable sitting in a car watching a woman drive, unless that woman is heavily into role playing and wants to chauffer in around the city”
“You leave me with no options Mr. Iyer”
“R, call me just R Mona”
“Sure R”

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-7)

2009-05-14T22:35:00.002-07:00

“Jignesh, I am sorry for what I said yesterday”
“It’s OK Manisha. I just wish you would open up to me and tell me what’s hurting you”
“You never listen”
“You never tell. You are always busy with the house, or with kids, or with your clients”
“I keep myself occupied so that I don’t feel your absence in my life”
“Where have I gone that you feel it?”
“You are never there for me?”
“That isn’t true. I am always there for you”
“We went to India to get procedure done on Madhuri, Jignesh”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come with you”
“You would have told your parents and labeled her a tramp, and me a bad mother”
“How could you think that Manisha? She is my daughter and you are my wife. I know how hard you struggle to balance everything in the family. I would never say anything like that, or even talk to my parents about that”
“Jignesh, we were so scared, and I thought after all this, I still lost her yesterday”
“And I didn’t know what all I lost. We all live under the same roof and we don’t anything that does on each other’s lives. How weird can it get?”
“You are to be blamed, solely. You have to step out of your parent’s shell and come to us if you want to be with us”
“If that means I have to send them to India and not see them again like my brothers, that’s not happening Manisha. They have gone through enough pains to bring us up and educate us. If we are all leading decent lives today, it’s because of them. My brothers may have forgotten all this, but I haven’t”
“But that doesn’t mean we have to live all our life like this”
“What has happened to us Manisha? We have a lovely house, healthy children and luxury cars. You buy what you want to, when you want to, and so do the kids. What’s missing?”
“Love. From you. Attention. From you”
“I have no affairs with anyone if that’s what is in your mind. You are the only one in my life. And I work hard all day to make this happen to you. Isn’t that enough attention?”
“That is not attention, or love. Don’t you feel the need to connect to me on day to day basis”
“Connect what? I thought I knew everything I should know about you and you about me?”
“That’s not it Jignesh. You just don’t feel the need to be with me emotionally”
“What’s the problem? Tell me, and I will help you resolve it”
“I don’t need your help. I just want you to listen, and be supportive”
“OK…”
“And there comes the legendary silence”
“No, I am silent because I have nothing to say”
“Why don’t you say that you have nothing to say instead of just ignoring me!”
“Now you are nagging”
“And when you talk, you have to be critical?”
“Manisha, you complain that we don’t talk, and when I talk, you don’t like it”
“It’s not like that. You just don’t talk the way you should talk to your wife. You talk as if I am your business partner”
“You want to go to a counselor?”
“Huh?”
“I love you, and don’t want to let go of you. But I don’t want to spend an unhappy life either”
“Why counselor? What will people think? What would your parents think?”
“What would they think? That we are trying to live happy, and doing whatever we can to make it happen?”
“Then we would be admitting that we have problems”
“Better than looking for someone else to pleasure us”
“That’s not what I am saying”
“Whatever it is Manisha, I am not bothered about others. I need you , I need my girls, and I need my parents. All under the same roof, happy”
“Ok. We will go to an American counselor. Indian counselors will tell someone and the word will spread. After all, our community is so small”
“You want to go on a short trip this weekend?”

For a moment my heart wanted to cancel Mr. Iyer and go out Jignesh, but I steeled my heart and told him that I was busy. That I skipped enough appointments when I was in India. He understood.

We sip the coffee in silence thinking different things probably. I am not ready mentally to let someone tell me how to love my husband or manage my household. I still wish we would resolve whatever problems we have mutually than let someone sit in a leather chair and judge us, our relation, our culture and our lifestyle. I don’t want to end up as a case study for someone’s new self-help book that covers people from all cultures.

I wonder how Vani and Neena will take the news. Vani will make a sympathetic face and tell me about someone at her work place or someone in her distant relations going through something similar and tell me that it will all be OK. Later on Saturday nights when they drink and talk, she will tell Shekhar all about it and analyze it together. Neena will listen to me, and then tell me that it’s all my doing. She will give a small preaching on how women should be assertive, especially when they have daughters who look up to them. It’s all about women’s rights and respect for Neena. Love takes a back seat. I wonder how it is with Sri and her. May be Sri just listens and she orders on. Jignesh doesn’t value me for who I am, and these guys are stuck with women who don’t value them. Such is life!

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-6)

2009-05-14T22:35:00.001-07:00

The whole night I sat in a hospital couch and kept dreaming that Jignesh will come to me, and apologize for his behavior. That he would kiss my worries away and want to rebuild life. My phone rang, and woke me up, and there I was, putting on a happy face for a client forgetting all my worries in life. It was Mr. Iyer, wanting to talk more about his house, and his plans to buy a casa in the caza. There is no Mrs. Iyer. He is a divorcee. There are no junior Iyers to live in the house. This client of mine is a Director at some semi-conductor company that he also founded, wants to buy a six bedroom mansion overlooking a golf course. He is preapproved for a very large sum and if he buys for that, my commission might just help me get out of Jignesh and his life, forever.

I always thought of every commission as something I would be able to use for my new life. But the money is never enough, and I never move out. One of my client was a single mom, and she narrated to me how she couldn’t take it anymore one day, and moved out of the house, eight months pregnant with only clothes on her back and nowhere to go. I lack that courage and conviction.

On the other hand, if I had some spine, I would have had a happy family like my sisters-in-law. None of them work, they all have kids older than me, but have always avoided mummyji and paapaji and their intrusion in their lives. Their husbands support them I guess, unlike Jignesh who feels that it is his duty to take care of his parents who cared for him when he was young. Which I agree also, but it becomes too much when he lets them treat me like their slave, ordering the menu for lunch and dinner, and taking calls from my clients. I wish Jignesh cared for me for all the care I take of the family. He lives an aloof life. But, knowing him, he won’t. Either I have to live like this, or walk out.

I set up an appointment with Iyer on early Saturday morning so that I can be home in time to serve breakfast. So, sometimes I wonder what would happen if I were to behave like Vani. Leave everything as it is and go to work, and not bother to clean up until the cleaning lady shows up. Stink the kitchen with dishes to do, throw around the pillows in the house, keep the bed unmade. Shekhar is a very good husband. Vani is very lucky to have him in her life. I wish she cared for him more. But then, he doesn’t seem to complain. So is Neena. Even with her obsessive cleaning habits, she hasn’t driven away Shri. He loves her so much and respects her opinion on everything unlike me who has agreed to be a doormat willingly and regret sometimes.

The phone rings again, and it’s Mr. Iyer.

“Hello Mr. Iyer”
“Hello Mona, drop that Mr and Iyer and just call me R. Makes life easier”
He took the liberty of dropping Manisha and making a Mona out of it without my permission and I am not complaining. He is Mr. Moneybags who will rescue me from this low life. Not that money buys you courage, but money just makes you confident.

Mr. Iyer wants me to send the details of the properties so that can do his own research. Meaning plug the address on google, and go to redfin, zillow, ziprealty and check the price it sold for last, price the neighbors are selling for, and the price drop in the zip code. He will also map it, and see how far it is from golf course, and what the views will be. South Indian, he doesn’t want a South facing entrance. He would want a study facing South though. He will also check on the county’s website the property tax and melloroos, and call the HOA to check the monthly amount.

If he is like that techie couple I showed houses last winter, he will also scan Robert Shiller’s charts and check if the price index is right for the city, and tell me if it will fall further. With all that knowledge, they should just go ahead and get a license themselves. But they still want me to approve their decision and handle the sale. Easy for me in a way. No one to blame that the “realtard” did it. They just signed wherever asked. Like the subprime victims tell the media. As if we were holding a gun on their head to sign on the escrow papers. They wanted something, and someone gave it to them, we were just middle men. When tables turned, we are being blamed by both the parties. There is nothing we can do too except lay low and ignore what’s going on. There is still enough money and people to keep us in the business.

Madhuri is sleeping peacefully like a child, showing no strains of the emotional toll for the past few days. I am helping her, supporting her but still she has alienated me. Guess I should have gotten involved with all this talk a little early. I didn’t have any clue that the geek wannabe would pull this on me so fast. But I am glad we resolved it. At least she didn’t pull a Bristol Palin and have the baby. With the boyfriend, his visitation, his parents’ intrusion, it would have been too messy. Only people with power can handle that. Not mere mortals like Jignesh and I.

Sometimes I think I am nagging Jignesh. I think I drive him out every time he comes to me. I take out the anger I have for his parents on him. In my mind, it is his responsibility that he dumped on me, and doesn’t even support me, or admire me for what I do to hold this family together. If I complain, he asks me to resolve it any how I want to. I just want him to tell me that he understands my pains. Is that so hard to do? Just a hug at the end of the day, and a kiss, and little whisper in my ears that he loves and understands my plight? I have never hugged him and told him that I admire the way works his ass off every day to let five of us enjoy good life. If taking care of the house is my forte, bringing the bacon should be his. I just never felt the necessity to admire anything in there. That’s all. But I do feel bad that I have alienated him from our lives just like I do to his parents. It’s just a live in relation of convenience for everyone. I should have told Jignesh about Madhuri and showed him that he is a part of us, as much as he is part of his parents. May be I wasn’t being too fair also. I breathe a sigh and go out to look for Jignesh, and I see him walk in two coffees in hand, and all I want to do is give him a hug, and unload the sorrow of my heart.

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-5)

2009-05-14T22:34:00.000-07:00

“Madhuri, how do you feel now?”
“Sorry mom”
“Why beta? Why now? After all we have been through”
“I don’t have the courage to live anymore”
“What do you mean you don’t have the courage? I steeled myself to support you through all this mess you made, you return the favor like this? Did you even think of your mom before you did something so drastic?”
“I feel disgusted by myself”
“Why do you think so? You did a mistake, and you can move on. It’s not something that nobody has ever done”
“People have kids when they are ready to have them. Not like me”
“But you didn’t have the kid. That’s the difference”
“But you know and I know that we killed the baby”
“It is for your own good”
“It haunts me”
“What haunts you? An unborn baby that wasn’t even out of love? If you are so sensitive, you shouldn’t have thought before planning your mating with that Chinese boy. If you are so sensitive you should told me that day itself. When did you become so selfish Madhuri? How come it’s all about you and your sensitivities suddenly?”
“I didn’t mean like that”
“Then what do you mean? You declare suddenly that you are pregnant. I do everything I could to make you feel normal and loved, and you still act up? What do you expect me to do madhuri? Haven’t I done enough for you guys already? Am I not a good mother to you that you are bothered only about some unborn and not me if something were to happen to you”
“I am sorry”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it out. It just doesn’t! You know how hard it is for me to go through all this alone”
“Mom, I miss the baby. It had already started moving”
“Pull yourself together Madhuri! It has no future! It wasn’t even born out of love!”
“Neither was I!”

And here I am supposed to say that no, you misunderstood, Jignesh and I love each other very much. But I sit there, on the hospital bed with my jaw open, unable to reply. Jignesh rushed in and wanted to know what happened. Was it a love affair? Did something happen on the India trip? Did she get a low grade? I ignore all questions as the nurse gives a sheet to fill in parent history with questions like “pregnancies” “live births” “miscarriages”. Those appeared huge than three people making their own stories behind the attempted suicide.
I click on pregnancy and miscarriage as Jignesh watches me.

“What are you doing?”
“I know what I am doing”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, you are out of the knowing”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When have you bothered to know?”
“I am the father”
“Yes, so we use your last name”
“Manisha, I have a right to know what’s going on with my daughters”
“You know what, I am tired of you and your habits of not talking. Next time if you want to know something, make an attempt to ask and to listen”
“When have I been a bad father? And you bring this up when our daughter is on a hospital bed for an attempted suicide, with a pregnancy that her father didn’t know of”
“When should I? Tell me. You always have your guardian angel parents hovering around you, or you are at work, you don’t want to be disturbed. Have you ever spent a little time with me, or with the kids asking us how our day was?”
“I work twelve hours a day to provide you and kids a stable life and all I get is a speech about how callous I am?”
“It’s not the quantity Jignesh, it’s the quality. You never made me feel loved, or cared for. For you, it’s all about you. You are the one who need attention every moment. We give it to you and you don’t even think that we need some of that back”
“Do you really want to discuss all that after sixteen years of good married life?”
“Sixteen years of married life. May be good for you, but not the rest of us”
“Manisha!”
“Is that shock, or surprise or a threat?”
“You are out of your mind to talk like this. I will stay outside in the waiting lounge. Let me know if you need anything”
“No need. You may go sleep if you want to. Your mother will worry about your health if you don’t get a good night sleep. We can manage ourselves. We are strong enough”
“There is no use talking to you”
“There has never been any use telling you anything also, neither will be”

And he walks out. I wish he walked out of my life, and never came back. But he doesn’t. I don’t either. Today was the first time in our married life that I told him some truth about our relation, and he is already done listening. Whoever talked of open communication between a couple. I talked, he didn’t even listen. It would have been better if I didn’t talk at all. I wish I had the courage Madhuri had to slash my wrist and end my agonies. Or dare to have to boyfriend like Demi Moore who will show me a good time in life. Poor me, I am stuck dreaming that someone sweeping me off my feet every night for the past sixteen years. No one ever stepped into reality. Or if they did, they didn’t think I had to be rescued from Jignesh’s dungeon, with his parents guarding me like twin dragons.

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-4)

2009-05-14T22:33:00.000-07:00

“Manisha, these are the messages that your clients left when you were in India”, my father in law walked in with his notebook that he takes down the messages for me. This was exactly half an hour after we landed from a seventeen hour flight. They just don’t care for other lives. It is always the son that matters. He should eat well, and he should drink well. Rest will survive. They don’t need to be loved. They will love us though, because we are your parents. I wish I had the guts to tell the old man not to disturb me till the next morning, but I say my usual “Ji Pappaji” and put the notebook to the side. I called all of them before I left and I told them that I won’t be available for two weeks. But my clients think a realtor cannot have a life of their own. They call me for anything and everything. I can’t blame them also. They are doing the biggest purchase of their life and they want to make sure they did a good decision. For me it’s just another house that will bring in my commission but for them it is the house that they will live in.

No one noticed that Madhuri looked pale and weak. For once I was glad that my family was so full of themselves and didn’t care for anything that didn’t matter to them. I told her to rest in her room, and asked Nimisha not to disturb her. No one asked me how my mother was, but I didn’t care much. Probably because my mother wasn’t sick at all and it didn’t matter if they asked me. I rest my eyes and get ready to clean the house and shop for the groceries so that Jignesh can have a proper meal tonight without having to worry about the family. Jignesh sounds more as an incompetent boss of the family scouting for respect rather than the head of the family that everyone respects. My kids and I are so detached with the rest of the family. It’s as if there are two units here. My daughters and I. Jignesh and his parents. We live together for convenience. I don’t make enough money to support my daughters on my own. He can’t take care of himself or his parents if I am gone.

I go through the notebook returning calls, and I notice a new name. Iyer. Looking for a house in coto de caza. A gated city as I call it, in Orange County where the richest people live. Two 18-hole golf courses and a wonderful weather almost year round are something that can’t be found everywhere. And not many kids. Probably no kids in the community. I have never seen any when I take my clients. Average house costs 3 million dollars. Hope Mr. and Mrs. Iyer thought before deciding on this location because Manisha Shah is not ready to sell another house in Turtle Ridge when she can push them to buy in caza.

I loved the good old days when a client picked a house, and got financed to buy it irrespective of his credit or repayment ability. I could make a quick buck and have happy clients. These days things have changed. The bank appraises the properties and then goes through series of credit checks and then approves the loan. With the unemployment in two digits, it’s only luck on my side if the client wasn’t laid off by the time everything was done. Saurabh and his wife lost on a historic property in Pasadena when Saurabh got laid off. They did have enough money to put a fifty percent down, but the bank wouldn’t listen. All my time and efforts were wasted on that case. I decide to prepare a questionnaire to screen my clients and see what it is that they want rather than guess. People always take the written questions seriously and answer them more faithfully than the spoken ones.

Tired, I wanted to sleep around eleven, when Jignesh came home from work. I have no idea what he does at work this long. The economy never affected him. He always worked twelve hour days unlike others who had fun with families when things were better. I just hope he doesn’t have another family somewhere else. On second thoughts, he can’t even take care of one that is legitimate, he won’t dare to have another one. He talks in monosyllables and bound by habit, I still ask many questions, hoping some day he will answer them with an open heart.

I ask for too much. I see couples in love every day. May be that is the problem. I see the husbands showing the wives the houses as if giving to them was the sole purpose of their lives. I have seen wives see each room as if it is up to them to make this a heaven for their husbands. Jignesh and I never felt that way. When we bought a house, Jignesh just signed wherever I asked him to, and saw the house casually. You and kids spend more time in it than me was his reason. I wish he was like other husbands. A little imperfect so that I could crave for perfection.

I served him dinner, and cleaned up the kitchen and came to the bedroom. Jignesh was asleep already. I didn’t hope that he would be waiting for me with his arms open to hold me and whisper in my ears that he missed me when I was gone. But a little talk would have been good enough for me. I routinely go to the kids’ room to check on them, and see that Madhuri is too sound asleep. I shake her slightly to see if everything was alright, and there! There she lay in a pool of blood, oozing from a slashed wrist!

I dial 911 and help arrives in less than two minutes, and the whole house woke up at the sound of sirens. They didn’t know what happened, but they were already blaming me that something happened in India and I probably didn’t pay attention. I ignored them as I ignore a wall in the hallway and followed the ambulance praying to the Gods up there to leave my daughter alone. I murdered her child cruelly but I wasn’t ready to lose my own child. I threatened God that I will kill myself if something happened to Madhuri. As if he would care. For me, or for Madhuri. Or even Nimisha. If he did we wouldn’t be with Jignesh and his parents who are probably more worried about their son not getting a good night’s sleep than the granddaughter fighting life and death in a hospital bed.

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-3)

2009-05-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

“So, she is only fourteen?”
“Yes. Actually she just turned fourteen”
“Manisha, this is too late. It might be dangerous”
“Why don’t you ask someone to assist you?”
“The foetus is fully formed now”
“What difference does it make?”
“It’s killing a life that is just shaping up”
“It will kill my daughter’s life if I let it grow”
“It’s a baby”
“My daughter is still a baby”
“Did you ask her?”
“She is scared anyway”
“It’s risky”
“At her age having a baby is too”
“I have stopped doing this”
“Why? Earned enough screening the sex and aborting a thousand?”
“Not that. I felt bad for what I was doing and stopped”
“You did a thousand before that, what is one more?”
“It haunts me at night”
“This one won’t. Mom doesn’t cry for this one”
“Have you asked her?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just do it”
“You have become very cruel”
“At least I do it for her good. You did it to earn money all these days”
“Manisha, think over it”
“We did. That’s why we are here. If you can’t, let me know. There are other doctors in the city”
“I will. Just sign a few papers”
“Make sure this is a secret. News spreads so fast. Admit her under a fake name and don’t tell anyone that we are from US”
“Don’t worry. My staff is trustworthy”
“Thanks Hetal”
“No problem Manisha. I will see you tomorrow with Madhuri”
“Give her anesthesia. I don’t want her panicking”
“I will. She is too young to go local. It can be traumatic”
“I have to do an ultrasound to check everything”
“I will bring her in”

The nurse wheeled in the machine while I brought Madhuri in. Funny that she gave me the gown and asked to change. She might have thought that I am trying to have a boy third time around. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I am happy with my two girls and it’s my grandchild we are going to see on the ultrasound. Hetal understood and asked her to lock the door and leave, and did the screening herself.

Wait, what did I say? I said my grandchild. Sounds so weird, but that is the truth. People call it a second outing at motherhood, and a wonderful and enjoyable experience. My mother actually had dreams of becoming a grandma and when I was pregnant with Madhuri, she was so happy. Circumstances change everything. My eyes well up seeing a baby boy, as Hetal likes to call the foetus on the screen. With a heartbeat thumping at 140 per minute, and a tiny body in her uterus, the little boy seems to look at me and ask, why. Why me? Why can’t you have a heart and adopt me as your own child? Be my Yashoda and I be your Krishna?

I don’t know what Madhuri’s feelings are. She has turned her face the other side, and is not talking to anyone, or reacting to anything Hetal says. But she cannot get weak now and have this baby. It will ruin the future for her. Emotionally it will wreck her. This baby is better off sent to the God’s house than given a hell everyday of its life. I remember how happy Jignesh was when I was pregnant. Even then I had a miserable time. My mother cared for me and my baby, but still I had doubts whether I will be a good mother or not. Madhuri can’t go through all that at this age. I will let this be a pleasurable experience for her and her future husband later in life when they are ready for it. This is nothing but a mistake. I have to develop a heart of stone and let this happen.

I wish that I had someone I could talk to. Jignesh. Or mother. And tell them how this hurts my heart. How it tears my soul apart to make such a decision. I want a shoulder to cry on and empty the sorrow of my heart. But logic tells me that it won’t be a good idea. They will brand me a bad mother and my little Madhuri a tramp. She will never be trusted and always be doubted. No one has to know anything that they don’t need to know.

Jignesh will tell his parents. And his mother will unleash hell on the poor girl. Of course she will torture me. Jignesh acts like a baby in front of his parents. Right from the time he married. So many of my friends don’t even let their in-laws visit them, even though their husbands are the only kids to them, and here I am, stuck with in-laws right after I got married. He has three brothers in US, but they don’t want to take responsibility. They always have a reason not to take them home. I made a big mistake of not drawing the lines right after I got married. Now we have come too far to do anything.

I come back to the world as Hetal tells me to come in at 5 am sharp so that we can be done with this before the other staff comes. I have to told my mother that we are going on a short trip to Bombay for some shopping. Hopefully we don’t have to tell anyone the truth. I steel myself for the morning and bring on the courage to support Madhuri and give up the craving to find a support for my own self. Probably I lost that chance of finding a special someone in my life forever. This was the rude awakening that my life is over, and that of daughters has begun. That I lived without loving and being loved.

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-2)

2009-05-14T22:31:00.000-07:00

“Hi mom”
“Wear your seat belt”
“I am sorry”
“Back pack in the trunk. Don’t ruin my car and dump things all over the place”
“Mom”
“Sit inside, I will make a call to my client and cancel the appointment”
“Ok, I will”
“So, what happened?”
“Vani aunty told you?”
“I want to hear it from you. Vani is a no one to me”
“Fourteen weeks along”
“That’s too long already. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I was scared”
“Were you thinking that you can hide it all nine months?”
“I thought something bad would happen and I don’t have to tell you”
“Like?”
“Kids my age miscarry..”
“Who gives you such information?”
“Nobody, I read in magazines and on the internet”
“What next?”
“I don’t know. I am scared mom.. I don’t want to be a mother”
“I know that. Neither do I want to take that responsibility and mother your child”
“What happens now mom?”
“Options are limited. Either you have the baby, take care of it and finish school, and forget all about marrying a good Indian boy and settling down in life, or you can get rid of it and move on with life”
“I don’t know..”
“Who is the boy?”
“Mike Yo”
“That Chinese guy in Kumon class??”
“He is a good friend”
“Not a boy friend?”
“No”
“Does he know about the baby?”
“No”
“Don’t tell him. Sometimes the guys and their parents will force you to have the baby, and limit their role only to visiting the baby once in a while, but you will be ruining your life running after the baby at this age”
“I won’t”
“Listen to what I say, and trust me that it will set your life right on the track again”
“Uhmm”
“We will go to India this Friday for two weeks. We will get rid of it and come back. No one has to know”
“Not even Nimisha and dad? Grandma?”
“No one has to”
“Uhm. What will you tell them?”
“I will tell them that my mother is sick and we have to go see her”
“Ok”
“Everything will be alright”
“Thanks mom. I thought you would be mad”
“Next time, remember, even if your family gets mad at you, they care about your safety and future more than some random acquaintance of your mother”
“I was scared”
“I can understand”
“I don’t know how this happened”
“It’s Ok”
“I didn’t know that just with once this could happen, that too with Mike. It was the first time for him also”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Kumon”
“No, where did you do it?”
“In our house”
“What?”
“In my bedroom”
“And what was I doing?”
“You were out with a client for open house tour”
“Your father?”
“At work”
“Grandparents? Nimisha?”
“In the temple. I told them that I will stay home and study for the test”
“You planned it so well and forgot planning your own safety”
“Actually we did. Mike didn’t know how to use it”
“No one taught you before?”
“They did. But this was different”
“So, it came off?”
“This is getting embarrassing mom, can we not talk about it?”
“Sorry. I won’t ask those questions. So, you want to have some Boba tea?”
“I don’t want to have to do anything Chinese. Gives me creeps”
“That’s rude. You love your papaya shakes with boba”
“Cantaloupe with boba. Nimisha drinks papaya, without boba”
“Sorry, both of you are the same for me”
“But we are not”
“Thanks for the reminder. I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise”
“Sorry”
“Let’s book our tickets before we go home. Or else your grandfather will start calling his contacts and asking hundred questions. Also, let me call my friend in India who is an Ob-gyn and set things up. I don’t want to leave anything for the last minute”
“Mom, will it hurt?”
“Having a baby will hurt you more. Trust your mother on this one”
“I am scared”
“Mommy is here. Don’t be. We will be OK”

Mimosa with Samosa, Manisha (Part-1)

2009-05-14T22:29:00.000-07:00

“Manisha, Rashmi Agarwal just called. She wants to fix an appointment for this afternoon. Call her”
“Ji Paapaji”

Rashmi Agarwal is my new client, introduced through one of my father-in-law’s temple contacts. She wants to buy a house. That’s it. She hasn’t zeroed in on a location yet. That means I will have to take her around the Orange County as well as the San Bernardino County to show her some houses and give her some knowledge about each community so that she can pick one. That means I will have to drive around all over the place hoping that she might buy a house through me at least to cover my expenses. Most of the times people who start out like this without a budget or a zip code end up buying somewhere else, with another realtor. I hope that is not the case this time. With the economy going downhill, as it is we aren’t making as much as we were, and if the people who make us run around ditch us, there is no way our profession will recover in this economy. People think being a realtor is easy. Take some pictures, list a house, wear pretty clothes and shoes, drive a swanky car and sit browsing the internet in an open house on the weekends, and make money for all of this. It’s not. We have an image of success to portray so that clients think we actually sold a lot of homes and made a lot of money and they are good hands.

I call Rashmi Agarwal and fix an appointment for the afternoon to go to Shady canyon. Apparently Ms. Agarwal has a decent amount stashed and might be able to buy something there. Or at least I can try that she does. It will be a decent earning if it happens. I get dressed to project the image of a suave realtor and pull out the Armani shades to go with it, and start the car to see Ms. Agarwal in her house first and then hit the freeway. The phone rings! I hate to use my blue tooth, but it’s the law and for my own safety.

“Hello, Vani, How are you?”
“Manisha, I am doing good, how are you?”
“Good, so, what’s up?”
“Hmm.. Madhuri is here. She wanted to talk to you”
“She lost her cell phone?”
“No, she wants to talk to you about something important, and didn’t have the courage to tell you herself. So, she came to me this afternoon”
“She came to your office? What happened? She lost her money or something?”
“Manisha, listen, this is important”
“What happened that she couldn’t lift the phone and tell me, but disturbed you at work?”
“Manisha, calm down and meet us at our house in half an hour. We are driving home”

I hate going to Vani’s house. There will be things strewn all over the place and Vani will give the same old Oh-I-am-so-busy expression. She behaves as though being a realtor is not a job at all. I am responsible for everything at home and make money in whatever time I spare each day. I spend hours reading blogs about local real estate. With the market crashing, there are blogs sprouting everywhere calling the bluffs of realtors. They check our spellings, they post the loss on the house we are about to sell, they already tell if it’s close to a freeway or in a not-so-good school district. Not like before when the client depended on you solely for all the information. I have to do that, get up-to-date with the fashion so that I don’t look dated and jaded, reading about latest gossip and movies so that I can engage my client in small talk. Politics, Bollywood, Hollywood, sports.. all ice breakers need to be ready for us. I am judged everyday on how I look, how I behave. Unlike her, who has to interview once for a job and is chained to the cubicle and the computer till they let go of her. She never cooks or cleans. She has a full-time job, so the kid is dumped in an after-school program till she or Shekhar pick her up. I have to drop off the kids, pick them up, cook for everyone, and make do with a weekly help on housecleaning. I don’t understand why this kid of mine went to her for help. I don’t even know what kind of help it is that her own mother couldn’t offer.

“Hi Vani”
“Hi Manisha, come in”
“So, where is Madhuri?”
“She is upstairs, in the game room playing some Wii game”
“What happened”
“Sit down, I will bring you something to drink”
“Actually I have to go and see a client soon”
“May be you want to cancel”
“Huh?”
“Madhuri did something and now she is worried that you will be mad at her”
“Oh! She probably didn’t get a 100% on her math again. This time she promised”
“No Manisha, it’s not that trivial”
“What happened?”
“She is pregnant”
“What!”
“I told you.. you have to calm down and listen to me”
“How could she be? I haven’t even talked to her about the birds and bees”
“Manisha, she is fourteen”
“That’s what! She is too young, Besides, she is not that kind. There might be some mistake”
“She told me that she took a test. Manisha, just because you didn’t talk doesn’t mean she doesn’t know”
“But she is not that kind. She is a good Indian girl who spends time singing bhajans in temples when her friends are singing and dancing like they are next Rihannas”
“That has nothing to do with this Manisha. Our grandmothers never wore miniskirts and danced around shaking their butts, but had babies in their teens. They never had anyone talk to them about birds and bees or show them educative videos but they knew what to do when the time came. We on the other hand went to school, educated ourselves and waited several years to experience the bodily pleasures”
“So, how far along? Who is the boy?”
“Someone she goes to Kumon with. A Chinese boy”
“Oh no!”
“What does it matter? If he is Indian, and Gujarati are you going to get them married?”
“No, that’s not the issue”
“She hasn’t told me how far along she is. But I think far enough to worry and take a test, and get a positive in the school restroom”
“Who all know about this?”
“I don’t know, I think only me. If she had told any of the girl friends, they would have helped her, and she wouldn’t have to call me”
“Vani, do me a favor”
“What?”
“Don’t tell anyone about this. Think of Madhuri like you would for Ruchi, and forget that this happened”
“Sure Manisha, you can trust me on this”
“Not even Shekhar or Ruchi should know about this”
“Sure, I promise. So, what will you do next?”
“Let me talk to her”
“Don’t be mad at her”
“I won’t be. What’s done is done. There is no point troubling the already troubled soul”
“Right”
“Hey listen, don’t tell anything to Jignesh”
“Manisha, he is the father”
“Just don’t, OK. I will figure out how to handle this mess. I don’t want everyone in the house to know and put her down every moment of the day after this”
“What are you going to do Manisha?”
“Don’t worry. I am her mother. I will do whatever is good for her”
“Madhuri, your mother is here. Come downstairs”

Madhuri still looks like a little girl walking down the stairs in her school uniform and two braids, and that messenger bag. No makeup on her face, no earrings or even a bracelet. So simple, unlike girls of her age. I still can’t believe she would do something as huge as this. I wish she had talked to me instead of going to Vani. When did I become so distant? She told me everything about school when I picked her up. About the boys, about the girls, about math that day, about how she is trying to a nerd like other Indian kids. Why did she hide just one thing, and a very important one at that?

Mimosa with Samosa, Shekhar (Part-4)

2009-04-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

It really hurts to be nice to Vani when I hate her, with all my heart. But it hurts when I see her sit there, depressed and lonely, without anyone caring for her. I don't know what went wrong after that night, when I made love to her the way she asked her stranger to. She has stopped checking her emails, blackberry lies in a corner, discharged, lifeless. That is so unlike Vani. She hasn't even read any books now. Did he dump her? Or did she pull out of her virtual fantasy? She sounds so phony when she tells me repeatedly that she loves me. May be she is reassuring herself. I don't have a choice too. Life is such a bitch when you are middle-aged and timid. I don't have the courage to pick up everything and move on. I will probably ruin Ruchi's life also if I decide to leave. For all three of us, it is better to forget about the stranger, and move on, and hope that no stranger ever enters in again. Some love doesn't have the ability to grow when shared. It diminishes. I promise myself to love Vani for my sake, for Ruchi's sake and for our parents' sake.

I apply for a vacation and plan our trip to Cancun, hoping to be rediscover the love and bound with each other in a new way. In a strange way, I still love Vani. I want to make her happy. May be I found my happiness in hers that reflects on Ruchi also. May be it is the love I have for myself that makes me love Vani. I look for a few book recommendations on Amazon to read on the vacation, and see something written by Vani's writer friend. I wonder if that would make a nice gift for Vani. She is not fond of jewelry anymore, and expensive gifts don't amuse her anymore. The introduction of the book sounds interesting. A writer falls in love with a married woman online. At first she doesn't give in, but later, as he explains, the charmer that he is, gets to her. The devil that he is, has her. Something about the story is so compellingly true that I download the book, take the day off, and sit in corner in Starbucks, reading. I want to know how Vani fell for this guy. He is the invisible stranger. He is the one she wanted to wrap her around, with his words. It hurts. It hurts to see every thread of love that I wound over Vani unravel and show her dirty nakedness. It hurts even more to see him wrap her in his love, his words. But at least now I know that Vani didn't just decide one day to cheat me. It just happened. I know she stopped after that night, because the story takes an unusual turn later. The woman the writer loves decides to give up her happy family and be his soul mate forever, love him unconditionally, like Meera loved Krishna. My Vani is a normal person who loves conditionally. She only gives back the love you give to her. I smile, as I couldn't decide whom did Vani cheat. Me, her husband, or her lover. She left two men wanting for from her. She was incapable of loving anyone wholeheartedly.

I buy the book from Barnes and Noble on my way home, gift-wrap it, and give it to Vani, on our vacation. I want to catch her feelings, without anything to distract us.

"What happened?"
"Huh? Nothing"
"I thought you knew the writer"
"Yes. I met him at the literary event"
"On the day you wore white dress and diamonds?"
"You remember too many details"
"I remember everything I know about you Vani"
"Why did you buy me a book?"
"To read of course. I thought your friend's book might help you cheer up"
"He is not a friend"
"A lover"
"Shekhar.."
"I was just kidding"
"I love you, and no one else"
"Was he your boy toy"
"He is old"
"So just a toy to amuse you?"
"I don't play with feelings"
"If I were you, I wouldn't play with anything that is not mine"
"How do you know what's yours?"
"Why do you have to go seeking and not be content in what you have"
"I am happy with what I have"
"I am happy too"
"Shekhar, this book.. I don't want to read it"
"I understand"
"You don't"
"Yes, I do. You feel that those could very well be your words"
"No Shekhar, you don't understand"
"Vani, I know you want to be a writer, and it hurts you to see someone else get ahead"
"Shekhar, I am not jealous"
"I know, you are hurt"
"I don't want to write"
"Don't. Just read"
"I don't want to read either"
"You sure about that? Not even Braille? I was thinking of teaching you to read Braille"
"Shekhar, we have been married long enough.. I know how to read Braille"
"May be there is something I didn't share with you?"
"You kept secrets from me?"
"You thought only you could keep secrets from me?"
"Promise me, you won't keep any more secrets from me, and I will tell you everything that happened"
"I don't want to know. I love you, and you love me, let's leave it at that"
"Shekhar"
"Shh.. let's forget everything and move on. Do what interests you"
"My family does. I want to take care of you and Ruchi. Past few days, I haven't been very nice to you guys. Especially Ruchi is feeling very bad about my ice-cream eating habits. She is worried that I will get fat. Every afternoon she makes me ride the bike"
"She loves you a lot. Be a good mother. You have to make a lot of sacrifices to a good mother, and a good wife Vani"
"Shekhar, you have made a lot of sacrifices too.. to be a good dad, and a good husband"
"If you love me, and don't break my trust, that will be my reward"
"I will Shekhar, I will"

I throw the book in the suitcase, and I will probably leave it in the bookshelf for Vani, as a reminder. Life has to go on.

Mimosa with Samosa, Shekhar (Part-3)

2009-03-29T10:14:00.000-07:00

"What happened?"
"Nothing"
"Why are you in the bed like that?"
"I don't feel like getting up"
"Then sleep"
"I don't feel sleepy"
"What's happening?"
"I don't know Shekhar, I just don't feel like doing anything other than be in bed"
"Do you want to go drop Ruchi to school, and go shopping for a while?"
"No. I don't have anything to buy. You drop her off. I have asked Manisha to pick her up from school for a few days"
"What's happening? Are you sick?"
"No. I feel all right. Just that I feel weak, and hate myself"
"For doing what?"
"I don't know. I feel like a horrible person"
"Vani, what did you do that you think you are horrible?"
"Shekhar, I love you"
"Uhm"
"Do you love me?"
"Is that something to ask?"
"Tell me"
"We have been married so long, I don't even remember anyone else that I fell in love with"
"But how about me? Do you love me?"
"Vani, do you love me?"
"Yes. I do"
"More than anyone else?"
"Yes, with all my heart"
"You wouldn't leave me for anyone else?"
"Why do you ask Shekhar.. you are the only person I ever want to be with"
"Well, just thought you might be interested in Brad Pitt. Apparently Angelina threw him out after he gave nanny a backrub"
"She is a witch. He deserves someone better"
"Everyone does. But are you ready to give up everything you have in a quest for an unknown better?"
"Shekhar is philosophical.. Ooohh.. That’s hot"
"Anything for you sweetheart"
"Love you"
"Where is your blackberry"
"I don't know. It discharged and I didn't bother to charge it"
"Do you want me to charge it for you"
"No, don't worry. There isn't any email that needs my attention"
"Are you sure?"
"A hundred percent"
"You want to get out of that bed? It's annoying to see you wrapped up in sheets"
"I am unemployed"
"You are not brain-dead"
"I feel miserable"
"There is a lot to do. Write"
"I don't feel like. It hurts to write"
"Oh, your carpel tunnel is back?"
"No, it hurts my heart"
"Hmm"
"I put words on paper to create something beautiful, but I end up baring my heart and feel like I stand naked, on the internet"
"And strangers want to have sex with you?"
"Uhm. Only I don't like it"
"Having sex with strangers, or having sex virtually?"
"Shekhar.."
"I am just joking baby"
"I don't want to write ever again, read anything ever again. I want my slavery back. I want to be tied down to my cubicle"
"Be tied down to me"
"I always am"
"Without distractions"
"Uhmm"
"Without invisible intrusions"
"Shekhar. I love you"
"Don’t cry early in the morning.. It's a beautiful day. Go out biking.. Do you want me to go to work late and spend some time with me?"
"No, I want to be alone"
"I can't leave you alone like this"
"I can't share my hurt with you"
"I know what hurts you"
"No you don't"
"Losing something you thought you love hurts"
"I didn't lose Shekhar, I let go"
"You will find a new job, and everything will be alright, again"
"It's not about a job Shekhar"
"Shh.. I don't want to know anything else now. Go, change, and we will go biking on the trail, all the way to the beach. Let's see of you have it in you to race me"
"I love you"
"Enough of the sappiness early in the morning. Lets' go and catch early rays"
"I have my sun right next to me"
"Unfortunately there are dark corners that I haven't seen"
"What you didn't see will not bother you"
"I heard of the walls that need a light, but not a sun to light up"
"Damn those walls"
"I want to break those walls, and light up every corner"
"Let go, before you turn a poet"
"You like men who write poetry, right?"
"No, I don't"
"Yes you do. Like your friend who tapes poems to wife's dashboard"
"I think it's a lie"
"But do you want me to do that? Tell me if you want to.. I will steal a poem from the internet and dedicate it to you"
"I want you, as you are"
"Do you love me the way I am?"
"I do. I don't want you to change"
"I want you to change"
"Huh?"
"Love me with all your heart, tell me everything that hurts you. Don't ever be the Vani I don't know anything about"
"I won't be.. Promise. I love you"

Mimosa with Samosa, Shekhar (Part-2)

2009-03-29T10:13:00.000-07:00

"I wanted to talk to you"
"I am listening Shekhar. How is Vani?"
"You don't understand. I need to talk"
"About what? You are a married man Shekhar. You have to talk to your wife now Not to your mother!"
"It is about my wife"
"Then your wife should know it more than me. You do understand that I can't play mediator between you guys now. Right?"
"I am not asking you to. I just want you to listen"
"Oh Shekhar, what did you do?"
"I didn't"
"Then what happened? You guys need money? I do hear about the Indian families that have lost almost everything in US. This subprime crisis has messed up everyone's lives. Bushes have always brought recessions in your country"
"Amma, slow down. Listen to me"
"Sorry Shekhar, what is it? Know that your dad and I will be you guys no matter what"
"It's about Vani"
"She is sick?"
"No, she did something that I didn't expect her to do"
"What? Stop talking in riddles and tell me what happened"
"I don't know how to tell you"
"Shekhar, I am your mother. Trust me"
"Vani cheated me"
"Hmm"
"She did. She is drawn to another man"
"Who told you?"
"No one. I know"
"How?"
"I saw her emails. Listen, I don't want to give you all those details"
"I don't want to hear about them either. Where did she meet him?"
"I don't know if they have met"
"How do you know she cheated then?"
"Emails amma! I have read messages between him and her"
"Shekhar, I don't understand. What would be harmless flirting between two people cannot be cheating. Cheating is when she had sex with him"
"This is cheating too"
"Was she just flirting with him?"
"Hmm"
"Shekhar, can I tell you something?"
"Yeah"
"When a woman reached middle age, she needs attention. Usually husbands fail to give them that attention. In our cases, we had brother-in-laws, or co-workers to flirt with when we were bored and bring back fun in life. These days the women marry boys with almost no immediate family. Even if they do, they meet once in a while, and they don't develop a healthy relation to flirt safely. Also, all your days go in the three walls of a cubicle and your only gateway to life is internet. It was bound to happen"
"Amma, you are reading too much about second life. It doesn't work that way"
"Tell me Shekhar, how does it work?"
"I live the same life as her, and I never felt the need to look for someone to flirt with you"
"Shekhar, each person is built differently, and behave differently"
"Are you telling me that I should just move on?"
"For now, that's the best decision you can make, for your sake, and Ruchi's"
"And react only if she has a physical affair"
"Yes. Give her some space, and she will be tired of the excitement of the newfound middle-aged attention"
"Amma.."
"Shekhar, like I told you before, you are not at an age where you come to your mother asking for solution. No matter how progressive your mother is, there are certain limits on what you can share with her. I trust you to keep this within the boundaries of your relation with Vani, and don't talk to anyone else about it"
"Amma.. did you ever feel the need?"
"Shekhar, you are my son"
"It would only help me"
"You always asked me why Sheila aunty always mentioned that I was a lucky woman to have someone like your dad in my life, and looked at him longingly like he was her lover?"
"Yeah"
"You wondered why bhabhi flirts with you like you were her lover in college, and made you stuff that you liked, invited you over again and again?"
"Yeah?"
"There is your answer"
"There was not my answer. There were more questions. Am I the only one who didn't feel the need to flirt with someone else jsut because I am of a certain age? It's not like Vani showers me with all the attention I need"
"What can I say Shekhar? May be your heart is content with what you have"
"I want to leave Vani"
"Don't. You will hurt yourself more than you hurt her"
"I will sleep peacefully at night"
"Trust me, you won't. You love her too much to be happy without her. Think of Ruchi. She loves you more than her own mother"
"Ruchi will live with me"
"Shekhar, girls need their mothers at this phase of life more than their fathers. She needs both of you to shape her future"
"What about me? I don't have any future?"
"What future Shekhar? If you leave Vani now, you will probably marry someone I choose the next yer, probably someone who comes from a borken marriage or a shattered past. At your age, no one with the rose tinted glasses will see you as their future. Or you will end up taking a mistress, or a visiting a hooker who will be after your money, and not you. Ruchi will find love of her life and love on, while you, like a cripple will sit licking your wounds, wondering if you made a mistake. Stay with Vani. Just don't bring it up unless she does. Trust me, you are happier that way"

I turn off my phone and go home, trying to think of ways to make myself comfortable around Vani.

Mimosa with Samosa, Shekhar (Part-1)

2009-03-29T10:12:00.000-07:00

"Vani, your phone is buzzing nonstop"
"Just leave it. I will come and check it"

It is very unusual for Vani to leave the phone buzzing and enjoy the shower. She is the kind of person who has to know everything, as it happens. May be the layoff has changed her. May be she doesn't feel important anymore. May be Manisha and Neena's emails don't interest her anymore. Vani is an introvert. Very hard to understand and entertain. She will never tell me what she wants, but never stop expecting me to do things that her heart wants me to. May be she thinks I am a superman with superpowers who can get into her heart and know everything that's in there. All her desires. Whatever it is, I have loved Vani all these days. Together we make a good couple. It doesn't matter that I never really fell in love with her. At this point in life, it doesn't really matter where and when we started. We have the quintessential happy family with European cars and a mini-mansion in an upscale neihgborhood. We have a beautiful girl that is a delight to watch. We have everything that people struggle to have all their lives. If only Vani were a little romantic, if only she would let herself a little loose, life would be a heaven. But, who has perfect lives?

The phone buzzes again, and I pick it up.

"The devil in me in unleashed, and I want to be cruel, no longer the good friend you had"

The message amuses me first, shocks me next. Who is in their right mind would send such messages to Vani, unless it's a stalker? Usually when you write on the internet, you make a few friends, a few enemies and a lot of frenemies. May be Vani has written something to hurt a few people? Are they stalking her? But knowing Vani, she would come running to me and ask me to fix it. She wouldn't be the one to hide and move on. May be after her layoff, she is a little depressed. She doesn't look though. In fact, with all this writing workshops, and literary events, she is glowing. Her eyes are sparkling again.

I scroll through her other messages that were equally provocative. For a moment, I couldn't believe my eyes. Vani sending sexually charged messages to someone who calls him an invisible man? Or is it Vani trying to be creative and playing with herself. This is not the woman I married, and live with for the past twelve years. I know her. She has never liked violence of any kind. She is the gentle kind. These messages are so crude. So crass. Only a hooker could do it. My Vani is not that kind. I tell myself again and again, as I stand there, in disbelief with Vani's blackberry in my hand, scrolling through at least hundred emails that Vani is exchanging with the stranger, who calls himself invisible. Going through their emails, he is neither invisible, nor a stranger to Vani. Perhaps she knows him better than she knows me. In all these years, she has never talked of any of the things that she is talking to a stranger now. Is he her old lover? Did they reunite now, via facebook, as the fad goes? Or is he someone she found in a chat room? Who is it? Why is Vani cheating me over someone who probably wouldn't be able to give her everything I have given her in life?

I feel lifeless and limp all of a sudden, as I pour myself a glass of scotch, and try to analyze what went wrong, and when. What did I do to deserve this? I haven’t even gotten a lap dance ever since I married Vani. I haven't visited any hooker. Never been to strip clubs or even hooters for that matter. I became the man women only dream of. I know several men who play poker every Friday and pay visit to places probably their wives wouldn't think of. They tell them that they were working. I never allowed myself all those pleasures only because of the love I had for Vani, and the respect I had for our marriage. How could she do this to me? I am not angry at the fact that people fall in and out of love. I wouldn't be holding any grudges towards her if she had told me that she had fallen in love with someone who will give her pleasures I couldn't even imagine off. I wouldn't be asking her to stay back. But the fact that she is enjoying life as my wife, and still staying married with me while having an affair with someone else makes me cringe. Challenges my manhood. Should I drag her out of the shower right now, and ask her to leave? Or to explain the messages? Or do the things she is begging her stranger to do and let her figure out that I know? Should I just kill her and end it all? I hyperventilate as I think of the possibilities. Just until an hour ago, I had the perfect family. I feel the need for fresh air. My body refuses to breath the same air as Vani.

"Dad, where are you going?"
"Forgot to get something"
"I get scared alone. Wait till Mom finishes her shower"
"Turn on the alarm"
"No, it's scary. Can you spend some time with me? Daddy-Ruchi time"

I am sucked into the bigger picture of married life. How would I explain Ruchi about her mother's wavering ways? "Sweetie, I am sorry to tell you, but your mother chose to sext someone and I don't approve of that" Would that help her understand the need for daddy to get out, right now? How will I explain it to my parents, or even Vani's? "I didn't bother to understand her darkest desires and she chose someone else to satisfy her cravings?". What about the divorce lawyer? "Make sure you get me Ruchi. That bitch is unreliable. She might go sexting and forget all about the kid". Oh, the so-called friends? "I heard Vani cheated virtually?" "Oh man! You were slogging in the office while she had life on all fours" "I really pity you. Your wife cheated you" "Weren't you capable of giving her what she desired? I mean, she went looking for it". How will I ever have the courage to face all this? Am I not man enough to keep Vani happy? Why did Vani do this to me? I close my eyes and lie down, while Ruchi rubs my head, asking me if it hurts. It hurts baby, my heart does. Only I can't show my hurt to you.

Ruchi sleeps peacefully in a few minutes, and I go back to our room. I don't know why, but when I see Vani's dresses lined up in the closet, a desire to burn them up gets strong. I see Vani getting out of the shower, with a small towel around her, and she looks like a two-headed snake to me. I don't feel drawn to her at all. As if waiting for me to come and hold her in my arms, Vani drops the towel and starts rubbing some lotion on her body. I do feel the need to hold her, but the emails she sent are still playing in my mind. If I touch her now, I might kill her. She wears a black lacy cami and black shorts, and walks to me, and I know what she wants to do next. Only I don't want to please her anymore. Should I tell her to go to her invisible man and enact every word they have written to each other. I see her gold chain shining around her neck, and I want to sqeeze her neck tight using the same chain. "I put it in my mouth, and slowly wrap in around your ***** while I feel you in mouth". That's what she had told the stranger she would do. She never did anything like that to me though. For a moment, I couldn't decide whether I am angry with Vani, or jealous of her new lover.

I do the things she had asked him to do, and watch her face glow. I don't know why I am playing along, but I am playing her invisible man, watching her eyes twinkle with love, lust that are definitely not for me. She shows no guilt of cheating me, and enjoys every word I say with her Umm..Hmm.s.

Mimosa with Samosa, Neena (Part 2)

2009-03-19T13:53:00.001-07:00

“Did you fight with daddy?”
“No Krishna”
“Why are guys behaving like that? It’s not cool for parents!”
“Sometimes grownups have problems, and till they find solutions, they act uncool, which is ok”
“I don’t want my parents to fight, ever”
“Your parents are not special”
“But you guys never fight”
“That changed”
“I know you guys won’t separate or divorce!”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I know you love each other”
“What if we don’t, anymore?”
“You said that there is no such thing as unloving”
“True, but there is no such thing as loving unconditionally”
“I don’t know about all that- I just want you guys together, always”
“We will talk about that later. Let’s go now”
“Where to? Manisha aunty’s house?”
“I suppose. Let me call her, and tell her that we are on our way”
“What about daddy? Where did he go?”
“He has to go help a friend”
“Who is it?”
“I didn’t ask her name, but she is having a baby”
“Oh, how wonderful! Daddy is helping her family?”
“No, daddy is the only person with her now”
“Is she an orphan? Did her husband leave her?”
“She is not married”
“Oh my God! Teenage pregnancy?!”
“No, she is having a baby with your dad”
“You are kidding!”
“No, it’s true, and daddy will move in with them very soon”
“What about us?”
“What about us? We will live together, happy. We have a house, you have school, friends, and I will find another job”
“You will marry someone else?”
“No, I won’t.”
“You still love daddy”
“I will, always”
“Then ask him to come back, and leave them”
“Will you love him the same and respect him the same if he came back?”
“No”
“Neither will I”

I move slowly around the room, with bandages still on my legs and arms. It hurts. Hurts a lot actually. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t want to get up from the bed at all. But the physiotherapist has strictly advised exercise if I want to be on my own two legs some day. Being me, I wouldn’t want to be a vegetable with a heart. And, I still have so much to do. I haven’t even started. The house is history now. Today Manisha will take me around the house, or what remained of my house, and see if we can get something out of the rubbles and ash. I don’t want to go. Everything that is gone is gone. I want to rebuild life, without a single memory of the past. But I still have to go.

“Mom, did it hurt a lot?”
“Yes, it still does”
“Your face looks horrible”
“Thanks for telling me”
“I mean it. You look like an alien”
“Hmm”
“Will you get surgery done to look pretty?”
“Yes, I will have to, if I don’t want to scare people”
“When?”
“In a few days, when I get well”
“How do they do it?”
“Ask the doctor. I never got it done before, so I don’t know”
“Will they make you look like anyone you want to?”
“I guess o. If you pay a lot of money”
“Will you look like Aishwarya Rai?”
“Why not Julia Roberts?”
“Because you have blue eyes, and they won’t change your eyes?”
“Hmm. You are smart. Let’s go and get whatever we can”
“I don’t want to”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to see Daddy ever again”
“It doesn’t matter. He will still be your dad. You have to have a relation with him Krish”
“No, he hurt you. He hurt us”
“We will talk about it later”
“I don’t want to go”
“Then call Manisha aunty and ask her to take a few pictures of the house for us. We won’t go”

I breathe a sigh that my own child understood my hurt, and logged on to the computer. Shri never asked me how much we saved, or where did we invest it. I transfer all our funds from joint account to my offshore account. I remove all the rainy day funds and transfer them into 529s, which I max out for two states. The next task would be destroying Shri. I make a myspace page for Shri. With his pictures. I connect with his friends. I post a very public apology to Neena. From Shri. On his Myspace page, for cheating her. I repeat with Facebook. Twitter. Blogpage. Vani thinks she is a writer. She should see my writing now. I am amazed at my abilities. I log in into Shri’s personal email account, that he had shared with me, and send a letter to Human Resources that I made a mistake. I deviated from corporate policy, and that I quit my job. That was a long day, but I was still not done. I had to ask Manisha to get me my small safe so that I can safely get rid of Shri’s identity. A wait of another hour for Manisha seems like a lifetime.

“Neena”
“Yes Shri”
“I just wanted to tell you that I love you”
“Thank you”
“I didn’t know you loved me too”
“Hmm?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you wanted me back?”
“Sorry?”
“Why did you try to kill yourself?”
“That was a weak moment”
“No, that was because you couldn’t imagine life without me”
“That was when I felt hurt”
“I want to be back”
“Where?”
“With you, and kids”
“It’s not a bar, it our life. You can’t walk in and out as you please”
“I only strayed once”
“I only loved once”
“I love you, even now”
“What about your fuck buddy?”
“That was a mistake”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No”
“You spineless retard”
“Neena”
“If you think you will walk in here with a bunch of red flowers and a gift for me, and ask me to forget everything that happened before, it won’t happen Shri”
“Tell me what you want me to do to prove that you can trust me again”
“I don’t want to trust you again”
“Please Neena”
“Shri, I am already in pain. I want to sleep”

I pretend to sleep, while I think of other ways to hurt Shri. But deep in my heart, I feel bad for everything I am doing. He has realized his mistake. Should I still be talking of revenge?

“Shri, what happened with the girl friend?”
“Who?”
“Your fuck buddy. Did she have her baby?”
“Yes. She is putting the baby for adoption. She was fired from the company”
“Oh.. why?”
“She has no money. And with the reasons that they gave her, she will not find another job easily”
“What did she do?”
“Neena.. “
“The baby?”
“What about it?”
“Aren’t you going to help out?”
“No”
“Why so?”
“She didn’t ask me before having the baby. It was her sole decision”
“Did you see the baby?”
“Yes”
“Held the baby?”
“No”
“I didn’t feel like. I didn’t feel that the baby was mine like Krish and Nisha were”
“Because you are not sure who else she might have slept with and given them the same Mormon story?”
“Yes”
“And you told me that this girl made you feel like a hero”
“Hmm”
“I pity you Shri”
“Neena, don’t divorce me”
“No, I won’t”
“Let me live with you, and the kids”
“I will”
“Thanks Neena. You don’t know, but you have been so kind to me, you are like a God today”

I smile, and this time, I am really sleepy. I wish for a good sleep. I am done destroying Shri. To the core. He doesn’t have a job. He doesn’t have a single penny. He won’t go to the court to get it out of me. I will let him live with us. I will let him suffer from our indifference this time. That’s the biggest punishment I can give him. Because if I divorce, he will move on, while I will mop on. Unloving him every moment from now will be the kindest cruelty he has ever seen.

Nisha and Krishna will live in Manisha’s house for a while, till I recover from my surgeries and we will buy a new house, to start life anew, where I won’t play mommy to anyone. Not even my own kids. Manisha, I heard is busy with her Horton Short sales, and Vani is busy attending author meets with a new author she has befriended. For a while I will be lonely, but I find a new friend in Krish these days. I will recover, and rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

Mimosa with Samosa, Neena (Part 1)

2009-03-18T15:13:00.000-07:00

“I had an affair”, he said.
“With?”
“Someone I work with”
“and..”
“She is pregnant”
“Hmm?”
“She is a nice young woman”
“And I aged with you, obviously not nice enough anymore”
“Listen to everything I want to tell you first”
“Do I even have a choice?”
“Please.. listen”
I sigh.
“We met a few months ago, when I was in Canada. She had come to Canada the first time, and we hung out after work. Soon we realized that we have a lot in common, and felt a strange connection that I never felt with you. At least in the recent years. She was everything I wanted in a girl, so dependent on me, she made me feel important, my presence in her life important. And one of those long cold weekends, we spent too much time together that we ended up sleeping together”
“Hmm..”
“The next morning, we realized that it had been a big mistake. She is a conservative Christian girl, who had saved herself for marriage, and I was a middle-aged happily married man. I told her that it was the end of the relation from my side, and she said I had my own choice, she had her own. She told me that she would continue to live with my memories and wait for me to come back. I thought she was joking, and left, forgot all about her. You and the kids gave me so much love when I came back that I forgot all about it and moved on”
“So what happened now?”
“She is pregnant, with my child”
“Hmm”
“Yes, she is. And she refused to abort the fetus. She has the same views as you. If it has a heartbeat, it deserves to live, whether there is anyone to love it or not”
“So, you are leaving us?”
“No”
“You expect me to file a divorce?”
“No”
“You want out of court settlement?”
“No”
“I won’t forget and forgive Shri! I am human. Only human. You have cheated me, I think you understand the seriousness of the matter. You didn’t do a mistake that can put behind you and walk away”
“I understand”
“Is there something that I don’t understand here?”
“She is here. In the city. She wants to have the baby here, with me on her side. Her parents didn’t approve of the pregnancy, or her love for me. So she is alone”
“So you want to be a supportive fuck buddy”
“It’s not like that”
“Help me understand”
“I am doing everything I can to salvage whatever I can. I need your help, as a friend, and your support”
“Be with your girlfriend icing her lips while she pushes out your love child?”
“All I am asking is to be a little reasonable”
“All you are asking me to do is be a celebrity wife and just suck it up!”
“Please.. don’t leave me alone when I need you the most. I love you more than anyone in the world, and no one can ever deny that. All that happened was in a moment of weakness, which is only human. I will do anything to prove that I won’ do it again”
“I don’t care anymore”
“Now she is on the town, she wants me to be with her”
“Go ahead. She is a nice woman, and deserves your attention now”
“Please don’t make fun of me”
“You made my life a living joke already”
“I want you to come with me”
“I would die before I do that”
“Please.. I need you”
“I have stopped feeling any need for you, or feelings to support you”
“I beg you”
“Impossible. What do you think I am? You walk into the door saying you have a girl friend who is pregnant, and want me to come and take care of her? What are you? A sultan from middle east having wives and concubines under the same roof”
“Please”
“Get out of here before I kill you”
“Neena, listen”
“No Shri. I am not listening this time. It is different to write down a list of exercises for you to do at gym, and pack your gym bag so that you don’t forget anything, but it’s different to play the same person when you get a girlfriend pregnant. It’s not the same, at all”
“Neena”
“Please get out of here. I don’t want to see you ever again”

I hear the door shut and the car start. I am alone, not lonely, for the first time in many many years. And I don’t feel like crying my heart out. I make myself some coffee, and sit down to watch an afternoon soap opera, which, compared to my life today would be dull and lifeless. The phone rings, and I know it’s Shri, probably begging for a pardon, or probably asking me to change my mind and come to the hospital. I let it go the voicemail.

I always believed that I was happily married. Never in my wildest dream did I imagine Shri cheating casually on me. I thought I had everything in control. How could he do that to me? Didn’t he remember my face when he was with that woman? Didn’t the ring that he wears on his finger remind him of his commitment? Is he so weak? Everyone wants to break the norm, but I never knew my Shri had the courage to do it. Minal Shah’s husband at least did it online, while she slept, on his webcam. Shri abused his business trip, and got her pregnant. How careless can a man get! Or did he expect me to pack him a condom just in case he needed, along with his shaving kit, and deodorant?

Shri, today I truly hate you for needing me. And for playing with all our lives impregnating a mormon. All these days I thought you were just incapable of shopping for a week’s groceries if I didn’t write down a list for you, but today you proved that you are not even capable of finding yourself a fuck buddy without anyone helping you. Your mother has screwed up your life so much that she has left you incapable of making any good independent decisions in your life. You should thank your stars that Neena Deshpande put her dreams aside to play mommy for you and your kids all these years and take care of you. Now, you will see the other side of me, and you will repent your decision of trying to fool me, even if it was only once.

The phone rings, and I let it go to voicemail. It will be needy Shri.

Only it’s a reverse 911 call to evacuate, because the fire I saw on the distant mountains this morning’s has decided spread it’s arms and swallow everything I have, everything that remained in my life, today. I call Nisha and Kris’s school, and I am told that Shri already picked them up, because they called him first, as always, during emergencies. I went upstairs and gathered all the jewelry, leaving behind my mangalsutra that didn’t have any value anymore, and didn’t deserve to be worn at least on Satyanarayan Pooja days. I leave all our pictures behind, and pick up Nisha and Kris’s, and pack up a few things, and my laptop, and leave. I see my house one last time, with the red-orange fire blazing on the backdrop. I fear, not for my life, but something unknown to me, and my throat dries up. I crave for a hand to hold me and lead me to my car, but no one comes. I drag my feet to the car, and start, not knowing where to go, whom to hug in this moment of crisis. I have one last look at the house, and I see fire engines approaching already, and leave. I am losing my house, and my home on the same day. Tragedy of my life, that I didn’t enjoy both of them, like I should have.

I will be a single parent soon. I don’t know how I will do it though. Financially it shouldn’t be a problem. But emotionally I would be a wreck. At this point in life, there is no chance of anyone falling in love with me, leave alone marrying a suitable boy again, and settling down. Shri played such a heinous trick on me that I can’t even imagine what my appropriate revenge looks like. I feel like taking him to the mountains for a night under the stars, and leaving him there, hands and legs tied, alone, until someone finds him lifeless and limp. He will know how it feels to be left alone, still reeling in the shock of betrayal.

Shri has never given me the love I needed. Not even once in all these years. Ours was an arranged marriage, and how happy I was that I met my match without making compromises. What did I know that I will spend the rest of my life making compromises? Shri never had time to know me, to understand me, or he pretended to be a busy man who never had the time. I am not a stay at home woman myself, with lots of time to focus on family, but I stretched out my ability. I mothered my kids, made them perfect children. I mothered Shri. I packed his lunch, set out his clothes, and packed his gym bag with fresh towels, packed his bag for his business trips. I dropped him off at airports, and I picked him up. Not because I had time. Because I wanted to bond with a person that I didn’t know much about. I wanted to be dependent on each other so that if we don’t fall in love, we at least have a familiarity with each other and form a compulsive dependency that will bind us forever.

I tried telling Shri that he hurts me with his indifference. But he always had something else to focus on. A new job, a new boss, a new project, a new business trip. Life is so hectic for him, always, that he decided to keep all his energies to soothe his own soul. I wanted to walk out of this relation from the day I walked in. I didn’t feel the need for me in Shri. But I persisted. I thought one day he will change, one day he will notice everything I do for him. One day he will love me, and he will care for me the way I do for him. I wasted all the peak years of my life on something that makes me feel like a used kitchen rag today. My beauty, my intelligence, and my caring personality feel used, and discarded, and I am not going to let this be the end of me. If Shri thought he could get away with this, he is wrong.

I want to kill myself, and end all this today. If I did, it would probably be the biggest favor I do myself, in all my life. I have no one to talk to, I have no one to hold me and let me run my tears till I dry my heart. I never made any friends. I put an invisible ring around me to protect me from anyone who tried to come close to me. It scares me to share my heart with a stranger. Man, or woman. Online, or in person. My soul wants to be an enigma. The façade of my soul wants to be a perfectionist. With a perfect career, family, virtues, moral, everything. Just the way it is supposed to be. Even if it hurts me. Even if it has crippled me. Even if it has locked my soul in the darkest of the dungeons. It’s overwhelming to be me. I don’t understand me, and I don’t let anyone else understand me. I am my greatest fear. I won’t do justice to my kids if I am let to guide them alone. My biggest fear being a headline on evening news.

Shri, I need you. To depend on me. To give me something to obsess on. Not to love. Not to share a life. You hurt me always, and today, when I decide to drive back to a house within a few meters of the flames, it is because of you. I want to hurt you, but I want to hurt me more. I want to wear my black evening gown with sequins. I want to wear my diamonds. I want to sing, I want to dance. I want the fire to come to me, hold me tight like no one else has held me. Like it owns me, and have me. I won’t cry. I won’t complain.

I arrange my Hydrocodones to make a heart. I break it. I arrange them to make Shri’s name. I eat the S first. Then H. Then R. Then I see fire in the window. I want to get up and open the windows. I cannot. I can see the door being banged. I see blue. I see red. I see yellow. I see orange. I see the colors of life. I see colors beyond black and white. Someone tries to look in to my eyes, and someone tries to feel the sequins on my chest. I see them, through my soul, but they don’t see my soul. As always, my soul wonders unseen, why is it ignored, so royally, even by moving colors. I am carried away. Into light. Into dark. Then into an unknown atmosphere. Am I dead? Someone undresses me. Someone covers me in green. Did I become one with the elements? No. I am in the hospital. The men in yellow are being hailed for the rescue. Rescue of a drugged woman. Overdosed. I overheard. I don’t want to live. But they don’t hear me. I want to see my kids. They don’t hear me. I close my eyes and give me up. When I wake up, I see Shri, and my kids. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

When I wake up again, I see Manisha and Vani. Vani is mumbling that if she had kept our afternoon lunch date, I wouldn’t be trapped at home, and this wouldn’t have happened. Everyone sounds so phony. Manisha has pity pouring out of her face. I don’t need it. I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me. I knew what I was getting into. I am tired of pretending to sleep every time I have visitor. My kids look scared of me. May be I am looking horrible. Or maybe it’s the idea of losing a mother that scares them more. I don’t want them to depend on me. I don’t want them to end up like Shri and ruin someone else’s life. I don’t want another Neena try to kill herself because of my selfish kids. I want them to experience life without me holding their hands, making sure it’s all safe to take the next step. I want them to fall, I want them to get hurt, and learn to tread carefully. I sleep, thinking of several possible revenges on Shri, and smile as I finalize “Destruction, to the core”. It will have to wait till I get out of the hospital though. Shri can pretend to take of me till then.

I will not divorce Shri, nor will I move out. Nor will I let him get out of this mess. I dream of donating all Shri’s money to charity. I dream of donating all his possessions, clothes and watches, and shoes included, to charity. I dream of paying off the mortgage with all his savings and transferring the house to my name, as an independent owner. I dream of Shri in his underwear, not knowing what to do. I dream of Shri, standing there, looking for someone to hold his hand and walk him through the mess his organizer made. I see the kids, playing somewhere in the yard, aloof of all this happening to their Dad. I want to see Shri rebuild his life, from scratch. I think of words for the letter I will send to Shri’s management on how he abused a so called business trip in Canada and how he has relations with someone who works for him, against corporate policy. I will burn his passport. Citizenship documents. His tax returns. His social security card. I will shred his credit cards, his checkbooks, his driver's license. I want to see him, rebuild his exisntance, in front of my eyes while I sit there, doing nothing to help, to console, to soothe.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-11)

2009-03-14T19:53:00.000-07:00

“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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-10)

2009-03-14T19:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-9)

2009-03-12T17:38:00.000-07:00

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!

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-8)

2009-03-12T16:56:00.000-07:00

“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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-7)

2009-03-12T12:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-6)

2009-03-12T11:59:00.001-07:00

“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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-5)

2009-03-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-4)

2009-03-12T11:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-3)

2009-03-12T09:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-2)

2009-03-11T15:03:00.000-07:00

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....

Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-1)

2009-03-10T16:22:00.000-07:00

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....