Being Indian - in Newport News!

It was hard to shake it off. She had worked so hard to wring every last drop of her “Indian-ness” out of her, as if she were wringing out the water from a dripping wet piece of cloth. She thought she had it all out of her. And she took the fabric all the way up till her hands could go no higher and whipped it down, only to feel a fine spray, a mist left behind in the air, hovering where the cloth had been an instant ago.

She thought she was sufficiently a citizen of the world, not to be bothered by shopping at a desi store. She had taken to calling it “the Indian store”. It no longer was the desi store for her. She passed through aisles of dals, ready made bottled chutney carefully sealed and dated, to not let any aromas escape, lipton teas and leo coffees, kadais and belans and the ubiquitous south indian coffee filter, spices and vegetables, memories forming and collapsing in her head as if she were turning a kaleidoscope. She had gone through so many phases in life – from an Indian girl, who thought it was wrong to drink, smoke, and dance; lived in the ghetto as a grad student, worked insane hours, lived with the other people, borne the burnt of the desis, moved out alone into working life, hated the familiarity of the desis, the presumptions that she would fit into a mould, gone through a fitness spree and a drinking spree alternately, ventured into spirituality and philosophy, teetered on the edge of virginity, started to cook Italian and Thai, finally figured out that she was neutral enough to be chilled out even to Desis. And she had come to the corner shop once again, no longer dreading her reaction to other fellow indians…no longer trying to shy away from memories…

What different shopping styles she had seen in her life! Summer time blisters on the feet from running barefoot on hot asphalted roads behind the balloon seller and the vegetable vendor. The smell and sight of mangoes heaped up on the pavements. She would be able to distinguish between the dozen different varieties with her eyes closed, just based on pure smell. The pull of memory was so strong that she let it sweep over her for a moment, like remembering a particular kiss from an ex-boyfriend. Something that belonged to the past, but something that she no longer had to put away in the recesses of her mind as taboo, something she could let go and enjoy a momentary breeze of a memory in the middle of a hard day. As she walked through the shop, she looked at the frozen vegetables and a chill of disgust ran through her. She saw the fresh vegetables – tindoras and drumsticks, fresh methi and spinach, tiny baingans, and thin mean looking green chilies – the kinds that would draw an involuntary tear drop and a running nose out of the hardest looking guy, if he dared bite into it and she finally saw the mangoes. Luscious, big, firm, yellow thin skinned Banganapallis – Dad used to peel it off, going round and round the mango, having one long spiral peel at the end. How fascinating it used to be to just watch him do that!!! Juicy, pulpy, small fibrous ones that she could squeeze and drink the pulp out of after puncturing the skin. Thick skinned, green sour smelling raw mangoes that Paati used to pickle with lots of oil and mustard and spices. And maanga pachidi with a bit of jaggery, a bit of salt, a bit of pepper and a bit of neem for the bitterness and green mangoes for the sourness. She could feel it on her tongue, already. It was supposed to signify that life was made up of all different flavors… She picked up a case of each and walked to the counter, grinning at the thought of the next couple of days. Who was she trying to kid?!!! She was Indian – all the way!!!


Being Indian - in a distant country seems to be all those tiny memories that flash in and out at unexpected moments, bringing back in vivid detail, places and times that are far away. No - I do not long for the mangoes, not the monsoon rains, not the liquid heat over the months of May and June... I miss my family. Miss my friends. But, everybody has moved on with a life of their own. And I go about missing them... That is what being Indian in a distant place is about - the brief flashes of totally lucid, vivid "wanting to be there"...

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Blank Noise Presents....

the Blog-A-Thon

She was going to her friend's house for a night over. She was almost there - just had to round the corner, when she saw four of them walking - two on one side of the road, and two on the other. They seemed to fairly young guys, talking loudly and singing popular songs. The road was empty, but well lit. She brushed away the semi-reflexive fears that jumped up in her mind. After all - the road was well lit and she was almost there. What would be the point in turning back and taking an alternate route and she was on a bicycle...

She picked up speed - trying to race through the four of them. Each person seemed to be a part of a well co-ordinated group. One after another, they grabbed her breasts - left, right, left, right. She turned into her friend's house, totally dazed. She hated her shirt. Hated it.

What could she tell her mom, when asked why her shirt was so dirty? Her Shirt? She felt so dirty. Could you wash me in the washing machine too, mom? Dry sobs...

Mom's reaction : I shall get a new shirt. This has become too tight, anyways. And you should know to dress up according to your surroundings. (where did that come from?!!!)
Brother's reaction : I shall drop you and pick you up from school tomorrow. (Will you follow me whereever I go? What if I want to go some place alone?)
Father's reaction : Discomfort about the topic on the whole, followed by a quick exit out of the house for a long walk. (Dont tell me that all men are alike! - I dont want to believe that!!!)

Her reaction(s)

for the remaining two years of high school : Wouldnt go to tuition classes through short cuts, wouldnt go out anywhere after dark alone.
through three years of bachelors degree : took the ladies special buses as much as she could.
through two years of masters : wouldnt date anybody
after coming to the US : broke up with an absolutely amazing person. couldnt let him touch her. The memories still clung, washed up her entire being in waves of repulsiveness...
nearly 15 years and two masters degrees later : Martial arts...

How many women have the chance of pursuing the skills they feel they need to survive in this world? How many women want to live a life of their own, long for an independent identity? How many men will look beyond blobs of fat at the differents parts of the female anatomy? How many parents will actively teach their children to respect the personal space of other beings and to stand up for themselves, if their space is threatened?

Her parents now want her to get married. They dont want her to run (too much sports will cause hormonal problems...). They do not know that she practices martial arts... How much longer do we have to walk this road alone?

Moral support is the least I can give right now. With you all the way!

step forward

What if you realized once you have put a step forward, that you would never be able to retrace it back?... How many of us would care to go on forward? What relationships would exist? How many of us would prefer to stay put in the same position???...