Ordinarily New York City is just a place where I work. I leave my home 54 miles away, 6 am in the morning and get there by 8. Then I settle down with a cup of coffee and start knocking things off my list of things to do while juggling meetings, e-mails, other pressing deadlines. Then I leave and come back home. The only New York I really know during the week is the slice of it that’s reflected back at me on the anti-glare screen of my computer, an image of the skyscrapers outside. I don’t even get the chance to glance outside my windows. Unless it’s raining. Manhattan drizzle, or misting, is hard to identify through the thick glass of window offices, the streets appear dry, and one needs to glance out to see if the pedestrians down below are carrying umbrellas.
So can I really say I go to New York everyday if the city fails to touch me in anyway? If one is traveling 54 miles one way, each day, to get anywhere shouldn’t the place to which one travels leave some sort of lasting impression? Shouldn’t one feel a deeper connection, a feeling of belonging, an attachment to the streets and sidewalks that one’s boots pound each day, as one covers a 12 minute long walk from bus stop to work, as if on autopilot? Needless to say, nothing like that ever happens. It is just a place where one ends up every morning, still groggy, but trying to walk faster than anyone else on the street, jaywalking, in such a hurry to do the same thing one did the day before and the day before that.
So visiting the city last Saturday, on a weekend was a whole new experience. I felt as if I was there for the first time. We couldn’t have asked for a better day to visit, perfect weather, the kind they call an Indian summer here, in these parts (has nothing to do with India – we all know what a real “Indian” summer is like), the sun was shining, glinting off the shiny window panes, the silicon crystals in the pavement seemed to glitter, the street vendors were displaying their wares, haggling, shouting out their pitches for fake Guccis, Louis Vuitton’s and Chanels, all along the sidewalks, and there were people everywhere! Well, there are always people everywhere, no matter what day of the week, but they were all very relaxed, walking at a leisurely pace. The colorful summer clothes were out and the final layers of winter clothing had been shed. Who said black was chic here? I didn’t see black anywhere, there was a profusion of color. And no one seemed to mind the tourists. People were walking all kinds of dogs, short ones, long ones, ugly ones, shorn ones, what a sight! And babies, so many strollers with babies and all the strollers seemed to be for twins. Twins, it seems, are not rare anymore!
Wonder of wonders, we even found metered parking on the street. We popped the coins in the meter and walked to “The Park”, just a couple of blocks away. The horse carriages were all lined up on 59th Street. We definitely wanted to trot along on a horse carriage this day but decided to save that for later. The rest of the day was ahead of us. Anoushka was walking between us holding both our hands and asking us to hoist her up every time there was a crack in the sidewalk, so she could jump over it. This activity tired her soon enough and she ended up on her favorite perch, her Dad’s shoulders, as we headed for Central Park West en route to the entrance of the park.
Central Park, a whole new world, an amazing, fascinating world within a world, six percent of Manhattan, 843 acres of greenery and serenity in the city that feels anything but serene on any other day of the week. I don’t know if Central Park feels the same on any other day of the week. To the numerous tourists who visit each day, perhaps it does, but I have never visited during the week. But this Saturday, even if it wasn’t July 4th, I found myself humming the band Chicago’s classic –“Saturday, in the park, I think it was the 4th of July, people dancing, people laughing, man selling ice-cream, singing Italian songs…” - this is exactly how it was!
My eyes wanted to be everywhere at once, there was so much going on wherever I turned, people had their picnic baskets out, toddlers were running around, scampering from parent to parent, riding their Dad’s shoulders like our Anoushka, dribbling ice-cream, running after their dogs, dogs playing Frisbee with their owners, lovers loving, sun-bathers sun-bathing, some real life was being lived here. This is how Elysian Fields must appear, I thought. My writer/cataloguer/chronographer’s mind kept trying to capture in words the elation, the pure, unadulterated joy I felt at being here, at being here with Anil and Anoushka, the joy of seeing their happiness, the bright smile on Anoushka’s face. She seemed so thrilled at being here with Mom and Dad. And just as I was enjoying this moment of infinite happiness a twinge of sadness crept in at the thought that in about ten short years or so, she will start distancing herself, rejecting her poor parents in favor of peers. But, hey, we were here to live in the present and the present was simply exquisite.
We continued walking through the park and came to a throng of people and some real jamming music. We had stumbled upon a skate-off. Here we saw people in all kinds of costumes and on roller blades (the baby-boomers on roller-skates) practicing the most difficult looking contortions and moves. How could they do all that on skates and blades! It was the most amazing thing to watch. I wished I could skate, I wished I could dance, I just wished I had the type of uninhibited personality that would have enabled me to join this group of skaters and dancers.
Time to walk on some more, to savor other joys that a deeper exploration would reveal. We were really trying to find the zoo within the park, but had had no luck so far, we had 843 acres to search, after all! There was a softball game going on in one section of the park and a bocci ball competition on the other side. Some folks were trying badminton and others had found a vantage point on top of a rock to sketch or paint. The writers were lying on their stomachs on the grass, filling up page after page and the readers were busy devouring their books. What a place to be! I didn’t want to leave, neither did Anoushka but it was getting late and we still had the horse carriage ride to take. So we continued our walk to 59th Street and got on a carriage. We got a nice look at that part of the city from our carriage, it was quite a surreal feeling to be in a carriage amidst the automobile congestion near Columbus Circle, but it was extremely enjoyable.
The ride was soon over and it was time to return to dreary suburbia, we still hadn’t found the zoo, it just gave us another excuse to come back, but not before getting one last thing done. There were sketch artists surrounding the park. They sketch people for $10 - $80 depending on the gullibility of each customer. We decided to get Anoushka sketched just as the dark clouds seemed to be rolling in.
The artist got to work on Anoushka’s sketch. He did a wonderful job with the eyes and then the lightning and thunder started. A big, round drop of water fell on his sketch pad and made us all say, “Uh –oh! The artists pulled out all kinds of temporary shelters and umbrellas so that their $20 didn’t disappear in the rain. Meanwhile we got soaked to the skin. There was no rain in the forecast but that’s how it usually is. We wanted to just give the guys their money and leave without the sketch but they wouldn’t let us go. By now, there was no point in leaving, so we let them finish and then made a dash for the car.
A rained out day, but it only served to heighten its memorability. We’ll look back and say, “Remember that day in Central park, remember how we got soaked to the skin while getting Anoushka sketched?” And this will trigger a flood of pleasant recollections reminding us of the day when New York came alive for us, underscoring the elation that this incredible city can inspire in the right setting, on a perfect day.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Solitary Visit to Tampa -St Petersburg
The fun began with the bay front restaurant – Oystercatchers – in Tampa. We got to observe a breathtaking sunset as drinks and hors d’oeuvres were served. We were all cloaked in the golden rays of the setting sun, enjoying our beverages of choice. There were eighteen of us at the table. We settled in as we tried to decide which strain of conversation to follow and how best to participate. These were all co-workers, after all, and one had to be on guard and always alert about making a good impression.
For some reason, this evening, it turned out that all men ended up on the left side of the table and all women on the right. So we could hear snatches of work or golf related talk coming from the left side of the table while the right side talked about zodiac signs, children, husbands, musical preferences and other interests. For once I was thrilled to be a member of the female species.
We marveled at how the men could find anytime a good time to talk about work! Why couldn’t they get a life?
However, listening to the women talk made me think I had no life. These women were active cross-country skiers, alpine skiers, mountain-bikers, wind-surfers, campers, hikers and competitive runners or swimmers. I was so envious and so despondent about not having any such adrenalin-generating interests. I didn’t have a skiing vacation planned, where I would be able to jump from a helicopter and land on skis, and no uphill mountain-biking was about to make an appearance in my near future. What a deprived childhood! I felt like a freak for not having any such interests and was inclined to return home and perhaps find a way to get myself involved in something like extreme ironing!
The next morning was to mark the start of my mini-vacation at St Pete’s Beach, Florida, at the employer’s expense. What more could I ask for? Well, I could have asked for my husband and daughter to join me in this fun but that wasn’t meant to be. So I decided to make the most of this forced solitude. I pulled down my shades, rolled down the windows, cranked up the music in the car and set out on Route 275 South for my destination. The seven mile long bridge carried me over Old Tampa Bay and brought me to St Petersburg. But I wasn’t there yet. Still had to cross the Pinellas Parkway Bridge to get to St Pete’s Beach.
I finally arrived at the Tradewinds Resort. The weather was gorgeous and the determination to find a way to enjoy myself alone had the serotonins surging in my brain. I checked into my beautiful tropical room. Unpacked my luggage, changed into something comfortable and left the room for the beach. Another thing I have never learnt to do is swim, so I walked right past the crystal blue pool and on to the beach, and faced the heavenly blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, in all its glory, as far as the eye could see. I decided to walk the length of the beach.
This was the strangest beach I had ever seen. The sand didn’t give under my feet, it was packed like clay! That was a little disconcerting at first, but then watching other beach-mongers I learnt that one had to walk in some more, until one was knee-deep, to find the type of sand that did give, that you could feel moving between your toes. So I walked as far as I could possibly walk, waiting for the sun to set, for that one moment when it would appear perched over the horizon, before it finally vanished from sight. When this moment arrived I captured it on film.
Then I decided to walk back to the hotel and my room. Before entering the hotel lobby, I glanced back once again toward the gulf and as my eyeballs returned to a nearer focus, I noticed a sign that asked beach walkers to be aware that during the months of April through October the beach was teeming with stingrays! Tourists were advised that if they neglected to do the stingray shuffle while walking, they would have to do the first-aid hop! Nice to see a warning sign after having completed the activity one was being warned against!
The next day was Mothers’ Day. I called Anoushka and she wished me a Happy Mother’s Day in her crystal clear, trilling voice. I felt desolate and teary-eyed, how I wished I could have hugged her as she had said those words. I still hadn’t recovered from the guilt of going to India without her and now she was away from me again. I felt sickened. I closed my eyes as I thought about her smiling face and the funny things she says. I was cheered by the memory of her telling me she would make herself into a door so she could protect me from bees; this when I voiced my fears about being afraid of bees! So, duly cheered, I decided to go down to the hotel lobby where they had arranged a special Mothers’ Day brunch buffet for all their guests who were moms.
The hotel staff were a little surprised to see me, I didn’t have my husband or my daughter with me. They asked, “Are you a mom, dear?”, when I answered in the affirmative and told them I was away from home on a business trip and that I was really missing my family, they became extremely solicitous and led me to a quiet table in the corner where I wouldn’t feel too depressed, I thanked them for their efforts but it didn’t help.
I finished brunch and then made up my mind to stop moping around and to pamper myself while I had the chance. I made an appointment for a pedicure, manicure, massage and haircut and spent the rest of the afternoon at the hotel spa.
Later in the evening, I stopped by at the Concierge’s desk and inquired about the sights there were to see and the best spots to visit. Armed with directions, I set out for downtown St Petersburg off exit 23 on Route 275 North. I was headed for the Baywalk stores and the place known as the Pier.
Baywalk turned out to be an open air mall with all sorts of novel stores, arts and crafts displays from local artists, street-side musicians and some popular chain stores alongside other unique boutiques that I had never before seen. I walked around eating Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream, in a waffle cone, and window shopping. I found a unique novelty store where I picked up some toys for Anoushka and then continued my browsing and walking in and out of stores, until I was politely informed that the mall was closing. It was 6:00 PM, the sun was still high up in the sky and I asked the folks at the mall how far the Pier was.
Then I walked about a mile and a half to the Pier. As the name would suggest, this was a pier at the tip of downtown St Petersburg. I noticed the largest collection of yachts I had ever seen on one side and the Salvador Dali museum on the other. It was too late in the day for the museum to be open so I took a picture and continued walking toward the Pier which was also a place where there were about a hundred pelicans just walking about, bobbing their heads to and fro, looking out for bread crumbs from tourists. There were several fishermen casting for catfish and catching quite a few. There were sailboats in the blue yonder and I found a place where I could observe a striking sunset again. I kept searching for tourists with friendly expressions so that I could approach them and ask them to take my picture. I finally found some friendly souls. I wanted to capture everything on film so that I could convince Anil that this was a good place to which we could return in a couple of months’ time for our fourteenth wedding anniversary.
This second sunset signaled the end of my vacation. I felt relaxed and calm as I remembered the words of a famous travel magazine’s editor-in-chief, who I had seen in a rare television appearance just before I had walked out of my hotel room, “Women are increasingly traveling alone, taking vacations alone. And why not, they look forward to their time away, it gives them a chance to relax and nourish their spirits”.
Well, my spirit did feel nourished, even if warning bells were sounding in my mind about being away from Anoushka so much. Now that the spirit was duly nourished I was ready for home, for husband and daughter and a more grounded existence.
For some reason, this evening, it turned out that all men ended up on the left side of the table and all women on the right. So we could hear snatches of work or golf related talk coming from the left side of the table while the right side talked about zodiac signs, children, husbands, musical preferences and other interests. For once I was thrilled to be a member of the female species.
We marveled at how the men could find anytime a good time to talk about work! Why couldn’t they get a life?
However, listening to the women talk made me think I had no life. These women were active cross-country skiers, alpine skiers, mountain-bikers, wind-surfers, campers, hikers and competitive runners or swimmers. I was so envious and so despondent about not having any such adrenalin-generating interests. I didn’t have a skiing vacation planned, where I would be able to jump from a helicopter and land on skis, and no uphill mountain-biking was about to make an appearance in my near future. What a deprived childhood! I felt like a freak for not having any such interests and was inclined to return home and perhaps find a way to get myself involved in something like extreme ironing!
The next morning was to mark the start of my mini-vacation at St Pete’s Beach, Florida, at the employer’s expense. What more could I ask for? Well, I could have asked for my husband and daughter to join me in this fun but that wasn’t meant to be. So I decided to make the most of this forced solitude. I pulled down my shades, rolled down the windows, cranked up the music in the car and set out on Route 275 South for my destination. The seven mile long bridge carried me over Old Tampa Bay and brought me to St Petersburg. But I wasn’t there yet. Still had to cross the Pinellas Parkway Bridge to get to St Pete’s Beach.
I finally arrived at the Tradewinds Resort. The weather was gorgeous and the determination to find a way to enjoy myself alone had the serotonins surging in my brain. I checked into my beautiful tropical room. Unpacked my luggage, changed into something comfortable and left the room for the beach. Another thing I have never learnt to do is swim, so I walked right past the crystal blue pool and on to the beach, and faced the heavenly blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, in all its glory, as far as the eye could see. I decided to walk the length of the beach.
This was the strangest beach I had ever seen. The sand didn’t give under my feet, it was packed like clay! That was a little disconcerting at first, but then watching other beach-mongers I learnt that one had to walk in some more, until one was knee-deep, to find the type of sand that did give, that you could feel moving between your toes. So I walked as far as I could possibly walk, waiting for the sun to set, for that one moment when it would appear perched over the horizon, before it finally vanished from sight. When this moment arrived I captured it on film.
Then I decided to walk back to the hotel and my room. Before entering the hotel lobby, I glanced back once again toward the gulf and as my eyeballs returned to a nearer focus, I noticed a sign that asked beach walkers to be aware that during the months of April through October the beach was teeming with stingrays! Tourists were advised that if they neglected to do the stingray shuffle while walking, they would have to do the first-aid hop! Nice to see a warning sign after having completed the activity one was being warned against!
The next day was Mothers’ Day. I called Anoushka and she wished me a Happy Mother’s Day in her crystal clear, trilling voice. I felt desolate and teary-eyed, how I wished I could have hugged her as she had said those words. I still hadn’t recovered from the guilt of going to India without her and now she was away from me again. I felt sickened. I closed my eyes as I thought about her smiling face and the funny things she says. I was cheered by the memory of her telling me she would make herself into a door so she could protect me from bees; this when I voiced my fears about being afraid of bees! So, duly cheered, I decided to go down to the hotel lobby where they had arranged a special Mothers’ Day brunch buffet for all their guests who were moms.
The hotel staff were a little surprised to see me, I didn’t have my husband or my daughter with me. They asked, “Are you a mom, dear?”, when I answered in the affirmative and told them I was away from home on a business trip and that I was really missing my family, they became extremely solicitous and led me to a quiet table in the corner where I wouldn’t feel too depressed, I thanked them for their efforts but it didn’t help.
I finished brunch and then made up my mind to stop moping around and to pamper myself while I had the chance. I made an appointment for a pedicure, manicure, massage and haircut and spent the rest of the afternoon at the hotel spa.
Later in the evening, I stopped by at the Concierge’s desk and inquired about the sights there were to see and the best spots to visit. Armed with directions, I set out for downtown St Petersburg off exit 23 on Route 275 North. I was headed for the Baywalk stores and the place known as the Pier.
Baywalk turned out to be an open air mall with all sorts of novel stores, arts and crafts displays from local artists, street-side musicians and some popular chain stores alongside other unique boutiques that I had never before seen. I walked around eating Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream, in a waffle cone, and window shopping. I found a unique novelty store where I picked up some toys for Anoushka and then continued my browsing and walking in and out of stores, until I was politely informed that the mall was closing. It was 6:00 PM, the sun was still high up in the sky and I asked the folks at the mall how far the Pier was.
Then I walked about a mile and a half to the Pier. As the name would suggest, this was a pier at the tip of downtown St Petersburg. I noticed the largest collection of yachts I had ever seen on one side and the Salvador Dali museum on the other. It was too late in the day for the museum to be open so I took a picture and continued walking toward the Pier which was also a place where there were about a hundred pelicans just walking about, bobbing their heads to and fro, looking out for bread crumbs from tourists. There were several fishermen casting for catfish and catching quite a few. There were sailboats in the blue yonder and I found a place where I could observe a striking sunset again. I kept searching for tourists with friendly expressions so that I could approach them and ask them to take my picture. I finally found some friendly souls. I wanted to capture everything on film so that I could convince Anil that this was a good place to which we could return in a couple of months’ time for our fourteenth wedding anniversary.
This second sunset signaled the end of my vacation. I felt relaxed and calm as I remembered the words of a famous travel magazine’s editor-in-chief, who I had seen in a rare television appearance just before I had walked out of my hotel room, “Women are increasingly traveling alone, taking vacations alone. And why not, they look forward to their time away, it gives them a chance to relax and nourish their spirits”.
Well, my spirit did feel nourished, even if warning bells were sounding in my mind about being away from Anoushka so much. Now that the spirit was duly nourished I was ready for home, for husband and daughter and a more grounded existence.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Car Wash
A friend had asked me to detail some expatriate experiences and this is one of those isolated, scary memories:
“Yes, what do you want?”, he shouts
in a hate-filled,menacing tone,
“Isn’t this a car-wash?
Isn’t this what you’re all about?”, I ask.
“Yes, ma’am that is our task”,
he sneered,
and suddenly I felt afraid,
all alone.
“You want me to wash your car?”,
a flash of bad, gold-capped teeth,
stressing ‘me’ and ‘your’
he seethes,
as he violently kicks in
my door.
“I had a job! I had a life!
I drove a fancy car,
Now you’re in here,
You demand a wash,
When I’d rather
Slash a tire,
with this knife!”
“This is my country,
my home!
Go back!
From where you came!
Leave us alone,
leave us in peace,
go back
where you belong!”
I step out,
feigning calm,
Examine the dented door,
note down his name,
and warn him
in a steely tone,
(I barely believe)
of the next legal game
of charging him with
a minor misdemeanor
and a call
from my insurer!
"For this is my home
as much as yours,
and the law is,
on my side,
take control of your
so called life,
and carve a niche for yourself
with your knife!"
“Yes, what do you want?”, he shouts
in a hate-filled,menacing tone,
“Isn’t this a car-wash?
Isn’t this what you’re all about?”, I ask.
“Yes, ma’am that is our task”,
he sneered,
and suddenly I felt afraid,
all alone.
“You want me to wash your car?”,
a flash of bad, gold-capped teeth,
stressing ‘me’ and ‘your’
he seethes,
as he violently kicks in
my door.
“I had a job! I had a life!
I drove a fancy car,
Now you’re in here,
You demand a wash,
When I’d rather
Slash a tire,
with this knife!”
“This is my country,
my home!
Go back!
From where you came!
Leave us alone,
leave us in peace,
go back
where you belong!”
I step out,
feigning calm,
Examine the dented door,
note down his name,
and warn him
in a steely tone,
(I barely believe)
of the next legal game
of charging him with
a minor misdemeanor
and a call
from my insurer!
"For this is my home
as much as yours,
and the law is,
on my side,
take control of your
so called life,
and carve a niche for yourself
with your knife!"
Sunday, May 8, 2005
Rains and Freezing Rains
His windshield wipers were useless now. Coated with ice, they were like foot-long icicles making 180 degree sweeps of his windshield every couple of seconds. The freezing rain continued its relentless pace, sounding like the crackling of minuscule pebbles pelting his car from all sides. He couldn’t see more than a foot ahead of the car and the bald tires would skid on the icy roads if he had to tap the brakes even once.
He couldn’t go on and decided to pull over by the side of the road. He would stay there all night if he had to but he couldn’t risk driving around in this. So he leaned back in his reclining car seat, folded his arms behind his head and prepared to wait out the falling sheets of wintry mix coating everything.
They were supposed to meet for dinner at the Red Garlic Thai restaurant tonight. They had made the date a month ago, adding the date, time and venue to her Blackberry and his tattered appointment book, as they sat up in bed, wide awake, trying to have a conversation about growing irretrievably apart. It was a cathartic night. They had suddenly rediscovered themselves, come to the shocking realization that they did indeed live in the same house. They had stayed up all night reminiscing about the early days, about sharing everything, about going off on one madcap adventure or another and about the halcyon days when every decision was spontaneous and impetuous. They couldn’t pinpoint the time when things had started changing, it had been gradual until that night, one month ago, when they suddenly realized how far apart they had traveled.
A tear crept down his face as he realized that he was going to disappoint her once again. He pictured her seated at the restaurant, repeatedly glancing at her watch. In his mind’s eye she was gazing out the windows and he wondered whether she was annoyed at his absence or concerned about his well-being. He thought it was a shame that after fourteen years he still didn’t know her well-enough to fathom her state of mind.
He closed his eyes as scattered images of their first meeting flashed across the celluloid of his closed eyelids. She had been huddled under the gray awning of the local bidi shop, trying her best to stay dry. Her clothes were wet and clinging when he caught a fleeting glimpse of her through his auto-rickshaw. Her discomfiture was obvious to him even as he spotted her through his moving vehicle; she had been trying her best to maintain a stoic demeanor as the bidi shop clientele tried to huddle close, using the rain and the limited shelter provided by the awning as an excuse. Something about her compelled him to stop. He felt inexplicably drawn to her. He stopped the driver so he could offer her a ride to wherever she was headed. He opened up his umbrella and ran back to the bidi shop, offering to share his ride. She hesitated at first but then agreed.
It was a memorable, rainy day, auto-rickshaw ride. They had hit it off so well. She had told him she had been observing, rather intently, this carefree, fearless kid on his bike. He seemed to be headed for school and was undaunted by the pouring rain, the flooded streets, he was riding his bike standing up, the rain didn’t bother him one bit. She had told him she couldn’t recall when she had ever been so foot-loose and fancy-free. She had said it in a tone that had flooded him with feelings of tenderness. He wanted to do that for her. He wanted her to feel not one but several carefree moments in her life. He wanted her to feel that he would always be there for her.
That was fourteen years ago. The lashing but harmless Bombay downpours. Here he was now, in a car that wasn’t equipped to handle the harsh northeastern winters in this country. He missed those warm rains now, the joyous monsoons, that special rainy day smell. He had chosen this world over the one of his childhood and youth. He had been chasing the elusive American dream and the more he chased the further away it drifted. Successive lay-offs from three companies following the big IT bust in Silicon Valley had left him scrambling for his next paycheck. His Toyota Camry had 300,000 miles on the odometer and four bald tires. He couldn’t afford to buy himself a new car and couldn’t accept her buying or leasing one for him. His pride always got in the way.
Her career had taken off. She was an EVP in a multi-million dollar global corporation. She was always short on time and was traveling more than she was home. She had become a stranger in her own home. Yet, she had always been encouraging to him. She had always told him not to worry and that things would look up for him, sooner or later. But there had been times, he admitted to himself, when he had chosen to read condescension in her words. He had wanted to protect her, shelter her and give her a carefree life and in the final analysis he had only succeeded in driving himself away from her.
A scraping noise on his window finally shook him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes and sat up to see a familiar and beautiful face peering inside through a patch of ice that had been scraped clean with an ice-scraper. She had been concerned about his well-being after all, and had come looking for him on eastbound Route 80, the most logical place for her to have any luck finding him. He had never felt happier than he did now. They had kept their date after all.
He couldn’t go on and decided to pull over by the side of the road. He would stay there all night if he had to but he couldn’t risk driving around in this. So he leaned back in his reclining car seat, folded his arms behind his head and prepared to wait out the falling sheets of wintry mix coating everything.
They were supposed to meet for dinner at the Red Garlic Thai restaurant tonight. They had made the date a month ago, adding the date, time and venue to her Blackberry and his tattered appointment book, as they sat up in bed, wide awake, trying to have a conversation about growing irretrievably apart. It was a cathartic night. They had suddenly rediscovered themselves, come to the shocking realization that they did indeed live in the same house. They had stayed up all night reminiscing about the early days, about sharing everything, about going off on one madcap adventure or another and about the halcyon days when every decision was spontaneous and impetuous. They couldn’t pinpoint the time when things had started changing, it had been gradual until that night, one month ago, when they suddenly realized how far apart they had traveled.
A tear crept down his face as he realized that he was going to disappoint her once again. He pictured her seated at the restaurant, repeatedly glancing at her watch. In his mind’s eye she was gazing out the windows and he wondered whether she was annoyed at his absence or concerned about his well-being. He thought it was a shame that after fourteen years he still didn’t know her well-enough to fathom her state of mind.
He closed his eyes as scattered images of their first meeting flashed across the celluloid of his closed eyelids. She had been huddled under the gray awning of the local bidi shop, trying her best to stay dry. Her clothes were wet and clinging when he caught a fleeting glimpse of her through his auto-rickshaw. Her discomfiture was obvious to him even as he spotted her through his moving vehicle; she had been trying her best to maintain a stoic demeanor as the bidi shop clientele tried to huddle close, using the rain and the limited shelter provided by the awning as an excuse. Something about her compelled him to stop. He felt inexplicably drawn to her. He stopped the driver so he could offer her a ride to wherever she was headed. He opened up his umbrella and ran back to the bidi shop, offering to share his ride. She hesitated at first but then agreed.
It was a memorable, rainy day, auto-rickshaw ride. They had hit it off so well. She had told him she had been observing, rather intently, this carefree, fearless kid on his bike. He seemed to be headed for school and was undaunted by the pouring rain, the flooded streets, he was riding his bike standing up, the rain didn’t bother him one bit. She had told him she couldn’t recall when she had ever been so foot-loose and fancy-free. She had said it in a tone that had flooded him with feelings of tenderness. He wanted to do that for her. He wanted her to feel not one but several carefree moments in her life. He wanted her to feel that he would always be there for her.
That was fourteen years ago. The lashing but harmless Bombay downpours. Here he was now, in a car that wasn’t equipped to handle the harsh northeastern winters in this country. He missed those warm rains now, the joyous monsoons, that special rainy day smell. He had chosen this world over the one of his childhood and youth. He had been chasing the elusive American dream and the more he chased the further away it drifted. Successive lay-offs from three companies following the big IT bust in Silicon Valley had left him scrambling for his next paycheck. His Toyota Camry had 300,000 miles on the odometer and four bald tires. He couldn’t afford to buy himself a new car and couldn’t accept her buying or leasing one for him. His pride always got in the way.
Her career had taken off. She was an EVP in a multi-million dollar global corporation. She was always short on time and was traveling more than she was home. She had become a stranger in her own home. Yet, she had always been encouraging to him. She had always told him not to worry and that things would look up for him, sooner or later. But there had been times, he admitted to himself, when he had chosen to read condescension in her words. He had wanted to protect her, shelter her and give her a carefree life and in the final analysis he had only succeeded in driving himself away from her.
A scraping noise on his window finally shook him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes and sat up to see a familiar and beautiful face peering inside through a patch of ice that had been scraped clean with an ice-scraper. She had been concerned about his well-being after all, and had come looking for him on eastbound Route 80, the most logical place for her to have any luck finding him. He had never felt happier than he did now. They had kept their date after all.
Sunday, May 1, 2005
A Stifled Life
The doorbell rang, almost as if someone had placed their entire weight on the button. We ran to the door. She could barely speak, she was gulping for air. We led her in and asked her to make herself comfortable. When she caught her breath she told us that she had developed a blood pressure and cholesterol problem of late and had been out on an evening walk in the neighborhood in an attempt to get these aberrations under control.
This evening, however, her asthma got the better of her. She has been an asthmatic all her life and had forgotten her inhaler at home. So we offered her some water, some refreshments. She demanded tea and I made it for her. Then my husband offered to take her home. She didn’t live too far away but we didn’t want her walking back. She declined the offer. She was very firm in her refusal to accept this small favor. We kept insisting and she kept refusing. She said that her husband would be very upset with her if he saw her get off our car. We refused to accept this. We couldn’t believe that her husband, who I knew, would be upset with her for accepting a ride from us when she was in such bad shape! It was unbelievable. She said he would be angry with her for forgetting her inhaler at home and under no circumstances was she prepared to incur his wrath.
We were bewildered. Her husband and I used to commute together when he was employed at a firm in New York city. We often used to sit together on the bus. I found him a brilliant conversationalist, an intelligent person who could wax eloquent on any subject. I often found him sketching, writing or reading during the two hour bus ride. He told me he was a classically trained musician, a flautist. He is an information technology, data warehousing professional by trade but in his own time he performed at Hindustani classical concerts and taught flute classes. He was also extremely critical of the so-called life we led in the US. He detested every aspect of his life here, he wanted to return to India. Expatriate Indians arrive here with an American dream but he had a passionate Indian dream. He wanted to build up his savings over the next two years and then pack up and return to India. He once told me – “Hum log sangeet mein is gehrayee se doobe hue hain ki yahan rehna mushkil sa ho gaya hai”- (Translation: we are in so deep in Indian classical music that it is just not satisfying enough to continue living in the US) - I used to enjoy his company and never would have seen him as someone who could inspire such fear within his wife.
We interact socially, we are neighbors. It’s a family of four, my co-commuter, his wife and two teenage kids. His wife has become a good friend too, if one could call an acquaintance such as ours a friendship. She always calls and leaves messages inquiring about my health and well-being, expressing a desire to meet for dinner, lunch or even tea. I am rarely able to return these calls only partly because of the odd-hours I keep; we really don’t have much in common and I find a satisfying conversation with her rather difficult. But she is persistent and we have lunches and dinners together when we can. She has a well-ordered home, well-behaved kids, a pet rabbit whose antics my three-year old daughter enjoys observing no end. It is a very sane and sanitized life and she is an incredibly efficient home-maker. Makes me wish my house was in such immaculate order.
She manages her affairs with clockwork precision. Her refrigerator is impressive; all food items labeled and nutritionally organized, arranged in order of preferred consumption. The floors are so clean you could almost eat off them. I feel woefully inadequate in her presence. She always asks me what I cooked or what types of meals I have planned for my family and I am always ashamed when I tell her I’ll “nuke” something or the other, either that or that we’ll eat out or my husband will cook something up. I silently consider how happy and stress-free I would be if my life was so peaceful, so planned, so impressively streamlined.
So it’s always amazing to me when, every now and then, she shows a side to her that is full of regrets. She plans hare-brained schemes at asserting her independence and makes pitiable attempts at proving her worth. She has told me how she doesn’t want to go back to India. She has asked me to plead with her husband on her behalf, saying her asthma would kill her if she was to go back. She says she doesn’t have her husband’s ear, that he would never listen to her. She says he is very strong-willed and dominating.
Last year she took up a job flipping burgers at Burger King! She has a masters degree in Sanskrit and Hindustani classical music and she wanted to flip burgers! They are extremely well-off and if she wanted to work, there were better jobs out there but she took up a job at Burger King, of all places. She has been in the US for ten years, her husband hasn’t allowed her to learn how to drive and she was always requesting her neighbors or me to drop her off or pick her up from the burger joint. It seemed so unnecessary to me. I asked her what she was trying to prove. She just said she was bored at home and this gave her some independent income, even if it was less than the constitutionally mandated minimum wage! This led me to believe that her husband never even let her have an allowance for her personal needs.
Then one day she go fired from this pitiable job. She was depressed for a few days and then came looking for me with an employment application in her hand. She was trying to apply for a janitorial position at a nearby old folks’ home. We asked her why she wanted this job and she said she wanted it because she could walk to it, she didn’t need anyone to give her a ride. But what brought her to us, this evening, was the fact that she was incapable of filling out an employment application. She needed help. She hasn’t even learnt how to fill out forms! Her brother is a microbiologist and she can’t even fill out an ordinary form for a janitorial job! I was always baffled by her.
Her husband wasn’t home he had just left for the airport, for a two-week long trip to India. We interviewed her and proceeded to fill out the form for her, until the point where her social security number was requested. This nine digit number is an essential element on any job application. One cannot find a job in the US without providing this number. It is also a unique identifier and one shouldn’t share it liberally with others. She did not want to put this number on the form. She implied that her husband would really lose his cool if she was to give out this number. We tried to tell her that her application would not be accepted without it but she refused to provide it, she seemed so terrified of her husband.
I often notice stark terror on her face when she talks about her husband. She lacks confidence, she rarely smiles in his presence, she is the most stifled, enchained, enslaved woman I have ever seen and it amazes me. I know her husband, I like to think I am good at gauging people. He is affable, amiable, knowledgeable every time he is with me, my husband or others. He shows incredible gentleness in his interactions with his kids. I have even seen him do yard work, house work and cooking!
So why is she so terrified of him? Why was she so scared of being seen getting out of our car when my husband offered to give her a ride home? Why was she more terrified of her husband than a life-threatening asthma attack? I fail to understand! I am baffled! I refuse to believe that her husband abuses her physically. I haven’t seen any such signs and I just don’t see him as an abuser. But is this perhaps a case of unimaginable mental abuse? How could a person who seems so enlightened be capable of mental, if not physical abuse? Are we being presumptuous in this assertion of any kind of abuse? I wish I knew and I wish I could help!
This evening, however, her asthma got the better of her. She has been an asthmatic all her life and had forgotten her inhaler at home. So we offered her some water, some refreshments. She demanded tea and I made it for her. Then my husband offered to take her home. She didn’t live too far away but we didn’t want her walking back. She declined the offer. She was very firm in her refusal to accept this small favor. We kept insisting and she kept refusing. She said that her husband would be very upset with her if he saw her get off our car. We refused to accept this. We couldn’t believe that her husband, who I knew, would be upset with her for accepting a ride from us when she was in such bad shape! It was unbelievable. She said he would be angry with her for forgetting her inhaler at home and under no circumstances was she prepared to incur his wrath.
We were bewildered. Her husband and I used to commute together when he was employed at a firm in New York city. We often used to sit together on the bus. I found him a brilliant conversationalist, an intelligent person who could wax eloquent on any subject. I often found him sketching, writing or reading during the two hour bus ride. He told me he was a classically trained musician, a flautist. He is an information technology, data warehousing professional by trade but in his own time he performed at Hindustani classical concerts and taught flute classes. He was also extremely critical of the so-called life we led in the US. He detested every aspect of his life here, he wanted to return to India. Expatriate Indians arrive here with an American dream but he had a passionate Indian dream. He wanted to build up his savings over the next two years and then pack up and return to India. He once told me – “Hum log sangeet mein is gehrayee se doobe hue hain ki yahan rehna mushkil sa ho gaya hai”- (Translation: we are in so deep in Indian classical music that it is just not satisfying enough to continue living in the US) - I used to enjoy his company and never would have seen him as someone who could inspire such fear within his wife.
We interact socially, we are neighbors. It’s a family of four, my co-commuter, his wife and two teenage kids. His wife has become a good friend too, if one could call an acquaintance such as ours a friendship. She always calls and leaves messages inquiring about my health and well-being, expressing a desire to meet for dinner, lunch or even tea. I am rarely able to return these calls only partly because of the odd-hours I keep; we really don’t have much in common and I find a satisfying conversation with her rather difficult. But she is persistent and we have lunches and dinners together when we can. She has a well-ordered home, well-behaved kids, a pet rabbit whose antics my three-year old daughter enjoys observing no end. It is a very sane and sanitized life and she is an incredibly efficient home-maker. Makes me wish my house was in such immaculate order.
She manages her affairs with clockwork precision. Her refrigerator is impressive; all food items labeled and nutritionally organized, arranged in order of preferred consumption. The floors are so clean you could almost eat off them. I feel woefully inadequate in her presence. She always asks me what I cooked or what types of meals I have planned for my family and I am always ashamed when I tell her I’ll “nuke” something or the other, either that or that we’ll eat out or my husband will cook something up. I silently consider how happy and stress-free I would be if my life was so peaceful, so planned, so impressively streamlined.
So it’s always amazing to me when, every now and then, she shows a side to her that is full of regrets. She plans hare-brained schemes at asserting her independence and makes pitiable attempts at proving her worth. She has told me how she doesn’t want to go back to India. She has asked me to plead with her husband on her behalf, saying her asthma would kill her if she was to go back. She says she doesn’t have her husband’s ear, that he would never listen to her. She says he is very strong-willed and dominating.
Last year she took up a job flipping burgers at Burger King! She has a masters degree in Sanskrit and Hindustani classical music and she wanted to flip burgers! They are extremely well-off and if she wanted to work, there were better jobs out there but she took up a job at Burger King, of all places. She has been in the US for ten years, her husband hasn’t allowed her to learn how to drive and she was always requesting her neighbors or me to drop her off or pick her up from the burger joint. It seemed so unnecessary to me. I asked her what she was trying to prove. She just said she was bored at home and this gave her some independent income, even if it was less than the constitutionally mandated minimum wage! This led me to believe that her husband never even let her have an allowance for her personal needs.
Then one day she go fired from this pitiable job. She was depressed for a few days and then came looking for me with an employment application in her hand. She was trying to apply for a janitorial position at a nearby old folks’ home. We asked her why she wanted this job and she said she wanted it because she could walk to it, she didn’t need anyone to give her a ride. But what brought her to us, this evening, was the fact that she was incapable of filling out an employment application. She needed help. She hasn’t even learnt how to fill out forms! Her brother is a microbiologist and she can’t even fill out an ordinary form for a janitorial job! I was always baffled by her.
Her husband wasn’t home he had just left for the airport, for a two-week long trip to India. We interviewed her and proceeded to fill out the form for her, until the point where her social security number was requested. This nine digit number is an essential element on any job application. One cannot find a job in the US without providing this number. It is also a unique identifier and one shouldn’t share it liberally with others. She did not want to put this number on the form. She implied that her husband would really lose his cool if she was to give out this number. We tried to tell her that her application would not be accepted without it but she refused to provide it, she seemed so terrified of her husband.
I often notice stark terror on her face when she talks about her husband. She lacks confidence, she rarely smiles in his presence, she is the most stifled, enchained, enslaved woman I have ever seen and it amazes me. I know her husband, I like to think I am good at gauging people. He is affable, amiable, knowledgeable every time he is with me, my husband or others. He shows incredible gentleness in his interactions with his kids. I have even seen him do yard work, house work and cooking!
So why is she so terrified of him? Why was she so scared of being seen getting out of our car when my husband offered to give her a ride home? Why was she more terrified of her husband than a life-threatening asthma attack? I fail to understand! I am baffled! I refuse to believe that her husband abuses her physically. I haven’t seen any such signs and I just don’t see him as an abuser. But is this perhaps a case of unimaginable mental abuse? How could a person who seems so enlightened be capable of mental, if not physical abuse? Are we being presumptuous in this assertion of any kind of abuse? I wish I knew and I wish I could help!
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