College: The Makeshift Years

During finals last year, when everyone retired their high heels and happiness for sweatpants and distress, the Residence Hall Association sponsored a coffee & donuts break. By the time my friends and I got to the table, all that was left was coffee and the cinnamon donuts no one ever wants. There seemed to be a milk shortage in McMahon Hall, for the cartons had been ravaged, a few drops of half and half sliding down the leg of a chair.

I don't like black coffee, but it was already midnight, and I still had a century of Western European art to memorize. My friend and I decided to chase our black coffee with the cinnamon donuts. A bite of donut, a gulp of black coffee, and soon our lips were light brown and our hands were shaking. Success.

I have learned very little in the last few years worth reiterating. War is inevitable. The Boolean system has taken over the world. God is still debatable.

College seems to have been a little blip in the trajectory of our lives. It is an anomaly. It just doesn't make sense. Everything I had ever learned in my life, about life, surrendered to the absurdity of College.

Sometimes, when I am really hungry and have run out of food, I eat my pasta with ketchup. It is now one of my favorite dishes. When I feel really creative, I douse it in red pepper flakes. Other times, I put raisins in a spoon of peanut butter, for a collapsible peanut butter and jelly.

When my roommate and I resolve, for the nth time, to look like [insert arbitrary airbrushed actress], we go to the gym compulsively for weeks before we go home and eat and sleep and forget about resolutions and goals. And then we start all over again.

When my friend and I decided we were in love with Michael Phelps because he consumes 12,000 calories per day, we slept outside NBC studios all night in order to see him on SNL the day after. Obama was to make a surprise appearance, but we weren't as excited about him because he ate arugula and brown rice, not chocolate chip pancakes and Red Bull. At around 3 in the morning, my friend went to Chicken and Rice, the famous Halal cart on 53rd and 6th. At around 7 in the morning, we woke up, the line started moving, and we had hopes of seeing the dress rehearsal, if not the actual show. That night, after showering and napping and eating more Halal food, we went back to 30 Rock. We made it through security, twice, and were waiting at the elevators, about to be escorted to the studios, until they decided they were over capacity, or some lame safety excuse.

There are times when I feel really stressed out, overwhelmed by thoughts of essays and gays and world peace, and so I sit in the middle of my room, on the $2 rug I bought from IKEA, and retreat from the noisy, colorful, dizzy world. After five minutes of kneeling on the dusty floor, my knees start aching and all I feel is a strong desire for Burrito Box.

For Halloween this year, I picked out my costume five minutes before we went out. I was a pirate, which entailed my suitemate's white blouse, my friend's boots, and my own bandanna and fishnet tights. My other suitemates picked other combinations of jewelry and clothes, belonging to whomever, to become gypsies, M.I.A., or just slutty [insert arbitrary noun].

When I turned 21, my friends planned a potluck dinner, to which they even invited my family. The food was delicious, everyone was happy, and I spent the last few moments of compulsory sobriety with the people I love the most. At midnight, my roommate brought out a bottle of champagne that she had hid in the freezer. She distributed plastic cups. I unscrewed the cork, it popped, fizz splattered all over the floor. Everyone cheered. And then we discovered that whatever had not exploded from the bottle was frozen inside the bottle. Everyone sighed. My other suitemate got her hair dryer. We sat for ten to fifteen minutes blowdrying the bottle. Soon, the popsicle became slush. And we toasted my 21st with champagne slushies in plastic cups.

Our lives are handmade, spontaneous, and poorly manufactured. But it works. Our makeshift lives, though incongruous with the rest of the world, with the rest of anything we have ever learned, have brought about a real happiness, transcending the collapsible nature of our creations, to something much more lasting. We have created our own makeshift reality, within the transparent confines of youth, of ResLife policies, of invincibility, of debauchery, of the present.

And the world holds its breath, waiting for us to grow up.

[insert nostalgia]

An Indian Wedding--Part 2

The second morning was religious ceremonies, pre-nuptial Hindu rites nuanced with Punjabi, Marathi, and Gujarati flavors. As the ceremony proceeded in one corner, families continued to catch up and gossip and eat throughout the rest of the room, as if independent of the wedding's events. My uncle got everyone together, everyone who wasn't directly involved in the ceremonies, and announced that his family was moving to a new bungalow. Everyone became emotional and cried and hugged one another, as the pundits continued to create a s sort of background score with their chanting.

I heard my name being called, and turned to see the bride-to-be and her parents beckoning me from their seat by the pundit. I assumed they were calling someone else, but realized I was the only "rucha" in that crowd of people. I hesitantly walked over. I was told to sit. I sat. I leaned over to the almost-bride. "I have no idea what I am doing." She smiled. "I need a sister to do the next bit." I stared blankly at the pundit, at the cameraman, at my family who wasn't paying attention. After I tied the "thing" to her head, the pundit stopped chanting long enough to tell me to pose for the camera.

That night was the Sangeet. There were classical musicians and singers, as well as my up and coming, already acclaimed cousin who blew us away with his enchanting voice. We listened, we cried, we were trampled upon by wild toddlers, we ate as if there were no tomorrow.

For me, there was barely a tomorrow. I missed many of the typical festivities surrounding the wedding, like hiding the groom's shoes, because I had to take an early car back to the ashram in order to relieve myself, of the itchy gold jewelry, makeshift slip, and last night's dinner. As soon as I had come out of the bathroom, I saw that the rest of our group had followed, and all 10 were telling me to take rest amidst the renewed conversation and random, continual movements.

By the time I woke up, everyone, not only my group of my mother's sisters and their husbands, , but all of her cousins, their families, the drivers, and even the bride-groom's family knew of my mishap. I walked into the reception, head helld high in my sari and high heels, feeling tall and older and sophisticated, only to be met by a barrage of questions and concerns regarding my intestinal health. Soon, I was tripping over my sari, pani puri dribbled all down my chin, and threat of another diarrheic attack prevented from from a second dish of rose ice cream.

And then everyone was crying again. People began to leave the wedding, saddened by seeing empty chaat dishes, and by the realization that this was the end of it all.

Except that in 15 minutes, almost everyone gathered in one of the common rooms at the ashram, and sang songs, ate Skittles, and talked about homosexuality, the crowded commuter trains of Mumbai, and Russell Peters till dawn. My sister and I got little sleep, our minds stirring with excitement, our stomachs with aloo tikki.

And then we awoke to the sounds of chirping burds and my chirping aunts, left only with vestiges of the last three days, a broken toe, sensitive stomachs, and eyeliner smudged beneath our eyes.

Religion

My family is one of those liberal, confused, spiritual, close-knit, kumbaya types. So, after opening our presents, we went to see Sherlock Holmes. My father, an avid Arthur Conan Doyle fan, was disappointed by the film's version of characters and plot; my mother slept through most of it except those scenes with Rachel McAdams; and my sister and I fell in love with Jude Law all over again.

And then my family came back home, ate chocolate and baked Lays and drank apple cider. I decided to capitalize on the Netflix free trial period, and watched movies all afternoon, including plot-less Indie films like David and Layla, inspirational movies like Jerry Maguire and the First Wives Club, and the classics, namely She's All That.

I felt warm and fuzzy and nostalgic when Freddie Prinze, Jr. and Rachel Leigh Cook kissed. I wanted to be in love and be an artist and be frozen in this one moment forever. The eco-friendly, plastic Christmas tree glowed red and gold in the living room, illuminating the plates and pots from Mexico on the hutch. My family was dispersed throughout the first floor, afraid to be more than 10 or 12 feet away from each other. Every now and then, someone would join me on the couch in front of the TV. And the world comprised me, Netflix, whole wheat crackers, and whoever was under the blanket with me.

Merry Christmas, or whatever.

An Indian Wedding--Part 1

I got diarrhea at my very first Indian wedding. As people threw colorful rice at the bride and bridegroom around the ceremonial fire, I squatted above a porcelain hole in the floor, in my new mustard and turquoise and gold lengha, all my make up and dignity surrendering to the harsh humidity and stench of the wet bathroom.


My family and I escaped the cold, grey city for to spend a week in the East. Always our most faithful companion, the Indian heat remained by our side for the duration of the trip. The excessive air conditioning on the plane deceived us, and we almost immediately began wilting in the Mumbai humidity upon arrival. We reached my aunt's house at about 4 in the morning. Everything was dark and quiet, except for the excited chatter from my uncles and aunts who also arrived that morning.


As I trudged through the living room, a quick movement suddenly caught my eye. A large figure suddenly arose from underneath the table. I froze in fear. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that it was only the live-in help, some of whom also emerged from the couch. Outsid of their shiny, marble apartment, I could see hundreds of slums in the soft, shy sunlight.


The family rented out rooms in the nearby ashram. It was clean and peripherally spiritual. We stepped out of the car, only to be met by cousins, families, random elderly, acquaintances, and even stray dogs, who, each in their own respective gaits, swarmed us in a predictable frenzy of high-strung emotions, back-slapping, awkward re-introductions, and welcome (or unwelcome) comments about weight gain/loss. I wondered if I could get an extension for my French paper, if I should touch this arbitrary older man's feet, or if there was toilet paper in the bathrooms. Thinking was too tiring, so my sister and I took showers instead.


The Mehndi Ceremony was first. People mingled and hastily caught up with each other as we all waited our turns. I began talking to a lady who was probably my grandmother's age, about my career plans, my outlook on life, and my deceivingly prepubescent face. She told me about her son who is stationed in Jammu, and how the place is both beautiful and fatal. I felt comfortable talking to her in Gujarati. After about 15-20 minutes, she was close to adopting me, and replacing that soldier son of hers. Till the last day of festivities, I had no idea how we were related.


The ladies hired to do the mehndi were hardworking, extremely talented, and brutally honest. They assumed I didn't understand Hindi, and had no hesitation criticizing the hair on my arms, discussing loudly about how I don't wax. In order to create the most intricate designs, they would contort my arms into odd positions, mistaking them for canvas or clay; I had no choice but to lean awkwardly close to them so to prevent a searing pain in both my elbows. And then they would push me back hard into my plastic seat, telling me, "relax." So, I would relax. Mehndi would get smeared on the chair. They would scold me for not holding still, for breathing too hard, for trying to resist the super human positions in which they held me.


That night was the DJ/dance/fun/chili paneer appetizers night. There was not only Bollywood and hip hop, but pseudo-traditional dances from Gujarat, Maharasthra, and Punjab, embracing the different backgrounds of the two families coming together. More relevant to my immediate interests was the chili paneer, followed by a generous buffet, which I attacked while people were dancing. I am still curious as to why my bowels did not cooperate that weekend.


My immediate group comprised my mother's parents, all of their daughters and their husbands, in addition to my sister and me. We were 11 people sharing 2 bedrooms in the Ashram. A few people took beds, and the rest of us threw down mattresses and sheets on the floor. Every inch of the floor was covered, so that my legs were inclined and resting on the side table, and my mother and aunts kept tripping over them as they took midnight trips to the bathroom. Sometimes my mother didn't even attempt to step over them, and would just walk on me in her rush to get to the other side of the bedroom. There was never any dearth of conversation topics, which ranged from politics to Bollywood gossip to menopausal updates, and between their sweet chatter and my mother's violent needs to traverse her children, my sister and I hardly got any sleep.


The mornings were dizzy, frenetic, and taught me truly the nature of a love-hate relationship. My mother would kick me awake, or poke me with her toe because I "look so sweet" when I am sleeping. With a tube of bright red lipstick in hand, my aunt would chase her sister, my other aunt, around the room, which was still littered with bedsheets and people. My grandfather would absent-mindedly read the newspaper among strewn about saris and body insecurities, while my grandmother would yell at him to leave the room. People of all ages threw tantrums, threw cell phone chargers, threw clothes. I blew a fuse with my hair straightener and my grandfather lost his precious shaving kit. My uncles and father peacefully took turns using their bathroom to get ready, and would pop their heads into our room every so often to remind us of their irritating ability to dress with ease, unaffected by raging passions and histories of familial tension and rivalry. On the last morning, the day of the actual wedding, (when I succumbed to the culminating effects of sugar cane juice, binge paneer eating, and everpresent ghee), I was running around in search of a slip, and finally my mother simply wrapped a sheer scarf around my waist and safety pinned it to my underwear. Then, we all went down for breakfast.

soledad

I am not sure what they call this era. Modernity, post-modernity, recession, depression, crisis. It all refers to the same phenomenon. Everyone is lost. Everyone is running. Everyone is alone.

We all scream about sexual freedom and equality. We want control of our own bodies. We hold a disbelief in God, in love, in anything more infinite than space. And then we find ourselves enslaved by ourselves, by our freedom, by our solitude. We have compromised our emotional sanity and stability for sexual endeavors, our bodies for experimentation. We are all looking into a mirror, shattered, diffracting light in one thousand directions.

There are so many faces in New York City. Brown ones, sallow ones, baby ones, poor ones, dead ones. Everyone's eyes are empty, vacuous, soulless. We all look exactly the same--tired, impatient, and wet from all the rain.

Liberate us from the wakeful world. Scream about sleep.

When Debauchery Became Legal

I turned 21 last week. I can gamble, drink, and create memorable nights I won't ever remember (probably for good reason). But now, after the initial excitement of being a legal alcoholic, I just feel old, sleepy, and in want of an old Disney movie.

In the last 5 or 6 years, I have experienced a slow liberation from legal enslavement. When I turned 17, all I wanted to do was drive (I failed my test and started driving one year late); when I turned 18, all I wanted to do was vote (I didn't register till I was 19); when I turned 19, all I wanted to do was buy cigarettes (I don't smoke). When I turned 21, I felt as though a great weight had been lifted: no more dressing older, no more passing back IDs, no more overly-priced cover charges for being under 21.

No more fear.

But it is this fear that keeps us young, that keeps our hearts racing, that keeps us alive. I was afraid to turn 20, to leave the decade that allowed me to make mistakes and eat burritos for breakfast with no effect. But 21 may be worse. It is too easy. There is nothing to chase. There is nothing to remark. There is nothing extraordinary about a legal adult paying $1 to see a concert in Webster Hall when all her friends paid $20, or about a legal adult dancing on furniture with her underage best friends. In fact, debauchery becomes debauchery when you turn 21. Before that, it is all fun and games.

Now, I am just awaiting my 25th, when I will finally be able to legally rent a car in Jersey (which I won't drive).

Freshman Fifteen

I didn’t understand the phrase “you are what you eat,” until freshman year of college when my physical appearance could be likened to late night cold sesame noodles, Friday night partying, and overdoses of Rockstars and Red Bull. I gained about 10 pounds in three months. After winter break, my best friend and I decided to go on a health kick and use the six months we had before summer started to get ready for the beach. Of course, we came across crippling injuries, once-in-a-lifetime parties in Brooklyn, and the opening of a Pinkberry two blocks away from campus. The months flew by in about five minutes, and before we realized, we were discussing the proposition of losing eight pounds in three weeks.

We shrugged off inner beauty. “What does that even mean?” my friend would ask on many occasions, as she would woefully gulp down boiled vegetables and milk for dinner. “It’s bullshit Dr. Phil made up to sell books,” I would respond in between mouthfuls of cold spinach. We would then sit sullenly in the corner of the study lounge, giving dirty looks to our suitemate whose diet consisted mainly of donuts and Ramen and wine, and still looked scarily thin, underweight even.
My parents are very good at telling the truth after the fact. When I was 17, I wanted to donate my hair to Locks of Love. The hairdresser cut off too much. I looked like a boy. My mother said she loved it. A year later, when my hair grew out, she confessed to crying herself to sleep the night I got my haircut. When I would visit home during breaks, my parents would tease me about eating too much ice cream, but then tell me that I finally looked beautiful, that I was too bony before. My father would say that it was nice to see me looking a wholesome, healthy woman finally, instead of underweight. Indian people love to see a little “meat on the bones.” I am vegetarian. For some reason, their telling me that I looked ugly before and now looked curvaceous and lovely didn’t quite appeal to my confidence. But, still, they did try.

My friend constantly tried to find the nutritional value in our unhealthy habits. “Saag paneer is not bad—it’s cheese and spinach.” “Granola is not that fatty.” “Milk chocolate has, well, milk.” I am still waiting for the day when she will tell me that it is okay to indulge in Poptarts because the inside tastes like strawberries. Then she smiles at me and we both look into the distance, at a time when we will be running through some beach and our bellies won’t jiggle, even if we end up fainting from lack of food. “Anorexia is unhealthy, but Bulimia is not that bad of an idea, right?” “Well, apparently you go to rehab for that, so you’re better off trying to contract Salmonella.”
In June of that summer, there was a scare in the Northeast about tomatoes having Salmonella. We began putting ketchup on everything. There was still some hope left.

A Small World

Being an immigrant has its benefits. Hipsters feign interest in my life, I don't have to worry about being President, and I got free munchkins and coffee at Dunkin Donuts today.

I usually get coffee from the cart, but today I was in the mood for something commercial, especially with a 10% student discount. I ordered a small coffee with skim milk. The Indian teller grinned. "No sugar?" I nodded, motioning with my index finger and thumb that I wanted only a little bit.

He rang up my order. "Oh, I'm so sorry I forgot to tell you I was a student." I fumbled around my wallet for my Fordham ID. "Oh, you are a shtudent?" He looked me straight in the eye, and then grinned again. "Wow. Oh, Rucha Desai. You are Indian?" He looked shocked. Somehow, while the entire world can see that I am Indian, from my prominently Indian features and dark skin, Indians themselves, especially Gujaratis, always fail to acknowledge me as one of them.

"Where are you from?"

I almost answered Jersey, hoe, but recovered. "Gujarat."

"Oh! Me too! Shame shtate. From where?"

"I'm from Ahmedhabad."

"Oh! I am too from Ahmedhabad. I am here two months."

And then I genuinely got excited. We were from the same hood. I asked him if he knew my grandfather, Dolar Vasavada, a well-known advocate or judge or politician (no one in my family, including my grandfather himself, is sure).

"What? I am not understanding."

"Dolar Vasavada. Do you know him?"

He continued to look quizzically at me while I continued to chant my grandfather's name. The Indian cashier next to him shook his head and smiled at me, as though we were both in on some joke, as though he too found ridiculous this scene in which a small pseudo Indian looking girl was ceremoniously repeating an foreign sounding name to a dark, grinning, seemingly deaf man against a backdrop of donuts and muffins. For a moment, I thought I had found solace in him.

"She shaid do you know her grandfather? He is Basubhai." The moment was gone. I was alone.

"No. Dolar Vasavada. Vasavada. He is an advocate."

"Oh! Vashavada! No. I don't know him. Do you know how to speak Gujarati?"

I wanted to respond in Gujarati. In fact, during the entire dialogue (my yelling, his not hearing me), I wanted to just relay the message in Gujarati; for some reason, when I most needed to use the language, it completely escaped me. I could think of all these filmy Bollywood lines, lots of Hindi responses to his questions, but not a single word of Gujarati.

"Yes, but not well." He looked disappointed. And then he attempted more conversation.

"I am going to Ahmedhabad for a wedding."

"Oh! When?"

"In Ahmedhabad."

"No, when?"

"In India!" I could have easily resolved this miscommunication by saying "kyare?" but the word eluded me.

"No, I am saying when?"

And then the other cashier once again provided his version of help--"She is saying who!"

"Oh, it is my sister."

"NO! When is the wedding?" And then it clicked. "Tueshday."

I smiled. "I am going in November." He looked surprised. "Your wedding!"

Once we clarified that I was not getting married, that I was a Nager Brahmin, a title I have never truly understood but emphasized with great passion in Dunkin Donuts, and that I live with a Goan roommate, not my parents, he finally handed me my coffee.

The other cashier, who during this entire exchange neglected his own customers as he watched us, stopped me before I could pay. "She's your friend. No paying." And then he handed me two free munchkins. "Okay, you are a friend."

My eyes were brimming with tears of joy, of relief, of gratitude. Free country, free friends, free food. God Bless America.

all hail Asher Roth, because I love college

I have been spontaneously combusting the last week and a half. I am almost done with college, and so close to my future that I can feel my hairs burning in its flames. The fabulous life I envisioned for myself is now tangible, and now all I want to do is ride the subway forever, without pause, with no destination, until I can fall asleep.

The GirlTalk concert was essentially a sweaty, energetic mass of students, high on life and drugs and mixed music. Everyone was friends that night, dancing with strangers, stepping on friends' feet, the gays grinding on the straights (and with each other), sharing perspiration. We sang along with Beyonce and Kanye on the radio on the way back, the Ram Van shaking and groaning as it bore 11 vigorously dancing Lincoln Center kids. And then we shared stories of the night at the Flame, sitting amongst various other groups still drenched from the same concert.

Last night was another indescribably random and seemingly uneventful night, though peppered with a stranger screaming "cambodian breast milk" from a moving car, a newfound romance and pretend birthday party at Blockheads, and a small verbal dispute on the subway which ended in a stranger calling my best friend a terrorist. Oh yes, and I was again mistaken to be 18. I went to bed about an hour before dawn, and when I woke up I could think of nothing but scrambled eggs.

When I graduate, I will be finished. As young as I will still be (and appear to be), I will not be able to dance on chairs and tables (and then proceed to fall off) with my best friends, or eat diner food past dinner time, or even go to trashy dive bars and trashy comedy clubs and trashy tourist spots without being considered trashy. I hand in my cap and gown, and receive a diploma, which then obliges me to learn foreign notions of moderation, cholesterol, inside voices, and utility bills.

So I am going to be Peter Pan for Halloween. This year, 15F1 is Neverland. I am going to wear green tights and a feather in my cap until I have to trade it in for a black cap with a tassel, when I will go out for after-work drinks and buy my sister birthday presents from my own money and talk to my parents about the FICA tax.

Until then, I am going to act as young as I look. And eat diner food every night.

I went through puberty, I swear!

My friend resorted to using her fake ID to get me into The Ugly Truth.

The movie is rated R. I left my wallet at home, without identification of any sorts as I was neither driving, drinking, gambling, or flying, and forgot that a Katherine Heigl romantic comedy would require anything more than a movie pass.

I should carry my identification at all times, though. The lady manning the weight room asked my age. I first nodded at my pass, which has my birth date, and then almost said 18, just because I was nervous. "I'm 20." The lady laughed and said, "OK, well as long as you are above 13, because you know, if you are younger than 13 you can't use the weight room."

Initially, upon AMC's rejection, I thought my friend, Emily, could fill the role as my necessary adult companion. But seeing as she was only 20, and the age to accompany minors into R-rated films is the same as the age to walk into any bar in the States, we resorted to begging. "Please, she really is 20, I promise!" "Yea, seriously, what are we supposed to do?" "I mean, I know she looks 16, but she's old enough to watch this!"

As it does in bars and casinos and border control, begging backfired. We stepped out of the line. After much contemplation, much deliberation, we managed to devise a plan to manipulate the system. Apparently, there were additional ID checks passed the ticket check, in front of the R-rated theaters. We decided to buy tickets to see Julie and Julia and then walk into the theater showing our sweet and not so innocent comedy. If at all we were to meet a bouncer, one of those bald, black, muscular guys employed to fend off underage teenagers, she would use her fake ID and I would be the minor accompanying her.

We managed to sneak into the theater unscathed. The film was perfectly crass, funny, and inappropriate for anyone under 15. I conceded to the theater's seemingly arbitrary policy of ID'ing; if I really were the age I looked, then this movie may have turned me into a child porn star, or confused me in the least.

When I do turn 21 (in 3 months, not 6 years), I will gamble, drink, and accompany some underage fresh mind into an R-rated comedy.

But until then, I will see all the PG-13 movies I can, and hope for the best.

life happens, so give lap dances.

Manu and I watched 500 Days of Summer last night. It's the story about a boy who loves a girl, a girl who doesn't believe in destiny and miracles and true love. The film simply unravels, like life.

I don't know how many true love stories are left. Youth seems everlasting, as do short skirts, free tequila shots, and cologne doused with pheremones. But before we can run to CVS to buy anti-aging cream, the short skirt works well as a bib, the shots are neither free nor do they sit well, and the cologne smells like pepper spray. In 500 Days, the girl does not end up with the boy. There is no cathartic rain scene, no traffic jam through which he must wade to get to her, no kiss in front of hundreds of tourists at the Empire State Building. They fall apart. He falls apart. And life just happens.

Love is real, but everyone always runs from it, while pretending to be running towards it. Nice guys are out, guys with good hair are in. Girls who are strung out are boring, while girls who run from you always seem to have the longest legs. Loneliness is said to be underrated, but everyone is scared to be alone. The math just doesn't seem to always work out: one girl + one boy =/= love. Instead one girl and one boy create a sense of imbalance, until this renowned "one" comes along.

In efforts to pursue this famed and destined love of my life, I give lap dances in the subway cars. En route to grab lunch at Yaffa Cafe with my cousin, I lost my balance in the L train. I couldn't help it; life just happened, and before I knew it, I landed squarely into the lap of the hobo sitting next to me. He grunted, slightly shocked at receiving this kind of attention. Love feels good. Even if it is a figment of our imagination, or the consistency we crave when we are lonely, love is good stuff. It comes in all shapes and sizes--my mother's worn hands, my father's scrambled eggs, my sister's undying loyalty. It can look like a football player, a windswept brunette, a musician, or even a random girl you meet in the L train who moves the relationship along quickly, from sitting close to you to sitting right on top of you.

Let life happen. Free lap dances may be involved.

Hello, stranger.

Hello. My name is Rucha. And I am addicted to [insert one of the following: nutella, lost cases, fitness, sales, Craisins, gay marriage, winning].

It is nice to meet you, and your soon to be exposed addictions to [insert one of the following: pain, your boyfriend, the future, Clairol's Born Blonde, the Hills]. Let's be friends. Don't tell me your flaws, and I won't tell you mine. Let's pretend that the smooth hazelnutty tickle of nutella on my tongue doesn't haunt my dreams, shattering any I had of looking like Penelope Cruz. Let's pretend that you don't keep leaf through bridal magazines before you are old enough to drink. Let's pretend that I don't run after what is lost, and you don't obsess over what you have found. Let me win, and I will let you lose.

fat or cheap?

I have always liked grocery shopping. I like food, I like the serenity of buying my own food, and I like thoughts of future meals with said food.

Yesterday, the tranquility with which I food shop was shattered. Dripping chlorinated water onto the white marble of Ridgewood's Stop & Shop, I was holding a loaf Stop & Shop's whole wheat and Freihofer's whole grain bread. I heard no other sounds except the repetitive beep of scanners at the other end of the store.

"You know, you can't just count the calories; it's the carbs that really get you. You need to count the carbs."

A large, bald, middle aged black man was stooped above me, smiling knowingly. I was silent for a few minutes, trying to transition to reality, yet blinded by his dazzling white teeth. Still in shock, I just laughed. "Yea, see, you wouldn't realize but really, you should be counting the carbs." I laughed in response again. He then said his good byes and walked away.

Five minutes later, when I managed to re-plunge myself into the nooks and crannies of generic and branded breads, I was suddenly confronted with a bald and black floating head. "And sorry about startling you before." Again, I laughed in response. He smiled and walked away.


And a day has not gone by when I regret not telling him that I was not counting calories, but the price to weight ratio. I wanted cheap bread.

Burrito Box, USA

I came back to New York for Burrito Box.

I started giggling uncontrollably when I got out of Port Authority last night. After having seen cities that earned superlative titles in beauty or cleanliness or liberal drug policy, my city offered the sense of familiarity and home that no other city could offer. London did elicit a sense of comfort, but I felt lost amidst the hush that fell upon the city after midnight, unsettled by the drivers on the lefthand side of the road, and perpetually hungry for Mexican food.

The theater district was as obnoxious and crude as usual, swamped with foreigners ("Y'all hungry? There's an Applebees.") With an expertise only the damn Yankees can hope to possess, I maneuvered through the crowds, and finally made it to Fordham, all the while talking to my mother on the phone as an excuse for my freakishly large grin.

Fordham ResLife decided to stop issuing guest passes for the next week, so I was initially supposed to be carted in as luggage. As if to celebrate my homecoming, McMahon Hall was also shutting off electricity and water the following morning (today), and all residents, and their illegal guests, were to evacuate the building by 8 am.

And then, more embracing than Fordham ResLife or a tourist enamored of Times Square, was seeing my friends. Bianca and I shrieked when we saw each other, our tuneless and incredulous yells piercing the harmony of the warm night. We decided we still loved each other and despite all the adventures we had apart, we still had the rest of our lives to live together.

We went to the art event in Chelsea that Amy had helped to produce, the Slideluck Potshow. Amy looked like a quintessential extra in Sex and the City, "immaculately polished" but with the spirit of a New Yorker. We heaped our plates with hummus and salsa and pita chips, and then got some fresh air on the balcony, from which we could see the entire city illuminated, and on which Bianca stole 8 beef franks. (She doesn't like hot dogs).

Leslie's cacaphonous voice over the loud speaker the next morning warned us of the exodus, and half asleep, half wishing we had our own Zion with no arbitrary McMahon oppression and free flowing milk and honey (and pinkberry), we filed mechanically out of the building.

We took refuge in the Flame, for about two hours, until a party of 15 trendy Koreans and 2 white men, one middle aged and the other a teenager like the Koreans, sat down for brunch right next to us. Failing to figure out the thread connecting everyone at that table, we got our 10% student discount and walked to the Hudson. We sat on the deck admiring the eclectic furniture, randomly placed among a 7-foot tall watering can, several yellow ceramic vases, and a short bed in the center of everything. Tourists staying at the hotel began posing with the watering can, at which point we left to pick up burritos for Manu and me to eat later. It was the first Mexican place in which I had set foot in over two months. Without pause, I ordered the burritos, with brown rice, brown tortillas, and no sour cream; it was a sense of control I had not felt in London, sifting through the various fried fish and meat dishes to get to a remotely flavorful and ambiguous vegetarian dish.

I held those burritos in my hand for the rest of the day, as I finished errands and met my friend Daniyal downtown on Macdougal St., where I got Mamoun's for my parents. He drove me home, and the entire ride I could think of nothing but the I heart NY plastic bag I had been holding for the past 4 hours. Manu had hardly opened the front door before I ran into the kitchen. She spread out the burritos and salsas, while I washed my hands.

And then I took the first bite. It was my first bite of New York City, my first bite of home, my first bite of a black bean burrito doused in salsa fresca and a hot sauce that burned my chapped lips. It was my first bite of America, a taste pure and simple, a taste of freedom, just like the pilgrims sought.

There were probably tacos at Plymouth Rock.

underage swimmers

I didn't visit a coffee shop in Amsterdam. I bought a koffie americano and some chocolate with hempseed.

But Manu and I did go to the Y today, where we were interrogated and emotionally violated during the lap swim.

Like the coffee shops in Amsterdam, the YMCA adult lap swim is 18+. With just my [not-so]-smooth skills, which usually delay my passage at airport security, Manu and I would not have stood a chance getting past the desk. Fortunately, there had been a major accident, and paramedics had flooded the place, so that we slipped past unnoticed.

After being kicked out of the Mother & Girls locker rooms for being too old, and then a scramble for the showers in the women's locker rooms, Manu and I thought we had finally crossed all hurdles when we plunged into the blue pool. About 30 laps into the swim, however, the young blonde lifeguard walked over to us. He had been watching us for the last half hour, so I fixed my oversized bathing suit (I was wearing one I found around the house), which was inflating in the water, batted my eyelashes, and smiled.

"Are you both over 18?"

And my entire life (well, this entire summer) flashed before my eyes. The Indian promoter in London who essentially ID'd me on the street (despite my not wanting to go to his club); the American girl on the flight to London who thought I was a junior in high school; the children's ticket I could buy at the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. Now, I was being asked to leave the YMCA adult swim.

"I'm 20."

He stared blankly at me. "Well, it's just that you don't look 20; you look under 18." And then he looked at my sister, who stared blankly back at him instead of lying or admitting to be an underage swimmer. He must have decided she was okay, or got flustered with her silent response, so he turned back to me. "The teen swim is in the other pool. This is the adult swim for those over 18."

"Okay, well I'm 20."

He continued to stare at me.

"It's just that, you don't look it."

"I get that all the time. No worries." I pulled my goggles forward, dismissing his doubts entirely, and yet he stood firmly above us.

"You know, I'm only asking because people get angry at me if I don't ask. Because if you're under 18, you need to be in the other pool."

I kicked off the wall, and then turned back to him, mid-stroke. "Okay, whatever, that's cool."

And then he continued to watch us from the bench, as if our juvenile strokes could reveal our true ages, and an innate immaturity characterizing those under 18, like me.

home

I am home. After 7 weeks of Europe, of beautiful towns and beautiful people and beautiful age, I can finally use the possesive in conversation: my comforter, my bananas, my cell phone, my unlimited supply of ketchup. I was fortunate to have my family with me the last 2 weeks of the trip, and family and friends who hosted us unconditionally, but sometimes even your own people cannot compare to free bathrooms and grocery stores that stay open past 6 o'clock.

make love (to hobos) not war

I got flowers and a kiss from a toothless homeless woman in Brussels. She serenaded me in her cracked voice, telling me how beautiful I was in French, before she proceeded to hand out more dead roses and kisses to my mother and sister.

My father handed her a few euros so she would leave, but when she saw that he was the only one giving her money, she suddenly turned on me, livid. "Mais, je t'ai donné quatre roses!" I shrugged. "Desoléé." She then walked out of my life, taking with her all but one of the browning and limp roses she had graciously given me only five minutes earlier.

Though I hadn't shown her much affection, I had grown quite fond of her, and almost started missing her smudged, oily face. As we wandered around Brussels, we ended up running into her twice; each time she was in a passionate argument with someone, and we walked past unnoticed. We drove back to Amsterdam, with the one limp flower she had left for us, never to see her again.

famous people

After Amsterdam, our families drove through Germany, to a villa in Nothweiler, in the Alsace. It was a beautiful 3 apartment cottage, set against the backdrop of dark greenery and bright stars and an inflatable pool. And sometimes, we went to France just for dinner.

We lived very close to Wissembourg, a sleepy French town with little conspicuous personality but a lot of flammenkuchen (tarte flambé). So, one night, too tired to venture out to Strasbourg, we drove across the border, and without much realization, we were in another country.

I was half expecting European paparazzi to be on our trail. "Desai's now seen in France"..."Desai's last seen in their inflatable pool in Germany."

The ease with which we traversed borders rendered the concept of political borders comical. We were hungry, and didn't pause to consider the fact that we were in an entirely new country.

"Desai's last seen stuffing their faces on their northern Europe tour."

not all wanderers are aimless (but bikers are)

I started believing in God on my second day in Amsterdam.

Consumed by a familiar sense of restlessness, I left everyone in the house and decided to re-learn how to ride a bike. I borrowed a bicycle that was slightly large for me, making it difficult to maneuver and, more importantly, brake, but I decided to circle the block anyways.

Feeling confident of my newfound (re-discovered) abilities, I decided to be adventurous and circled the next block, as well. In less than 5 minutes, I was hopelessly lost. I almost ran over an old man, and the wind almost knocked me into a parked car. The streets mirrored each other, and each Dutch house was unfortunately as charming as the next. I rode around their area for what seemed like hours, and finally, when I saw "BOEKIJLAAN" for the 5th time, I started praying.

I chanted a Buddhist chant I had learned as a child, one which held little meaning for me, but which I would automatically recite whenever I was scared or nervous. I wondered how long it would be until my parents would send out a search party, whether I should keep riding around the Dutch version of "the Lawns" or stay in one spot until someone would come for me. I needed saving.

I finally got off the bicycle, and started walking slowly along the sidewalk, almost in tears, scared of the perfectly square houses and the amalgamation of consonants on the street signs and the little blond children riding on scooters.

And just when I had lost all hope, I heard a soft voice behind me. "Are you alright?"

It was the boy from whom I had borrowed the bicycle. He was my father's friend's son, though at that moment I saw him as some divine reincarnation.

I began gushing, and he simply smiled and led the way home--which was about two feet away from where I had given up in despair.

Everyone was waiting for me at home, laughing at me as I trudged into the dining room.

"I got lost."

"We know." And my mother continued singing in the kitchen, my sister started taking photographs of my embarrassed face, and my aunt handed me potato chips. Subsumed by the immediacy of the moment, my religious convictions were dispelled. I rubbed the bleeding spots on the back of my ankles struck by the pedals, while I waited for dinner.

Manushi Comes to Town

The best addition to London has been Manu.

While I looked almost haggard and aged (20 year olds cannot endure the London rains, or heat waves as a matter of fact), my sister walked out of the plane looking fresh and young and happy. I forgot she was jetlagged and complained of my exhaustion (a culmination of one month of not sleeping--see next entry for more info) the entire day.

Always the good sport, she dragged herself, without having slept 24 hours, through the inevitable, tourist sights of the city (the ones people always hate but must see to "earn bragging rights at home," as my father says) via a city tour on a double decker bus. It started raining while we were on top, the information was distributed quite fast, and the one thing I could discern was, "and they have maintained Harry Potter's platform 12 and three quarters at the King Cross station." After heaving and then correcting the tour guide, we jumped off the bus, and we went on a quest to find some crepes.

We finally found the perfect banana and nutella crepe at a small restaurant near my university hostel, and after watching the swans like little old women in Kensington Gardens, we headed back to my aunt's house, for some hot food and more importantly, some bed.

Bed didn't last too long. We needed to binge London in 3 days, so we were off again, this time to catch a cruise to Greenwich. We stood on the center of the world, admired the quaint streets of the town, and managed to get a free train ride back to London (no idea how).

We tasted the best falafel in the world at Borogh Market. After filling ourselves up with free samples and a very large, fudgy brownie, we decided to split the lebanese wrap, only to realize the biggest mistake of our lives. We tried to share, but wanted to rip each others throats out for the delicious sandwich. After it was finished, we stared into the sun, letting the wind blow vestiges of the garlic and lemon smell, and physical fragments of the falafel, into our faces.

We ended up paying more for 2 lemonades at the next cafe we went to, only because Manu had to use the bathroom and the only public toilet in sight was closed. It took the waitress about 30 minutes to get our bill, but we enjoyed our view of St. Paul's and this mysterious English boy with a suit case who sat on the curb for over half an hour.

After shopping and hoping to catch a glimpse of some bloody street fight in Oxford Circus, we headed back to E. Croydon. In Victoria, I actually ran into a friend from Ridgewood who I hardly see back in the States, but found in one of the many train stations in London.

Again, we came back to a delicious meal, and then slept like drunk babies the entire night--

until my alarm clock sounded the start of another hurried blur through London.

We left early so that we stroll across (run) Abbey Road before seeing the obligatory Changing of the Guard. Of course, our camera malfunctioned as soon as Manu crossed the road. I told her to cross back about 3 times, before coming to terms with the fact that either the batteries were faulty, the camera was defective, or, like all my friends joke, I genuinely have a cursed hand when it comes to cameras. We were then late for Changing of the Guard, and were even more delayed by the hundreds of avid cricket fans coming to Lord's for the Ashes tournament.

I found new batteries by a convenience store by Buckingham Palace, and we decided we would head to Abbey Road again. We visited Embankment first, went on the London Eye and raced through a huge meal at Wagamama (so quickly the waiter hesitated to take our plates away), thinking we had no time. We went back to St. John's Wood, this time without a stampede of national fans, and took our pictures and raced back to E. Croydon, just in time to head out.

Once we were finally seated onboard the train, in the first class compartment which was cheaper than standard on Sundays, we sighed, leaving behind us the fast paced and tiring life of touring London. Our aunt had joked that if we don't stay alert we might end up in Scotland.

2 hours later, I happened to glance on the screen and saw that our stop was next. I nudged my sister, though I was still not fully comprehending, and said nonchalantly, "I think this is us." She looked at me, and blinked. Then with a start, the both of us crammed all of our belongings into the backpacks, and rushed out of the train and onto the platform.

The train sped away from us, leaving my sister and I out of breath, our bones aching with exhaustion and the weight of all the candy bars I collected from the cafeteria.

Shit Happens

Between bouts of extreme fatigue and arbitrary wireless connection, not to mention some much appreciated home cooked dinners from my aunts, I have not been able to write.

So I am now going to shed light on past adventures, like an old man.

Oprah, and others who subscribe to the notion of destiny and fate, believe everything to happen for a reason. Regardless of reasoning and an invisible logic to the universe, things do happen.

Arbitrary torrential rains destroy new shoes, the stereotypically bad food in England still causes people to gain weight, and wild umbrellas crash down on innocent Americans at dinner. Shit happens.

We all wanted to go somewhere nice for our last evening together. We wanted to eat by the water, and though I knew the area, I did not remember the quality of the restaurant, but expecting something classy, we all wore something nice.

And we ended up at one of the same pub style restaurants, though outside, that had consumed our money in exchange for greasy, generic food for the last month. After some bickering, we finally decided to make do with the limited options at this place in Gabriel's Wharf. Except for a few dishes, most people found their food satisfying, and all was well with dinner until time came to pay the check.

The bill was not the problem. But while we were collecting and counting money, one of our friends suddenly gasped, and, with no warning but a soft whistling sound, a large red and white umbrella came flying out of the air, landing on one of our party's heads.

We were stunned. Only the drunken laughs from the other tables brought us back to the reality of a very large and unstable umbrella resting on our table, wet with spilled drinks and covered in shards of glass. The boy who almost had a concussion went for a smoke, not wanting to cause a public display. Seeing no waitress in sight who could have witnessed and possible apologized, I went inside and let the waitress know what "the loud band" (as she had called it) was.

She didn't understand.

She sent the manager, who smiled at our wet pants, saw that no one was bleeding, and said, "things happen. what can I do?" After some kids started yelling about liability and responsibility and appeals for a discount, the manager took the service charge off, which is optional anyways.

"It's not their fault! We don't mind paying the service! It's the principle of the thing! This is bullshit!"

To which he suddenly took offense. "This is certainly not bulllshit. What can I do? You're outside. It happens."

We tried to justify the bad experience with the quality food, but couldn't muster up the courage to make such a brazen lie. Instead we wandered to the next pub, and drowned our sorrows in--oh no, there was no drowning of any sort, because, like all places in London except for McDonald's, this place closed at 11. So as soon as we got there, we essentially made one quick, hurried, emotional toast, and strolled out.

We took more pictures in the Tube station than we did above ground. We took candid ones, posed ones. We got on the Tube and took more, a documentation of all the events on a Tube ride, including sneezing and the possible elbow in your face. When we got back, the last leg of the group, my favorite people in London, all came and sat in my room. Three of us managed to squeeze onto the matchbox sized bed, and the other at my desk, farting.

I finally got to bed by dawn. The sun rose (excessively early, as usual), only to remind us that the small pocket of time we had shared in London became forever engrained in our memories, and nothing else.

There were tears at departure. We promised to meet in the States. We knew we would always have London, but we hoped we could have some of the Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and New Jersey, too.

last day of class (walking into street fights in one of the largest commercial districts in the world)

I almost died on the last day of class.

Not because we had to individually present our research proposals (based on the hair-pulling, teeth grinding work at Kew), not because I finally keeled over from sleeping 4 hours per night for the last month (unfortunately not because of partying and living up my youth, but because of a variety of circumstances including the cardboard box in which we slept)--but rather because I almost walked into a street fight a few hours later, on Oxford Street at 4 in the afternoon.

We had all become delirious by the last day of class. The National Archives had managed to consume our souls, and like the victims of Rowling's dementors, we existed lifelessly between the past and present, the threshold crossed as we perused dusty documents for the missing clues to a mysterious treasure. The presentation of our research proposal seemed to be some mess of nervous giggling, strawberry scones, falling off chairs, and making cherry stem knots with tongues, all during the serious explanations of the Royal Niger Company, the exodus of Indians from East Africa, and the role of the United Nations in dissenting the Apartheid.

After class, I collapsed onto my bed. Forgetting that the hostel is actually a training ground for a future in which we will have no feathers, no springs, no down, no general comfort, I rose from my unyielding bed, bruised, and went to my friend's room. He had made the same mistake, and we both decided to attend the debates at Parliament, for remedial purposes.

The line was almost 3 hours when we reached the grand building around 2, so after sitting around for 30 minutes wondering how to handle ourselves without Kew, we decided to go back underground and take the Tube to Abbey Road to kill time.

We walked about 20 minutes on Abbey Road before realizing we had passed the legendary crosswalk. At one point I had remarked the beautiful graffiti on the opposite wall, but did not assume that to be the marker for one of the most famous crosswalks in the world.

It was the only indication--we were supposed to have realized the location of the crosswalk from the "give peace a chance" and "all you need is love" and "jill and eric 4evaaa" spray painted on the once white wall. The pedestrians sprinting across the road would have been another indicator. Though cars paused for the hopeful tourist wishing to imitate one of the Fabulous Four, (and a pause is much more than one could ever hope for in this city of Man Meets Lamburghini Round 1), there was still a general (homicidal) sense of impatience and it would have been risky to stroll across the walkway as though for enjoyment. That's just silly.

Instead, my friend and I raced across the crosswalk, only to run into a chubby Asian toddler and her father trying to enact the same scene.

After our 500m dash across vestiges of the first British invasion (save Plymouth Rock), I requested we go to Harrod's. Being the directional whiz that I am, I took my friends to the wrong shopping area. We ended up roaming around Oxford Street, which fortunately for me (in appeasing my sweaty and irritated friends) at least earns a superlative title as the largest concentration of retail in the world.

It is also home to gang violence, apparently. As we got out of the Tube station and realized our (my) directional error, we suddenly turned to see a crowd of people breaking up to allow two thin boys beat and curse out another. Oblivious to the gravity of the affair, I began walking through the fight, so that I could get to the next shop (it's currently sale season.) My friends grabbed my hand and pulled me back, just in time for one of the punches to go astray.

I decided to be overwhelmed and distraught so that my next purchase--a hot waffle smothered in what appeared to be a jar of Nutella--was justified. I like the "feed your feelings" concept.

We finally headed back over to Parliament in the evening, when the lines were supposed to be much shorter. We went through security and were photographed for paper IDs. We argued about where we should pose for our obnoxious tourist shots and then argued about my being a vegetarian.

The House of Commons seemed to be having the same types of arguments. The substance was legitimate (Immigration), but the members employed sarcasm and chuckles and yawns and big words to make their points. Interestingly, many of the arguments made, concerning high skilled workers from Asia and then the ambiguity of Irish citizenship, were relevant to my research on Indians in Kenya. I kept forgetting that I was watching a conversation of 2009, because I had just read dozens of files from the 1950s. The same fear of highly skilled immigrants "stealing" jobs is present in every industrialized country in the world. The false, arbitrary borders upon which we found our nationalist ideals and values render people on the outside to be foreigners, "thieves" of employment.

It began raining hard as soon as we stepped outside the Parliament building. We were to meet our friends for dinner at some pub and decided to run through the rain, like Hillary Duff. We missed dinner, but we felt spunky and famous and blonde, so it was well worth it.

We slept soundly and without any dreams, as the entire day had seemed to be one REM cycle after the next.

The voice over the intercom is real. There are human beings to whom these voices are attached, and only in London does this humane side of public announcements emerge.

I got yelled at on the bus home last night.

We were all sitting down in the back of the bus, thawing on the way home from the Ice Bar. The bus was crowded, so many people were standing in the aisle. As all buses and other forms of vehicular transportation in London generally act, this particular bus managed to overtake private automobiles, swerve, and almost run over innocent, unknowing tourists.

So the driver decided to get catty.

"All of you who are standing in the aisles right now, please find a seat. You know it's dangerous and if you want to fall, then suit yourself." And he continued his sarcastic rant for about 10 minutes, failing to acknowledge that the danger was essentially caused by his neglecting to signal before changing lanes and to stop for children crossing the street. I began to laugh, completely bewildered by this seemingly individualized PA announcement.

"And to the girl in purple in the back--this is not funny."

Ice Ice Baby

While we have escaped to London for the weather, which in itself is a nauseating thought, my friends and I decided to escape the temperate zone entirely, and spent a grueling 45 minutes in the infamous Ice Bar. The walls, tables, chairs, bar, and glasses were made of ice, and we were given parkas with big furry hoods--we half expected Sarah Palin to pop out from behind one of the icicle poles.

It was a frozen tundra, and although our lips were blue, our breath hung heavy in the air, and our fingers had fallen off and were strewn across the floor, but we had to stay because apparently being cold was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

And truly, I don't know the next time I will be partying in an igloo again.

Things I have noticed about London

This is an old one I never posted.

1. Having "tea" does not necessarily imply drinking brown liquid at 4 in the afternoon. Depending upon one's socioeconomic class, tea time can even indicate supper with the family. The affluent tend to engage in the traditional, tea with scones and crumpets deal, while the middle class use "tea" as a synonym for dinner.



2. London is a caricature of itself. its clean streets, short brick buildings, and grey skies seem to be figments of my own imagination (driven by films like Notting Hill and Love Actually).



3. In the cafeteria at Heythrop College, instead of pricing the salad per pound, there is a set price for a "level" plate and a set price for a "heaped plate."



4. I see more people Indian people in the heart of the fallen empire than I see in Parsippany, NJ.



5. I don't know if it is this city, or the fact that I am alone in this city, or the constant anticipation for rain (an anxiety I have decided I completely love), but I am always inspired to write. New sentences are constantly forming in my head. I cannot capture the excitement and nervousness, the sense of wonderment and freedom, that rushes through my veins. I am invigorated by the smog, the double decker buses, the friendly service.



6. I have seen a few people in need of money on the streets. A few of them simply begged with their dogs, or sat with their heads down in exasperation and a sign of pleading for sympathy. However, many of the poor in the streets engaged the fast-paced, relentless London crowd. I see opera singers and jugglers and classical musicians. (I stroll down the streets with my own background music and performers, my head held high, smiling--until my run down flats hit a bump in the sidewalk and I run into an old man with a walking stick.)

Best Day Ever

I never knew that I would be escaping to London for the weather.

But this summer, as much as it has been perpetually raining in New Jersey and in New York, it has been sunny and bright in London.

So, instead of running around Westminster to take arbitrary photos of Big Ben and the London Eye, clad in fanny packs and 1.5 liter water bottles, my friends and I decided to head south for the day, to Brighton Beach.

When we reached the typical beach town, it was still early, and the morning fog and cool had not yet been absorbed by the anomalous London sun. So we decided to tour the Royal Pavillion, King George's seaside resort, to kill time. The half-authentic palace was nice, but our minds were on white sands, blue waters--and hopefully some food that did not involve ham or potatoes.

(Our lunch comprised ham sandwiches and various forms of the potato, except for my exceptional Margherita pizza, which dispelled any desires I had to go to Italy, for I could get all of that right in a British beach town reminscent of Seaside Heights.)

We all excited rushed to the beach. There was a pier with rides and ice cream and long hot dogs, and a boardwalk with couples and dogs and little children screaming about current affairs of the state. I took off my flipflops and ran onto the beach--and cried out in pain, as I ran over hot, smooth stones.

It was a rocky beach. The white sand was across the Atlantic, where the stones get washed up and eroded into fine powder upon which our naive American feet could tread. We all hobbled until we could no longer endure the rocks, and set down our bags and towels and rotting fruit from the cafe.

The water was cold. I napped for an hour and when I woke up (rolling around on a natural stone massage) I was peer pressured into braving the waters.

And it was the most refreshing leap of faith in my life. The cold waters sunk deep into the marrow of my bones, but somehow I was unable to come out, my body in sync with the gentle flow of the waves, the mesmerizing convergence of the blue skies and waters at the horizon.

I came out of the water for an hour, only to plunge into the ice bucket once again. I swam far out, until my friends became specks on the sand, indistinguishable from the ravenous seagulls hungry for soft serve vanilla ice cream.

When my friends got hungry for dinner, I was requested to come out of the waters. We found some fancy looking Italian place, which ended up ripping us off but also providing us with the best meal of our trip. We acted like loud, obnoxious Americans, sharing our leftovers and shoving food into our mouths in fear of never again tasting such delicacies (pasta).

The obnoxious American streak continued on the train ride home, when we started playing a game of cards and ended up battling to preserve the dignities of our respective sexes. Essentially, we were cursing and throwing things at each other, and thus receiving the dirty looks of the innocent passengers surrounding our two tables.

As all nights should end, ours terminated with Michael Jackson. We watched a poorly made documentary on Jacko's life, all the while sweating in the hot London night, suffering withdrawal from our dependency on air conditioning.

One by one, we dropped like flies. I had decided to put in my laundry at the last minute, so just another friend of mine and myself were in the student room together, both of us perusing TV shows called "babestation," "sexcetera," and something to the extent of gay rabbits. After exploring the late night semi-pornographic offerings of London television, we decided to call it a night.

And, thanks to the rocky beaches, I slept without any sand in my butt.

Freedom Fighters

I know that history is important.

But until recently, I didn't realize how relevant, and how much a part of our present, is history.

Our Archiving Africa class went to the National Archives at Kew on Monday. There, we were met with an overwhelming database of over 10 million documents--documents that may not necessarily reveal clues to hidden treasures and ancient mysteries (I saw Angels and Demons just before coming to London)--but seemingly arbitrary documents.

These very documents helped to found the argument of the Mau Mau, the Freedom Fighters from Kenya during the 1960s, who are now suing the British government on claims of inhumane torture techniques, including very graphic accounts of rape, castration, and physical mutilation.

Our class attended the press conference conducted by the law firm and representatives from the Human Rights Commission, the Kenyan Parliament, and Kenyan Lawyers. Various representatives of the original Mau Mau were also present.

These men and women who fought against the colonial regime were considered terrorists, even among many Kenyan politicians who continued to perpetuate the conspiracy and the secrecy revolving around the Mau Mau post-independence.

Radical actions against the state are often considered "terrorist." Anything against the status quo, that challenges the resignation with which we live our lives, is deemed offensive.

And many times, when people are blinded by their passions, their love for a cause or a people, radical actions can cause more harm than good. I thought of Che Guevarra, who essentially worked for the people but ended up becoming a guerilla warrior.

But when I looked at these tired, forlorn, and haggard men and women, who stood up without pride, any thoughts of brutal warfare and killings were dispelled, and I only thought of the atrocities these poor people were put through as punishment for their love of Kenya.

And history and the present merged, its boundaries indistinguishable, encompassing everything we knew and know, laying groundwork for what we can only hope to know.

2 left feet (well, none that is functioning)

So I have been MIA for some time because I have been busy limping around London and getting Tendonitis.

Today, I am hobbling around Liverpool for the day with my class. In the evening I will be sure to update life--with everything including human rights issues, my eyebrows, and the best day of the trip so far (Saturday).

Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MANUSHI!

more famous people...dead and alive!

So, I got a tour of London from someone with an IMDB page.

Emily Richard showed us some historic sites around London Bridge, like Francis Drake's ship and the Tower of London, and also the streets through which Dickens walked to visit his parents at a debtor's museum and the cathedral at which Shakespeare buried his younger brother. She would lead us into random pubs and cafes so that we could give our legs some rest, and then any time she would spot a waiter she would abruptly get up and we continued on with the walk outside, enduring the particularly London elements.

She would tell us random facts, and then pause for dramatic effect. Emily Richard is a complete ham, and absolutely brilliant. I saw more on this arbitrary tour of the influences on Shakespeare than I did on the fake tour of the London sights. From Mrs. Dickens' last words to Darwin's commentary on Shakespeare to remarkably relevant lines from MacBeth and Julius Caesar, she managed to quote directly and fluently, as though she had were witness to these men and women, both fictional and real.

Oh, and she is friends with Sir Ian McKellen.

Paparazzi (I'm famous!)

I thought U2 put Fordham on the map.

But apparently, Fordham has a magazine and needs to boost its reputation by documenting a day in the life of the study abroad kids in London.

I was subject to complete interrogation by some pretty reporter who had an English accent, though she grew up in Portland, OR.

Then today, the London Centre had arranged a tour of some of London's sights. They were going to provide us with lunch and underground passes to get to the sights. We had to perform a little bit beforehand.

A mock class, on the day we have off, so that the photographer could put some authentic shots in the Fordham magazine. We all trudged into the classroom, already woken up by the Lithuanian cleaning lady, the defective fire alarm that blared for 18 minutes, and the arbitrary day camp in which children screech English phrases while they play football outside my window. And then we were given random books, some of poetry, some of history, some of explicit (maybe even illicit) material, and we then posed false questions and got irrelevant answers, ("Why am I awake?" "Marks & Spencer has good underwear.")

And then, we walked to Pret A Manger (which has moved to NYC) and I ate a hot, spicy falafel wrap with "all-natural" apple juice. Then we got on the Tube (which we paid for ourselves) and travelled to Westminster. I began to get excited--these were a bunch of sites I had wanted to check off my list (I was in a sari and sneakers state of mind). Of course, we were not to go inside Parliament, or even walk towards the Abbey, or ride the London Eye--we had to pretend we were tourists ("but, Bill, we are tourists!") and then we had to pretend to take pictures of the Thames ("but, Bill, I am taking a picture of the Thames!") and then we had to pretend to like each other and laugh with one another ("but, Bill, we are genuinely having fun together!"). Essentially, he wanted to capture "token" moments on camera--the token hippie, the token British phone booth, the token look of wonderment.

He then offered to buy us drinks and dinner if we would let him take pictures when we go out. Paid for by Fordham, the hottest Catholic school in the nation.

the Ocean Blue

We went down to SOHO last night. We found some chic little restaurant/bar and decided to go in, and seek refuge from the icy winds.

The place was nice; there were many young people sitting in couches and benches, stooped over tables eating "chips" and drinking from colorful glasses. A sign at the stairs piqued my interest. "PRIVATE PARTY DOWNSTAIRS. Mechelle A..." I turned to my friend. "Let's go."

So we decided to tell people we were friends with an Anna, who we decided was Mechelle's colleague.

We found two blokes standing near the DJ and went to talk to them. Somehow they managed to figure out, almost immediately, that we were not from London. The shorter one, from Brixton, said, "This is a private party. But you guys had the balls to come down here. And for that you are officially invited." And the other one, the blonde, added, "Yea. The minute you two came over to talk to us, we knew you had to be American. The English just aren't brazen enough."

They continued to give us tips on cheap eats and trendy, young areas in the city. The reason they were all there was because two of the company's bosses were retiring. The shorter one from Brixton told us to go and say good bye to the boss by the couch, the one flirting with the young blond.

My friend and I walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir," we said, in our most brazen, balls-y accents, "I am really sorry to see you go. It was truly a pleasure working with you." He look flustered. "Um, right. Well, I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to get to know you." And then he abandoned his girlfriend to sit on the couch, wondering when his architectural empire had reached the shores of the New World.

Jolly Gay Fun (and Yuvraj Singh)

I met a Gujarati trannie last night. He was a Patel, who had given Prince William a lap dance and was kissed on his right hand by Kylie Minogue (Daniel Minogue had kissed the left). I suppose he was a trannie of the upper crust.



His stage name is ChiChi ConCarne. (His birth name is Chirag Patel.) And when his grandmother died, she had left for him her anklets.



Oh yes, and I saw Yuvraj Singh last night. Google him if you don't know who he is; I didn't know his face, but knew of his name, and knew that no matter what, I must take a picture with this man, if only for my father's sake. So my friend took a pic with his cell phone (of course, I left my camera in the room). My list of famous people whom I have touched now includes Hillary Clinton, Anderson Cooper, Ashton Kutcher, and now Yuvraj Singh. (Dreaming counts, too).



And the trannie. For some reason, even though I knew I should have been trying to befriend Mr. Singh, (I did tell him I would have my people call his people), I could not resist spending time with ChiChi. He embodied the duality of my existence--the Gujjus at home, and the gays at Fordham. I fell in love, completely enraptured by this walking and talking mirror of my life.

Basically, no matter where I run, I won't hide. Either the radical Gujarati diaspora or the homosexual population will find me.

Sometimes, as a packaged deal.

Orient This!

We had Orientation and our very first class today.

Everyone's first impression of me is a crazy, old hag.

I wanted to buy eyeliner and pens today, and took a little stroll before Orientation this morning. I walked into Boots (a pharmacy), found a cheap eyeliner, and went to the cashier. She was Korean and had on bright purple eye shadow. She asked me if I wanted to try their new mascara; I told her I didn't want to buy anything, but she offered to put it on me anyways.

Just for fun, she said.

She seduced me with her innocent British accent, and before I knew it I was sitting on a high swively chair, and she was smearing lumps of mascara onto my lashes.

"Can you see the difference?" I looked in the mirror, and jumped back slightly. I didn't want to disappoint her, so I pretended I liked the tarantula effect on my eyes. She smiled and said, "It's because you have such nice eyes!" I looked again, and blinked, hoping tears would smudge the hyperbole that was my eyelashes.

Of course, it was waterproof.

I walked out of the store, my head leaning towards the floor, weighed down by my lashes.

I would have been a perfect fit at Lucky Cheng's or Lips. Or maybe even Barnum and Bailey's Circus.

And yet, instead of being on a stage, or dancing on a table in a purple leopard skin leotard and red shoes, I walked into Heythrop College, into a room full of my classmates and professors.

As long as it made the Korean woman with the British accent happy.

DISCLAIMER: READ EVERY POST FOR THE NEXT MONTH WITH A BRITISH ACCENT

I was not given fair warning before I boarded my flight. No one from the Study Abroad office told me; not even anyone working at the British Embassy let me know.

Everyone here has a British accent.

Just like in the movies. And because of this, I keep thinking that I am seeing famous people; but neither the homeless man on the street, the thiry something year olds working at Boots pharmacy, nor the homicidal bus drivers are famous. Everything is authentic. This is actually London.

I stepped off the plane, which fed me cheesy tortellini, offered free wine, individual bottles of olive oil, with chocolates and chocolate cake, (a conspiracy probably devised by my father so I gain unseemly weight and fend off male suitors), and walked into a clean airport. The airport was peppered with arbitrary metal and steel structures protruding from the ground and ceiling, providing an inconvenient (especially for those with large suitcases trying to fit through two random steel obstructions) glimpse into the future.

After heading to the other terminal to be picked up, we (I met one of my classmates on the flight to Newark) stepped outside for some fresh air. My body clock was running at 3 in the morning, and yet the sun was out in London, people were smoking, and a small grey pigeon was busy eating a cucumber sandwich off the street. For some strange reason, that mangled cucumber sandwich reminded me of home, and my stomach suddenly lurched forward with a sophomoric feeling of homesickness. (Later in the day I had steamed cucumbers with my dinner, which again made me miss home, but only because the veggies at my house are usually edible, let alone tasty.)

We waited in the airport for a few hours, and one by one I watched the other students trudge through the terminal, and to our meeting spot, all with heavy bags, both in their hands and under their eyes.

We decided to take the Tube back to Heythrop College. All I can remember from this trip is stairs. Lots of stairs. (and blood, sweat, and tears. jolly good.)

The college is in a beautiful area. It is kind of like the Upper West Side meets Soho meets Greenwich Village meets a stampede of people with British accents (because, again, everyone here has one. even the American people!!) It is very safe. It is very rich (hint: car brands). And there are a lot of phone stores around.

So I ran around in the heat and with my inferior American face (I am trying to think like an English woman so that I look more like one) running from one phone store to the next. The whole chase started with one Indian guy who kind of screwed me over with a SIM card. Long story not worth telling on the blog. But I essentially went to each phone store twice before finding a good deal and a --keyword--FUNCTIONAL deal. (Of course, the SIM is still not activated and I am still without contact with my family. Oh well, I guess I can't get trouble for texting too much.) Oh and I stayed true to my Indian and Jersey roots (and honestly, thought of my dad when I did this) and made sure I got a refund from the Indian guy. He didn't even have a cool accent--why should I surrender to his worthless, expatriate rule?

Dinner was glorious. And by glorious I mean, I am so happy I brought craisins to London. Still, I cannot completely agree with the "Cold food, Cold people" label of London. Yes, I had an ice-cold samosa today, and a luke warm frittata for dinner last night; but I got a garlic tofu stir fry on the way to the 12th (120th) phone store and it was so incredibly hot I almost dropped it on a black poodle.

And more importantly, the people are incredibly nice. Maybe it's because they sympathize with me--I clearly looked lost (and I looked corpse-like because I couldn't find my eyeliner)---but either way, everyone in the phone stores has been eager to get me on my way (for the third time in most cases).

No one here is that good looking, per se, but I am still weirdly attracted to every single bumbling bloke (and girl) that walks across the cobblestone streets (okay they are actually black and concrete like the ones in New York, but sometimes I like to pretend). Maybe it is because they all look like they have something interesting to say, something interesting to contribute to (my) life. Or maybe it is because I know that whatever they do say will sound interesting.

Oh, and I heard the Resident Director (Hostel Manager) tell someone that when they are in London again, they should "get together for a cup of tea."

Seriously.

London (well, almost)

I am going to London in less than 48 hours. So naturally, I was watching Hilary Duff music videos this afternoon with Manu, who was also studying for Chem.

As I watched my rival celebrity (yes, I was a teen sensation in my day) get drenched by torrential rains as she embraced her long lost lover, I thought of my upcoming adventures in rainy London. And then I sat on the couch with a big goofy smile on my face, thinking about two things: Hilary Duff's rise to fame and my exciting summer.

I am in the mood to be refreshed; and it seems that the only way to do so is to travel to another country. Across the Atlantic, I will "come clean," all my worries, all my the wrinkles in my brow, all my thoughts washed away and subsumed by thick accents, tea time, and pub culture.

Hilary, I too want to feel the thunder; I too want to scream. If I come back crazy, it is only because the rain washed away my sanity.

Or because they would have brainwashed me with socialist, ultra liberal propaganda about free public goods and services. Damn Reds.