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.