No white Christmas, but a potted plant.

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

The Manushi Who Stole Christmas

There was no white Christmas this year. Rather, the weather was dry, grey, and insufferably banal, and the usual surge of cheer that lit the streets had been slightly dampened. People sent e-gift cards instead of buying lumpy sweaters, and ate apples instead of truffles (well, I ate both.)

My family, however, spent one of warmest and most colorful Christmases, the kind that Jesus himself probably intended (no e-gift cards).

A few weeks before the holiday, my home had already been littered with red and silver cellophane, gold ribbon, boxes of Godiva, and empty bottles of Japanese plum wine. We neglected to go to the gym for the sake of "holiday chores" and by the time Friday, the 23rd, rolled around, I could barely fit into my pink snuggie.

Still, we were excited to spend time together, to love each other, to enjoy some time without the vagaries of our work. I came home early the day Manu and I were going to assemble and decorate our tree. We're raging Eco lovers who have come to enjoy the tradition of building the same tree every year, saving the whales one Christmas at a time. This year, Manu took issue with the whole procedure. She wanted to go to the mall instead. I looked longingly at the wine and chocolates that would have accompanied the assembly line (a new aspect of the tradition I included this year).

I swallowed. "Yes, let's go." We never got a chance to put up or tree, so we put all of our gifts beneath another fauna.

We had intended to wrap lights around our potted plant, but forgot to do that, too.

That evening, I wrapped my mother's gifts, a chore I find quite pleasurable, and after several hours of talking about nothing whilst curling ribbon, we finally went off to bed. It was a bit difficult to get up for work the next morning, but since our new way of functioning was indulging in confectionery and cocoa, somehow we managed to get through the day.

My aunt and uncle had flown in from Alabama, and so my cousin's family and mine enjoyed Saturday morning, Christmas Eve, doing nothing but eating fruits and chocolate and fried Gujarati  foods that we judge other people for eating. (I most likely will have type 2 by Wednesday).

While my aunt and mother divulged their 2011 regrets and their 2012 goals and their innermost secrets and their deluded love affairs with Bollywood actors, my cousin, my sister and I filmed ourselves and posted videos on YouTube and Facebook. We learned three things through our endeavors: rapping is difficult, the pain from stubbing your toe is difficult to conceal, and the three of us will probably be famous by Thursday, the day after the effects of our gluttonous consumption will kick in.

(this video doesn't show on all web interfaces, so if you want to see it, shoot me an email!)

We opened presents on Christmas morning, after another round of goals and feedback on these goals (read: unsolicited adult advice on life and that funny thing they keep mentioning, "future.").

My parents had gotten me a snow globe.

We then drove for many moons so we could test the malleability of our seemingly pregnant stomachs, which within three days were carrying approximately 9 months of food. We ate (devoured, ravaged) South Indian food at a restaurant where seating was first come, first serve; naturally, the survival-of-the-fittest Indian roots surfaced, and my parents and aunt and uncle circled the full tables like hawks, eyeing the contented patrons with glares.

Yes, how dare they chew their food before they swallow. Chop, chop, unassuming diners, it's time to go.

We finally saw some people take a pause for breath, and in the hiatus that followed, they were suddenly surrounded. My family did not even wait for the waiters to clear out the tables before sitting.

After our glorious meal, we rested our hands on our protruding stomachs and walked over to the real Christmas spectacular: Don 2, Shah Rukh Khan's newest film.

I almost peed in my pants with excitement (and from washing down spicy sambhar with 4-5 glasses of water).

The movie was brilliant, as expected. All we needed to end the weekend was the drive into sparkly midtown Manhattan, where we all argued about the expression of the lights (were they tear drops or melting icicles?), shared bags of roasted peanuts for which my generous aunt overpaid the nutsman, and the youth issued declarations about the commercial banality of midtown and while the elders of the pack mused about their next snack. Once my mother reminisced drinking tea in silent, suburban Ridgewood, where we could also fill up our almost empty tank, we drove back up north.

Back at home, we loudly claimed a lack of hunger, and then continued to eat popcorn with chaat masala, peanuts, grapefruit, ice cream, blueberries, more Gujarati specialties dear to our clogged hearts, and Godiva truffles whose caloric count is nonexistent on December 25.

We ended the evening by Facetiming (if Google is a verb, why not Facetime?) our grandparents in India, who were too fascinated with my cousin's new abominable snow man look (read: strategically grown beard), to realize that we were all present, connecting to each other through a small  machine thinner than my diary, each of us thousands of miles apart, and still within three inches of each other, grasping for the other's face, unable to touch.

The next day, everyone dispersed, and all we had left of the weekend was a few dozen boxes of chocolate, my pink snuggie still sprawled on the couch, and a few music videos we had created to change the world.

No, Manu didn't steal Christmas. She actually brought it to life.

And we get to keep our potted plant all year round.

snow globes

When I was a child, my family used to get snow globes as gifts. We were new to this country, and so the true gift was the ability to hold the reverie of our future lives, as idyllic, peaceful, and soft as what lay behind the glass.  My mother always loved them because she could enjoy the snow without my father having to shovel, and without her children having to get pneumonia (or what she thought was pneumonia, but what was usually a runny nose.)

Over the years, the clutter of our dreams undermined the initial giddiness of their tangibility. Soon, dreams gathered dust, as did our snow globes, and many of them were lost or shattered, the viscous suspension staining our carpets.

We're no longer new, no longer young, but remain exceedingly restless, as we seek a way to rebuild these shattered snow globes. We seek the stillness behind the glass, the sense of easy tranquility, the furry boots and the Eskimo caps that never induce static cling.

My hair still stands up when I take off winter hats, I have been punished for my dreams, and the sounds outside my window are loud, raucous,and jeering. And still, my slippery hands are doused in glitter and minuscule tile roofs and powdery, white, soft snow.

very good bad day

Sometimes, days are just plain terrible. The universe decides to work against you for 24 hours, and so the same day your hair is puffy is the same day your dog dies or your heart breaks, which inevitably coincides with the day your boss actually notices you walking in late in your less-than-business-casual torn Converse to mark the occasion.

A few days ago, I decided to return to my 5:30 AM workouts, in a move to to restore a sense of order and sanity in my life, (a move which conveniently followed a moment of angst last week when my favorite black jeans tore as I made futile attempts to pull them up and over my increasingly large behind). I returned from the Iron Yoga class feeling a bit weak, most likely because I returned from my three week hiatus only to use the wrong weights (the heavier ones) throughout class. I decided to make some eggs and coffee for me and Manu.

My parents woke up and filed into the cold kitchen. My father leaned over my mediocre egg production and sighed. His latest hobby is making elaborate, gourmet meals of restaurant quality, and my omelet did not seem to cut it. I ran out of time, and so made the omelet into scrambled eggs, much to his dismay, and my mother muttered something about my ability to survive in the real world. (Not sure why people in the real world can't just eat scrambled eggs.)

I scarfed down my meal and ran into the shower, where I slipped on a bar of rose soap.

I then ran into the kitchen to grab some bananas, for even in my haste to make the train I knew I needed to start saving money (the world is ending in 2012, so I need to buy some flashlights). As I ran into the kitchen, my mother handed me a hot cup of coffee. I told her I didn't have time to drink it, and she looked utterly crestfallen. I poured it into a thermos, and with my new magenta ear muffs sliding up to my forehead, my bananas sticking out of my coat pockets, and my purse wide open and dispersing receipts and chocolate wrappers on the ground, I ran with my thermos of steaming coffee to the car. My sister was waiting at the wheel. "Ready?" I looked at her, and was about to nod yes, until I yelped. "My phone!!"

She had begun to slowly reverse, and then stopped. "Go."

I ran back into the house, threw my gloves on the counter so I could adeptly search for my phone. It ended up being in my jewelry box, so I grabbed a pair of earrings with my phone, and ran back downstairs. I left my gloves on the counter, so that by the time I reached the train station, my hands had become brown icicles.

I had missed my train, and I didn't have enough cash to go to the French bakery next door.

As I waited twenty minutes for the next train, I sifted through my personal mail for anything interesting. I was hoping for a love letter or an invitation to Hollywood, but instead saw Merriam Webster's Word of the Day (yes, I'm a word nerd. And I'm proud of my subscriptions.)

The word of the day was swivet.

Swivet means a fluster or panic or extreme state of agitation.

Rucha flew into a swivet as she was an hour late for work, could not feel her frozen and sore extremities, and smelled like a sweaty rose with coffee breath.

I smiled (to myself, of course. Lunacy is in the eyes of the beholder.)

I had learned a new word.

the Family Circus

I wish I were Beaver Cleaver. I want a white picket fence and perfectly round pancakes and a family that functions completely in synch.

The problem is, I hate fences, perfectly shaped food terrifies me, and my family seems to inevitably collide and implode, almost as if in competition with the Higgs Field.

 

Twelve hours ago I returned from a two-week trip to India, where I partook in nuptial celebrations in various cities and a whirlwind tour of South India. I woke up at four this morning with a cold, a sore throat, and that dreadful feeling of adrenaline receding from my core.

(So, the sun has not even come up yet, but I'm now drinking my second cup of Madras coffee, imported from the source.)






After several days of truly fun festivities for my cousin's wedding in Mumbai, my family was to ship out to Gujarat, to prepare for another wedding. My mother, her two sisters and their husbands, my cousin, my grandparents, and my mother's aunt were going to take a train out of Bombay.

Our train was at 6:50 in the morning, but given that we were travelling with about two carloads of baggage and three elderly folks, we decided to leave the place at which we stayed at 5:30 in the morning. The ride was ten minutes.

My mother's cousins had driven us to the station. After they parked, we faced our first obstacle: crossing the street. With a sense of romantic adventure, we trekked across the highway, avoiding impassive cows, unrelenting motorists, and people standing in the middle of the road for no apparent reason, though I presumed each person to be waiting for Godot.

We survived. Our entourage attracted stares and whistles, as we huddled around fourteen bags at the entrance of the station, some of us rubbing sore muscles, some of us rubbing tired eyes, some of us rubbing our fanny packs and visors. My mother's aunt used her cane to fend off stray dogs. I still had not had a single cup of coffee.

We soon found out our platform was on the other end of the station. We had to walk down two flights of stairs, cross the station underground, then walk back another flight of stairs, and progress to the end of the tracks. There were hundreds of people crowding the station; rush hour had conveniently started about three hours earlier that morning. I briefly glanced up at the clouds, in a futile attempt to seek some sort of divine inspiration. As usual, I found nothing particularly revelatory in the skies, so instead scratched a new mosquito bite in my left armpit. Without caffeine or deus ex machina, I lost the thrill of romantic treks through the rough, wild terrain of the Indian train stations, and so picked up four heavy pieces of luggage and embarked upon the pilgrimage to Platform 7.

Some of us were tasked to escort my grandparents and great aunt. I had heard some commotion behind me after walking down the second flight of stairs, but assumed it was the usual buzz of a Bombay train platform. As soon as I reached the top step, I set my bags down for a small break. I glanced over my shoulder and saw my mother and her sister yelling at my grandfather, who unabashedly forged ahead with his lavendar napsack.

My mother motioned to me. "Ruch! Please get the backpack from nanaji."

I ran back down the steps and grabbed the lavendar napsack. My grandfather looked back up at me. His grip tightened. "No, beta, no problem, I have it." I tried again, but he pushed me away. I skipped back up the steps. My mother glared at me.

"Ruch! Please help your grandfather!"

"Ma, he said--"

My mother threw her hands in frustration. I was not completely sure what had spurred on her anger, but I decided to keep a 3-foot radius around her.

My  grandmother and my mother's aunt were slowly making there way up the stairs. My mother's two sisters were walking with them, providing them with support up the slippery staircase (I don't know why everything in India is perpetually wet, despite an alleged water shortage).

My uncle told me he and some of my mother's cousins were going to go ahead and make sure the bags reached our platform. He told me to help out my mother.

Suffering a sort of dizzy spell, I turned around once again to my mother, who at this point was cursing in the train station. My grandfather was still holding his lavendar napsack. My aunt was hunched over trying to pry his fingers from the bag. I was not sure with what I was to assist, so I stood back and waited. All of a sudden, my mother and aunt burst into tears.

My grandfather smiled at me and walked on with his lavendar bag. I walked over to my mother, and put a reassuring (though I did not know for what I was providing consolation) hand on her shoulder. She waved me away. I took her bags from her, and added it to my increasing pile of luggage. I trudged on alone, swaying from the weight of everyone's bags and emotions.

My grandmother and my mother's aunt were still slowly and steadily making progress behind my bellowing mother. My grandfather was walking a few feet to the left of me, in utter contentment. My uncle and my mother's cousins were all up front. I walked alone, through the crowds and the dogs and the strategically placed trash cans. Twice, I almost fell into the train tracks, and almost four times I almost fell on my face, as those originally waiting for Godot suddenly jolted awake, and frenetically pushed through me, despite the clear path two inches to the left of me, and trampled me in their journey to nowhere.

Flustered by my near death experiences, I turned to find my mother, who was now heaving sobs with my aunt. I will still unsure of the source of anguish, so I increased my 3-foot radius to about 6-feet, and continued.

We finally all reached Platform 7. My grandfather was still clutching his lavendar bag and telling one of my uncles about the effects of Mumbai traffic on the socioeconomic development of the city. My aunts huddled around their cousin.

"Has he told you he just had surgery? He shouldn't be carrying bags."

Ah, the source. It was fear, worry, and more than worry, the pain of seeing someone desperately hold on to something that was slipping away.

Or, everyone was just a bit cranky and hungry.

My mother's cousin then shared stories of his father's obstinacy in the last few years of his life. He started to tear. My mother and all her sisters began crying with a renewed gusto. I walked over to my cousin. "Ugh, so much drama! I wish we could postpone the crying till after 9 in the morning."

My cousin was playing fruit ninja on his blackberry. "What? Who's crying?"

In about twenty five minutes, the train rolled into the platform. As it slowed, I felt some naan turned over at the base of my stomach. We had to get all the luggage and relatives onto the train in the five minutes that the train stopped.

My cousin and I went in first. Our uncles threw heavy bags to us and we were to catch them, or at least allow our paneer-bellies to soften the fall. My grandparents and great aunt were escorted into the train amid hundreds of other passengers, all of whom were also tossing bags onto the train.

The train lurched forward. Some straggling youths ran and jumped onto the train as it left the platform. My cousin and I divvied up the luggage. Refreshments were being served, so we maneuvered our luggage around the narrow aisles and wide food carts.

Finally, after having ensured all people and luggage were accounted for, we were able to fall into our seats, completely caving to this insurmountable exhaustion. I closed my eyes.

My mother tapped me hard. "Where's Ma and Papa? I want to go see them." I looked over at my mother, who was still sobbing. With the half ounce of energy I had left, I got up from the welcome seat and showed her to end of the car. My grandmother and grandfather were happily munching on biscuits and sipping their tea. My grandmother looked at my mother, and then looked back at me. "What's her problem?"

My mother squeezed my grandfather's hands, in a desperate compassion. My grandfather looked up at my mother. "Do you have my lavendar bag?"

it's here.

I'm sitting at the dining table in my underwear eating a breakfast of orange juice, chocolate truffles, and toast with stale cheddar cheese. I have a callous on my big toe from my Masala Bhangra class and chipping red fingernails, which I had hastily completed during work yesterday, after stuffing three slices of birthday cake in my mouth. If I were living in Williamsburg, the current state of my hair would be exalted, but as I am in New Jersey listening to the orchestration of rush hour emotions, rattling New Jersey transit buses, and stalled emergency vehicles, my hair simply reflects my level of hygiene.

Oh, and I'm 23.

(Seriously.)

It has happened.

(My hip hurts.)

It will stay.

(I am going to an early bird special tonight, if you'd like to join?)

And I'm still alive, still here, and still inebriated with a pure, giddy happiness from last night. I've fallen into a delirium, and instead of seeing this as the end, I realize it's just the beginning of an infinity that is as exciting as it is daunting. There are no more aspirations contingent upon age, no more waiting, no more tapping my fingers as my life seems pending, but it all just is. It is now. It is here. We have arrived. It is 23 and beyond.

I rang in 23 last night at my favorite restaurant in my favorite section of the city with one of my favorite people. I woke up this morning to Veteran's Day greetings from people I care most about, and sang "Happy Birthday" to my sister to irritate her. My parents patiently listened to me rant about couscous like a coke addict. I feel loved just like any other grandma. I'm so happy that I'm afraid, and so instead of seizing the day (or even sleeping in like a normal, slightly hungover, 20-something who has the day off) I am frozen in my chair, unsure of how to claim my title.

Maybe it's just a matter of calling AARP.

my brush with fame

My only goal in life is to be famous. I don't care if I'm rich, fabulous, or powerful; I just want fame. I would even settle for notoriety. Last Sunday, I almost got some.

I was walking to Gabriela's, a Mexican restaurant on the Upper West Side, to meet my parents for my father's 51st birthday celebration. I was going to be early, so made a few stops at gourmet bakeries to have a feast in Central Park after the dinner. After I left Kyotofu, I waited at a stop light to cross the street to get into the subway. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face an old man with a red splotch on his peeling face, yellowing large teeth, and a warm grin. He tipped his fedora as he said, "Excuse me, are you British?"

I was wearing my army jacket with flagrant, liberal pins and a yellow dress. Nothing really screamed British, and I wasn't talking to myself so he couldn't have based his assumption on an accent (albeit nonexistent). I started blankly at him. After the light turned green, and then back again to red, I shook my head.

"Oh, so sorry, it's just that you look just like a friend of mine. I'm from Britain, you know."

(I knew.)

"I mean, what nationality are you?"

"Indian," I replied, as I watched another light turn green.

"Ah, so is my friend!" I was about to explain that all Indians who look like me who happen to be his friends are obviously his friends and not a specific sect of the British population, but since I lost my early edge and was now running late, I resorted to "okay."

He then continued to ask me questions about my life, my work, my place of residence. He asked me about the city, my favorite neighborhood, my favorite type of mac & cheese. After what finally seemed to have been a full fledged violation of the Geneva Conventions (thinking about mac & cheese possibilities is undoubtedly a form of torture), he paused to take breath. I started to inch away.

"Well, dear, I apologize. I don't have a business card on me!"

(I hadn't asked.)

"Hm, what can I use?" He continued to search through his pockets. "I'm on my way to the gym, I didn't think to take one. I would love to get coffee, though, and talk some more. Do you have a business card or a pen?"

"Um, no."

(I did.)

"Oh, but," he seemed absolutely aggravated, "I would really just love to talk. I'm an actor, you know."

I looked up, and finally met his eyes.

"I'm on Law and Order. That's how I got this red mark on my face; the gun got caught on my cheek." He was a Russian spy on the show; a side character, but nevertheless, viewed by millions of people across the country.

"Actually, I," and I took out my phone, allowing the implication to suffice for the incomplete sentence.

He looked thrilled. He quickly gave me his number. "My name is Gary Hope. I promise you, I'm not a serial killer.

(How convincing.)

You can check out my demo on youtube."

I smiled.

"You're beautiful. Just beautiful. Really looking forward to coffee."

I haven't called yet, but I am saving the number in case the rest of my life falls through. If all else fails, I'll always have Hope.

My Father, the most sincere man in the world.

I always have too many thoughts in my head. The reason I speak so quickly and so frenetically is because all my swimming thoughts comverge into a single, undiscernable amalgamation of anxieties, allusions, aspirations. My mother blames it on coffee. I blame it on Al Qaeda. Either way, something's gotta give.

So, to relieve myself of the burden of my own stream of consciousness, I send my mother senseless text messages and emails throughout the day, sometimes even when I am right next to her. She usually responds with a one word affirmation or dismissal, or sometimes a nondescript "wow," open to interpretation. It's a functional process, one that allows me to clear my head of the "ugh, why did I eat that cookie" and "I think my new favorite color is cerulean" thoughts. And she gets to hear from me several times a day [hour]--lucky woman, she is.

Anyways, last week, my mother was completely immersed in a certification for something technical-and-beyond-me, something my generation is supposed to understand but Rucha-still-uses-a-non-smart-phone-and-doesn't-care so I won't dwell on the details of her week. Essentially, she pulled consecutive all nighters and was in classes all week with the rest of her department. Everyone was to pass this test on Friday. I didn't want to distract my mother with my tempting gossip ("Ma, Bertha is wearing shorts to work"), so I diverted my attentions to other avenues of self-expression.

I emailed my father.

"Daddy, I have chole [chickpeas] burps. Also, I'm tired. Also, miss youuuuu. Ok bye."

My father, unlike my mother's habitual way of responding to what has become a trite monologue, responded in kind:

Re: chhole burps, Twist your stomach. Stand straight and swivel your trunk slowly left and right, with feet firmly planted on the ground. Next, rotate your stomach. Stand or sit, and place arms akimbo on hips. Push out your stomach, then using your ab muscles, with a slight assist from your hands, rotate your stomach in a circular motion on a horizontal plane (left, pull-in, right, push-out...). Chhole burps will be gone in 1-2 minutes.
The second one can be done seated, so you can avoid startled looks from colleagues. The first one is optional.
Best to do this abt 15 min after a heavy meal. 



My mother passed her test on Friday. And I got rid of my chole burps.

"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 4)

Days 4, 5 (Saturday, Sunday): We dreaded the final hours. There were unused gym shorts to be repacked, last helpings of beans and rice to be savored, overpriced souvenirs to be conned into purchasing. I still had not told Nico my true feelings. With so much unfinished business, Manu and I vowed to rage through our last night in paradise.

raging (okay, fine, just kidding. sort of.)

We had our last supper at the Mexican restaurant in the resort. We had a delicious thick tortilla soup, salad (fortunately, the salad was at a bar, so we had a taste of our familiar endless buffet), and an assortment of desserts after the enchiladas/burritos/more beans and rice. Manu became excited over the bread basket, and I was excited about the chips with different salsas. The restaurant staff grew frustrated by our lack of gustatory sense, and the novelty of our existence (i.e., Manu's proficiency in Spanish) soon wore off.

The raging continued onto the beach, through our own makeshift photo shoot. It's always been a dream of mine to be famous (no, not rich, and no, not successful, just famous). We thought we'd play famous on the dark beach.

It didn't last that long.

There was a marketplace on the opposite end of the resort. People took trolleys, but we thought it would be a nice enough night to walk. By the time we got to the marketplace, we were sweating and had each incurred about 6-8 mosquito bites. We walked through the gates like gallant victors, having triumphed over the Caribbean like true heroes.

And that's when I saw him. Nico was wearing a pale blue shirt and khaki shorts, a nice change from his usual maroon uniform. He was browsing the beaded chokers and necklaces. I thought he might be getting something for his girlfriend, which simultaneously devastated and intrigued me. I had just browsed the jewelry, but walked back over as if I had just discovered the beads.

Manu grunted loudly in exasperation as she saw me inch closer and closer to him, flipping my hair and tilting my head even more dramatically. She walked over to me and whispered, "Ruch, he's with a guy."

I looked back over, and suddenly realized a man standing two inches away from him. I had not noticed him before. Manu continued, "Sorry, Ruch, but I think they're even matching."

They were both wearing hues of blue with light pants, and there seemed to be an all too familiar sense of comfort  between them. It was worse than sexual tension; it was sexual ease, the period of calm following giddy, initial excitement and tension. The sight was disabling. I could actually feel my already weak knees go even weaker.

Spell was broken. Time to return to America.

Before heading to bed, we made one pit stop at the bar, but since my capacity and willingness to rage had been corroded by the reality of Nico's inclinations and of my own lethargy, exacerbated by a broken heart/spirit/youth and the Mayan massage, we neglected sangria and margaritas and just munched on roasted almonds while we (Manu) carried on a conversation with the bar tenders and waiters. After a half hour, I turned to her, yawning, hopeless, lips covered in salt. "Dude, wanna go up and pack? I might be able to catch the beginning of Sword in the Stone, again."



Waving adios



The morning was painful. There were lots of forms to sign, lots of thoughts to process, and above all, I was afraid to miss the opportunity to get free breakfast. I ultimately used my older sister authority to force Manu to put croissants and Nutella packets in my purse while I checked out. There was no napkin or paper plates, so we had naked, flaky breakfast pastries piled next to our passports and sunglasses and mini jar of Vaseline.

I was too tired to cry, but too sad to sleep. We were at the airport, back in our faded yoga pants and scrub shirts and glasses. We dreaded leaving Tulum, leaving unrequited loves and unrelenting waves and unsuspecting plates of rice, but knew it was time to return to the rat race, back onto our hamster wheels, back to the Sisyphean realities undermining our American delusions of ambition and success and "the future."

My sister interrupted my thoughts. "Rucha, I'm really craving a burrito. As soon as we go back, I'm going to Chipotle."

"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 3)

Day 2, 3, 4 (Thursday, Friday, Saturday): The next three days converted into a singular, timeless period of mindless indulgence. We consumed the sun, the salt in the waters, the carbs at the buffet. We estimated the time based on the location of the sun (i.e., "it's too sunny for a walk" or "it's not sunny enough to read") and days based on the progression of our sunburn. We ate when we were hungry (and when we were not) and slept when we were sleepy (and after watching the Spanish version of "The Sword in the Stone" which was running on a loop.)

The first two days, we trekked about three hours (well, 15 minutes) in raw, unrelenting heat, to the central pool and beach entrance. By the time we would reach our destination, eyeliner would have smeared and run down our cheeks, cover ups would have been recycled as scarves to protect our scalps, and our heads would hang so low we could see the iguanas behind us. Any sensuality reserved for Nico was further undermined by occasional asthmatic episodes.

On the last day, we discovered a beach entrance, poolside bar, and snack corner about two feet east of our hotel.

Still, the arduous hikes to the central pool area were well worth the trouble. The pool had an erratic DJ who usually played Cher or Wham! but at times would play Top 40 music. The pool would inadvertently turn into a club, people dancing (bouncing in the water) with drinks and beach balls, sun tan lotion leaching into the chlorinated water. Manu thought she would start a pool club (I initially thought she meant at the YMCA), where people would be dancing not on floor, but in a pool. We danced while we swam, floated as we sipped, and ate while we basked in the sun. The idea of a pool club was soon dismissed upon our return home, as the thought of presenting the proposal to the Department of Health might be a headache. My sister has continued to blast her iPod while she showers. That's party enough.

The nerve fibers in my brain had been so weathered by sleepless nights, complex casework, and a generous indulgence in caffeine, that all I could do once in the pool, or once on the beach, was to find a noodle or a tube and float face down in the cool, welcoming waters. Once, I was floating on my back with a mojito, and leaned over to grab a pink noodle from the side. I bobbed up and down with ease, hungrily consuming the buoyancy which I had not felt in months. I had no thoughts, no wants. My butt cooled in the waters as I chewed on the mint dregs in my glass. As I closed my eyes, I heard someone shout, "Excuse me! Excuse me, lady!" I turned irritatingly at the source of disturbance (I also hate being called "lady.") A little girl in a blue bikini with ruffles and a pudgy middle was calling out to me. "That's my noodle!"

After about 12 long seconds of deliberation (perhaps she had been lying?), I obliged.

While I sulked in the pool (standing), my sister was warding off unprompted attention. Wherever she turned, someone was introducing himself to her, or someone was offering her clean towels. When I was not stealing floaties from little children, I would watch her with pride. The first time we ordered refreshments from the little shaded cabana by the pool, the waiter found himself smitten. "Hola, I am Miguel." She looked up from the menu, smiled obligingly, and said (in beautiful Spanish), "Hola, I am Manu. And this is my sister, Rucha." His tan face flushed. He asked the origins of the name Manu, the origins of our journeys, and after she responded to all of his queries, he asked again who I was. "Rucha," she replied. He looked puzzled. "Ucha? Ducha?" She looked exasperated, and the hunger began to creep into her voice. "Rucha."

"Vucha! Manu! Welcome to Mexico."

One of the events to which we were invited was a water aerobics class. Vucha and Manu abstained, but watched the workouts from one of the other pools. They announcer called our names several times, after having forced us (calling me "excuse me lady" is just short of violating the Geneva Conventions) into signing up. We decided exercise, no matter how flamboyant (Miguel et al. wore speedos whilst doing jumping jacks) or absurd, was a matter for America, not for our authentic Mexican adventure. So, instead we opted to watch the exercise routine while eating French fries.

The entire trip we debated whether we should take an excursion (we had narrowed down the choices to riding RVs through underground caverns or swimming in cenotes) or be frivolous and spend an entire day's wages at a spa. We felt morally compelled to swim in cenotes, but our hearts (and bodies aching from lethargy) leaned towards spa. I always strive for logic and clarity over the enigma of the heart, albeit unsuccessfully, so my sister reminded me of my knee problem. Morality/frugality/need to spend a fortune on something that can be photographed: 1. Heart/aching body/desire to indulge: 2. It was settled democratically.

There are some decisions in my life that I have regretted. I have loved the wrong people, I have said the wrong things, I have worn the wrong shirt. As soon as my sister and I walked into the candle lit massage parlor, which had an overwhelming fragrance of cocoa and love (love smells a bit like Juniper Breeze), we knew we had made the best decision of our lives. The vicissitudes of American life had nestled into the crevices and creases of my body, enveloping my existence in a perpetual state of frenzied accomplishment. The weight of my goals, my deadlines, my failures and successes, was crushing my ribcage. I had not been able to breathe for three months.

For three or four weeks after the treatment, I felt a sense of buoyancy, the same refreshing lightness I felt when I was tipsy in the pool with another kid's floatie. My lungs had been freed, the crushing weight of my own thoughts had disappeared with the cocoa butter and mysterious Mayan remedies.

My sister had the same experience. After the massage, we met again, and stared at each other in complete silence. Neither of us had been completely devoid of sound in months, years. The muscles around my mouth were too relaxed to smile.

We hesitantly left the massage parlor and went to nap in our hotel room, where a towel rhinoceros sat waiting on our beds.

"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 2)

Day 1 (Wednesday) continued: As I slept soundly on the way from the airport to our resort, my sister chatted away with the driver. I woke up to a discussion on the Empire State Building, feigned interest for 12 seconds, and went back to sleep. Finally, after I had almost exhausted my reserves of dreams (I had gone through purple shark attacks, tornadoes, old boyfriends turned into lepers), we reached the resort. I was too afraid to be excited, for fear of another line or delay. Someone helped us down from the shuttle and took our bags, and we proceeded to a large, open lobby, peppered with tables laden with fruit and waiters bearing sparkling wine.

And my initial instincts were correct--there was a small line to check in, as a large British family of about 16 had spread themselves out by the counter, utilizing all of the clerks at the desk. I ran up to one of the waiters to grab some hors d'oeuvres, found that they all had fish in them, and then skulked back to the line.

I was almost at the tipping point (no, seriously, I was about to keel over from hunger) when it was finally our turn to check in. Silently cursing the British, (I never participated in the royal wedding euphoria) Manu and I moved up to the counter and slammed our sweaty, shaking hands down on the cool marble.

We filled out some forms and signed by arbitrary x's. The clerk asked us if we would like a welcome drink, and then, taking note of our haggard, frail appearances, snapped his fingers and asked the man to his left to quickly bring us drinks.

And that is when I met the love of my life.

Nicolas was sandy-haired, tan, and had eager, kind eyes. He brought out two flutes that seemed to contain liquid rubies, and smiled compassionately as we glugged them down like senile men in an Irish pub. He showed us the map of the resort, where we could go for snacks at 2 in the morning, where we could go for tourist-targeted markets that lured with shiny objects (I speak from experience). Enamored of his soft eyes, I asked him where he was from, and he told us about his education in Spain and his internships abroad and the further I fell into a trance, the less I listened to his own history.



I called him, "Nico."



I felt a pang in my stomach. I initially thought it was love, but then remembered how hungry I was. Nico could wait. My sister and I rushed back to the hotel, excited to finally change out of our sweats and get dinner. The hotel room was immaculate, the mini bar was free, and we had a balcony overlooking the ocean. To assert her presence as an artist, our maid had created an elephant out of the towel--stuck on googly eyes. 

Once the shock of towel animals wore off, we went to dinner. The amount of fruit had no parallel (except, perhaps, the fruit bowl in our home), the desserts were bountiless, and there were 12 types of salsa for our chips.



This past weekend, Hurricane Irene ravaged the northeastern coast of the United States. Two weeks ago, Manu and I ravaged the buffet at Gran Bahia Principe, the diluvial effects of our hunger destroying any semblance of civility or politesse.







8:02 pm



8:08 pm

My sister and I fell into a food coma that first night. My Facebook status the next morning was something to the effect of: "passed out first night in Cancun! WOO HOO PARTY!! lol. tee hee."

God forgives white lies.

"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 1)

There are several types of vacation. There's spring break, which equally exhausts as it relaxes, as bebidas (sounds classier in Spanish) and boys (or girls, depending upon your perspective) seem finite, available only to those in the most dire of situations (enter, Fordham College at Lincoln Center); there's the family vacation, which comforts and stabilizes (Monopoly is more centering than yogilates), as everyone remembers how much they love the idea of a traveling family band (before coming home and conveniently forgetting these aspirations); and then, there's the sisters vacation, which is a delicate and comfortable balance of both.

My sister and I are still quite brown (we have suffered a caste downgrade) from a recent four day trip to Tulum, Mexico. The entire month of July seemed to have passed by without pause; between 12-hour work days and failed attempts to give up coffee, the heart of summer seemed to have slipped from my fingers. And so, to celebrate my sister's academic success and the end of one significant stage in her childhood, and, on the flipside, to mourn a senescence increasingly consuming me, we took off, conveniently ignoring raging pieces in the Times about drug wars and gang violence.

Day 1/2 (Tuesday): I had slept very little on Tuesday night, the night before our departure. I came home from work very late, started packing, stopped packing to peruse Facebook, started packing, stopped packing again to Skype with a friend (who I see frequently; the necessity of a 1 AM video chat 8 hours before my flight is questionable). I then spent about an hour transferring the contents of our sunblock into an empty 3-oz lotion bottle in order to avoid checking in bags.

1:27 AM
Last minute projects tend to fare well

Day 1 (Wednesday): By the time my sister and I started posting on each other's walls from inside our adjacent bedrooms, we decided it was time to give up packing and go to bed. Around 6 the next morning, we threw everything, including the new bottle of sunblock, into an already overstretched suitcase, prayed that it would not burst, and reassured our father that we slept about 8 or 9 hours and were 100% prepared for our Mexican adventure. I made some corny joke about warlords and my mother almost had a coronary, but while she was swooning, we slipped out and were happily en route to Newark Airport.




the new face of Jihad

 

It was the one morning that Route 17 had no traffic, so we reached the airport in less time than it took to eat the omelets our mother had made (for good luck). There was no line at security, and the only usual delay we experienced was Manu's getting stopped and checked in a separate, roped off section of the airport. We had each gone through the full body scan, but the officers must have seen something other than gum wrappers and pen caps in my sister's pockets. Convinced that she was in cahoots with Osama bin Laden et al, the guards enforced special protocol to ensure my sister was not a danger. She was just short of being interrogated. My cackling on the side was of little assurance, and while I was allowed to pass by, Manu had to wait for several minutes. Once the TSA confirmed my sister's connection to Al Qaeda as nonexistent (well, almost), she was allowed to join me in our two hour wait at the gate, sitting among all the other ever so prepared early birds. My sister complained about being violated as I listened to "Somebody to Love" on repeat.



The flight was relatively harmless. I was initially stressed about my drink choice, as flying is the only time I allow myself to go "buck wild" and have soda or canned juice. I finally settled on apple juice, but then also finished my sister's Ginger Ale (the grass is always greener).

We stopped over in Charlotte, NC. I paid no heed to my sister's words of caution and turned on my Blackberry, and immediately saw a flurry of emails from work, the very emails that had driven the decision to emigrate (albeit temporarily). I continued to make phone calls until I was forced to turn off my phone, after which I was able to cherish an untapped, unique disconnection from the world.

After what seemed an eternity, a labyrinth of terrorist accusations, Bieber fever, and Mott's canned juice, we finally reached Mexico. The air in the airport was hot and heavy, and there was an odd smell of steel. Just as I felt in the Dominican Republic, I felt as if I were in India. Conflicting emotions of estrangement and home strangled our sensibilities, and we had to convince ourselves we had not just booked an all-inclusive resort in our grandmother's home.



  

We turned a corner to find a 10 foot bodacious model bearing Coronas on a poster welcoming us to the country. My sister turned to me. "Bienvenidos." I smiled. We were here. Our vacation had begun. In a few minutes, I would be sunbathing on the beach, falling asleep to the sound of the waves and the potency of the mojitos.



immigration reform, please, so I can get to the beach ASAP



My sister poked me. "Is that line for us?"

There were about 1000 people in front of us. The sound of the waves seemed to have been nothing but earwax rubbing against the cilia in my ears. We were on line at immigration for over an hour, behind a couple in their 50s who seemed to be on their honeymoon (seriously, PDA is so last season), and in front of a 5 year old Chinese boy who kept ramming his suitcase into my ankles.



before MargaritaVille

By the time we finally stepped on Mexican soil (concrete), it was almost 5. We had been awake and anxious for more than 12 hours, running on 4-hour sleep and my mother's delicious omelets. We found the driver of our shuttle, and after he carried on a conversation with my sister in Spanish, during which he frequently referred to me as the 14-year old, he finally divulged the estimated time to our hotel--one hour. Without a word, I turned around and walked back to MargaritaVille, the bar immediately outside the airport doors, and bought a small, overpriced margarita. "Don't judge me," I told my sister. "Sometimes, you just need it."

I slept soundly on the way to our hotel.

after MargaritaVille

the invention of shoes (a mother desai fairytale)

Once upon a time, in a distant land enveloped in glistening waters teeming with schools of bright yellow and purple fish, there lived a King who loved his feet. He washed his feet everyday in rose water, scrubbing them with pumice stones, and oiling them with almond oil. In this distant land, with shimmering blue rivers and rainbows streaking the evening skies and mango trees peppering the fields of Love and Hope, there was one slight problem--dirt roads. Whenever the King wanted to visit the fish or nap under the shade of a mango tree or skip stones in the river, his feet would get dirty.

One day, after the King got dirt in his recently oiled right big toe, he decided to take action. He called upon his wisest and oldest advisors to formulate recommendations for this issue. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

After one sunrise and one sunset, the committee came up with a solution. They washed the roads with water from the streams. Hundreds of workers filled buckets of water, some of them with frightened fish, and threw them on the ground. The King looked out his window and was pleased. "I will now walk to my favorite mango tree for a nap." The King stepped outside, and his feet suck into three inches of mud. The water had mixed with the dirt, and the damage was worse than that of the dry soil on his feet. The King roared. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

After two sunrises and two sunsets, the committee came up with a solution. They covered the roads with Persian rugs. They spent 4% of the King's treasury on importing textiles from the Middle East and the Orient. By lunch time, the entire land was covered in plush violet, red, and cornflower blue rugs. The King looked out of his window and was pleased. "I will now feed my dear fishes." The King stepped outside, and once again his feet sunk into the rugs, which had mixed poorly with the viscous mud, and did not provide any protection. The King bellowed. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

One young man, who was born in the village, had left to explore the world after his hands and feet stopped growing. He travelled to the deepest cavities of the Earth, where he could feel the heat reverberating through his bones; he voyaged to the highest points on the Earth, where he could feel the stars grazing his head. He came back home to find his sleep deprived family and friends and goats trudging through muddy rugs.

He studied the committee's vain efforts and offered his assistance, his knowledge of the policies of other lands. The King's wisest and oldest advisors laughed and waved him away, and refocused attention on their new idea to sweep up the roads with a broom made of unicorn hair. The young man threw a stone at the King's window. The King looked out and was not pleased. "I will walk out and punish the fool who dares disturb my peace."

The young man was patiently waiting at the castle gates. The King's face looked like a large radish or a ripe tomato or a juicy pomegranate. "Who dares to disrespect the King?" The King shouted, even though the young man was two inches away from his face.

The young man smiled. "I have a solution to your problem." The King's face softened, and his face creased with confusion and anticipation. "Who are you? What do you know?"

The young man pointed to his feet. The King followed his finger to see two strange contraptions covering the young man's feet. They were brown, covered in mud, with traces of purple Persian feathers stuck to the bottom. "Try them," the young man urged, as he took them off, and placed them near the King's feet. The King's curiosity had completely taken over his initial shock, and he delicately, nervously placed his beautiful, smooth feet into the containers. "Walk," the young man instructed. The King walked to the stream and watched his fishes play hide and seek; he then walked to his favorite mango tree and picked three of the ripest and largest fruits, the ones that exploded in juice upon touch. The King strolled back to the young man. He took the items off his feet, which immediately emitted a fragrance of rose and almonds. They were smooth, white, and shimmering in the sun, just as they were before his walk.

Tears streamed down the King's face, into his long white beard, and he put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. You have freed us all from the binds of dirt, from the oppression of uncleanliness. Everyone in the land will be given this protective equipment. I appoint you as my most trusted advisor." The young man bowed his head, and graciously accepted. That night, the kingdom slept, everyone wearing protective gear on their oiled feet.

From that day forward, the young man and the King traversed the kingdom together, and everyday visited the fields of Love and Hope, or the rivers reflecting the rainbows in the skies, or the mountains from where they could see all the mango trees on the land.

And they kept their feet clean.