Almost 25, broke, in love, and utterly pantsless.

I am usually awash with existential angst as my birthday approaches. As my friend, Amanda, celebrates another year of her life, Halloween comes and goes, and campaign pamphlets come out in full force, I begin to tremble at the thought of the impending moment in which an essential part of my identity changes, by 1. I question my life choices, reconsider my priorities, and kick myself for not yet having written a book (or gone to the moon).

This year, however, I have been consumed with the laws of torts and the procedures of civil law and the complimentary beverages at weekly Bar Review; I have not been able to question the foundations of my entire life. Without realizing it, I'm suddenly about a week out, and so, while eating Thai leftovers for breakfast, texting my mom intermittently, I decided to write this instead of researching for my paper.

Last night, as Vin and I tried a new Thai restaurant in the East Village, I thought about how kind to me was this year. While I cried a lot, threw tantrums, was in pain, I also laughed a lot, saw the fruits of a laborious 2012, and fell in love. My 25th year may have begun with exhaustion and a confused soliloquy, and my 26th year may easily begin with the same fatigue, the same uncertain song; but, for once, I'm not cringing at the thought of losing one more year of my life. Rather, I close my eyes and smile to myself, thinking only about the many simple moments and special people who made this one of the best years of my life. And as I was reflecting silently on my year at Ngam, Vin smiled at me, dimples and all.

Giddy, I got up to use the restroom, my mind and heart still in the clouds, thinking about sangria and concerts and coconut chutney. Vin was walking ahead of me.

And that's when I realized my skirt had fallen down. The blissful year filled with new love and falafel carts and sangria dates led to an explosion of my skirt, and my zipper caved under the pressure, and permitted my clothing to, just, fall.

I had walked through the entire restaurant before realizing what had happened. The creepy smile I had on my face quickly became a desperate, awkward slant, my thoughts of love soon dispelled and replaced by an urgency. I pushed Vin. "Move! Hurry up!"

And as I pushed him out of my way and ran towards the bathroom, I turned, and met the gaze of several bewildered customers, all of whom had paid for dinner without realizing there was also a show.

We paid soon after that and walked out. I guess nothing will really change when I turn 25, or 26 or 27 or 58. Sometimes, you have good days, and sometimes, you're rendered pantsless.

As we left the restaurant, Vin turned to me and said, "Oh god, my fly was open as we walked out."

And then there are the days it doesn't matter either way, as long as you have someone willing to publicly shame himself, too.

May 10, and I accidentally walked into a rave

sitting, waiting, watching

Friday, the day after I crossed off on my bucket list "raging on a Thursday night in Manhattan," I was barely functioning. I was giddy from the night before, my soul was well-fed, but I was fatigued, my bones were hardly supporting the full weight of my idle, sandwich-ridden body.

But, against my own will, I was to go out that night. Two months ago, one of my friends sent me a link to some event called "Dark Disco." I was too busy at work to read the description, but saw the words "dim sum," "basement party," and "drink" and I immediately bought a ticket. This Friday, my frustratingly competent Outlook calendar reminded me I had to attend. I napped for an hour after work, accidentally sprayed perfume into my mouth, and headed downtown to meet my friend at the Williamsburg Bridge.

We walked to Rivington Street, in desperate need of some sort of aid to handle the situation into which we had accidentally gotten ourselves. We settled on Inoteca, which was quiet enough to ease us back into yet another sleepless night.

whiners & wine

After ranting about Cleveland, boys, diets, the New York Times over a bottle of wine whose name we could not pronounce, we walked south to 88 Palace, which was hosting our alleged dim sum rave. Before we reached the venue, we were caught in torrential rains, and so by the time we arrived, we were soaked, muddied, and whatever assistance the wine had provided in transporting us to our destination had worn off.

Hundreds of people in all types of attire (the dress code was ambiguous), were huddled together outside, some smoking, some splashing in puddles. We walked through what seemed to be a Chinese airport or mall--cold, clinical, and everything written in incomprehensible calligraphy. I turned to face my friend, and she seemed just as bewildered. We were then ushered upstairs (apparently, in Chinatown the basements are on the top floor), where hundreds of people had been herded into a significantly smaller space to pick up their tickets. We received neon fingerprints on our wrists and were then shuffled into a much larger room, which was infused with violet, magenta, black lights, the strong aroma of marijuana, and heavy, constant beats from the performers.

"I think this is a rave," I told my friend, and then we immediately walked to the bar.

We danced for hours, the feelings of fatigue and banality were quickly subsumed by exhilaration and freedom. We met the tallest man in the world, who approached us asking the location of the alleged dim sum, and then met one of Dark Disco's weekly performers, who told us that we should go to this every week, that basement/top floor raves in Chinatown were apparently commonplace.

In a couple of hours, two cops walked in. They shined flashlights across the room that only enhanced the sinister lighting effects, and their foreboding, rigid presence only amplified the sense of liberation of the souls floating in the room. The music stopped, and several people started leaving, but there had been no announcement, no restoration of normal lighting, and the room continued to reek of drugs. We asked around if the party had been shut down, but no one knew, and we had just ordered drinks, so I refused to leave till I drank my money's worth. After about thirty minutes, the music started again, and everyone who stayed benefited from a less crowded dance floor.

We stopped dancing only when we got hungry (again), and so we bid farewell to our newest friends, and walked through a damp, dark Chinatown. We stopped at 169 Bar, which appeared in front of us like an oasis. It was a funky, colorful, vibrant room in the middle of a seeming dormant block of mundane oblivion. We walked in, sat at the bar, and ordered macaroni and cheese and veggie dumplings. The bartender soon brought us macaroni and cheese covered in oil, tasteless cheese, and whole, raw vegetables. The dumplings were delicious, but for whatever reason the bartender only gave us ten seconds with the soy sauce, and then took the bottle away.

We chatted about the same topics as those that had surfaced over the expensive wine several hours earlier, though this time, we dug deeper into the issues, into our souls, and paused every two seconds only to wipe veggie dumpling filling from our faces.

Sounds of early morning birds greeted us when we walked out of the bar. The temporary stillness of the city, found only in the limbo between the end of a New Yorker's night and the start of a New Yorker's morning, not when the city is sleeping, but, rather, when the city is pausing to breathe, was shattered only by the inconceivable numbers of rats scurrying across the street. My friend and I stopped at the entrance to the Williamsburg Bridge, where she veered east, and I turned west, and we both headed home.

End of Day 10.

May 9, and I discover the greatest music on the island

New York City transforms time. Sunrises mark the end, while dusk sets off commencement. Summers are languid, coffee breaks are infinite, happy hours last through the night. And everyone goes out on Thursday nights.

In the last six years of my being part of this beautiful world, I was not one for raging on the weekdays. In fact, until this week, I never used the word "raging." I had a routine--flexible, yes, but still a routine. I was healthy, I was alive, I was scheduled. But, on Fridays, on Saturdays, I would let loose, I would imbibe, I would play, I would explode.

With my imminent departure, I knew it was necessary to introduce new words into my vocabulary, and so on Monday, I endeavored to plan a serious, legitimate "ragefest" on Thursday. All I wanted to do was dance (and I needed an excuse to wear a spontaneous dress purchase that I already regretted). Manhattan, while I consider it one of the greatest loves of my life (followed closely by 24 and my mother's spinach), is evasive, pretentious, expensive. My one wish to go dancing caused a flurry of emails, texts, calls from friends about promoters, about friends of friends, about "people" to know. Every hour for three days, there was a new plan, a new venue, a new friend's cousin who owned a bar. And until the hour before I met up with everyone on Thursday, we still had no idea where we were going.

After discussing Lavo, Greenhouse, Grace Hotel, Marquee, Finale, Santos Party House, EVR, and Ten June, my friend and I met up with her people (the ones who knew people), at the Box, a surreal, almost magical place housing circus performers, beautiful, agile women hanging from ceilings, and orgies on stage. Despite the conspicuous motif of sex, it was less vulgar, less mediocre, less trite than other Manhattan nightclubs. I was mesmerized by the ballerina in the air, and did not notice that there were drinks awaiting my friend and me at the bar. I blinked, poked myself, and began my Thursday night.

A group of about seven people, mostly male, were to meet us there. Though the Box seemed to be more authentic than other venues, it was still essentially a New York City club, and so I feared that the six males in the group might be turned down, my credibility would be lost, I would have to stop watching the orgy on stage and start Yelping.

And I was right. My friends could not get in, my credibility was lost, and we all trudged over to Fat Baby.

The most frustrating and rewarding aspect of New York City is that a good night is necessarily serendipitous.  The more we seek, the more we plan, the more we are disappointed; and yet, in our quests and explorations, we unearth the city's gems, those places for which New Yorkers are enchanted by their city, by their home.

Fat Baby was a little empty, but the music was loud and the drinks were strong, and there were enough of us to populate the dance space. My friend, one of the few who truly understands the pain of my departure, and my subsequent need for a bucket list, wanted for me to continue exploring that night. And, so, though it was already 2:30 in the morning, six hours before I had to be at work, we continued the party at Arlene's Grocery, the bodega-turned-into-music-hall. Everyone but the aforementioned friend decided to go to Mamoun's, effectively ending their nights, ending the raging.

And then there were two. My friend and I walked into Arlene's, and it seemed like a large, dingy living room, two men drinking beers in the far back corner. I looked quizzically at my comrade, and he grabbed my hand, and led me to the stairs. "Live music. It's downstairs. That's why I wanted to take you. I promise, it's incredible."

We walked down a narrow, graffiti splattered flight of stairs, and pushed through an inconspicuous, blue-grey door. And I was bewitched.

He was right. The music was powerful, it surged through cracked walls and the clamoring pipes and the stained counters and enslaved us with a spellbinding, mystical engagement. It was jazz and rap and blues all at the same time, genres converging, flavors emerging. After an hour, we thought we should leave, thought we should acknowledge our Friday obligations, but every time the band started playing a new set, we smiled knowingly at each other, closed our eyes again, and raised our hands to celebrate the beat.

Finally, after I used a bathroom with no toilet paper (and yet another serendipitous discovery), we decided to conduct closing ceremonies, and bought $50 worth of wraps from Wolfnights, before heading home.

I woke up three hours later, wearing the same eyeliner and same idiotic, giddy smile. The week of discussing logistics and promoters and short skirts was rendered obsolete by an accidentally glorious night of sleepless, spontaneous delirium, with the best music and the best sandwiches and the best people.

And that is how you use the word "raging" in context.

End of Day 9.

May 8, silence after the storm

Today, I looked out at the view from our balcony for five minutes, then came back inside, wore a sweatshirt, and quietly thanked everyone I knew--my friends, my family, my foes--for bringing me to this point in my life.

I'm going to sleep tonight, and dream dreams of my fortunate reality.

End of Day 8

May 7, and I've discovered the single best bathroom in all of Manhattan, and possibly the universe

Bathrooms are heavily underrated. Societies measure progress by a number of dynamic factors, like infant mortality, enfranchisement, literacy rate. However, economists and social anthropologists tend to neglect one vital aspect of development: bathrooms.

Bearing this in mind in computing economic growth, I discovered that Manhattan far exceeds its peers, and has excelled in providing for its citizens bathrooms of stellar quality.

And this is due in large part to Beauty and Essex, a testament to old Manhattan, the glamour and the glory.

Last night, an old friend and I met up to both catch up on each other's lives and bid farewell to one another. Beauty and Essex was on my bucket list, so we decided to consume each other's stories and cocktails there. I was a bit surprised when I first arrived at the restaurant. It was dingy from the outside, looked as though it would implode, and, worst, was surrounded by a block of mundane, grey emptiness. We walked into what seemed to be an overpriced, cash-only jewelry store, and though I was initially tempted to buy red sequined baby shoes, I walked towards someone who seemed to work there (either as a waitress or earring designer), and hesitantly told her I had reservations. She smiled, and motioned for us to walk through a door I had not seen earlier. We walked into a spacious, grand, softly lit room, adorned with intentionally gaudy chandeliers and old frames and dusty mirrors. It was, literally, bejeweled, and yet the excessive tackiness took on a class and finesse that was intriguing, inviting, not at all suffocating.

My friend and I sat down in between two couples, and behind a group of about ten girls. The intimacy of the restaurant caused in us a surge of estrogen that had forever been dormant, and after my friend's second "Barbie drink," as she dubbed it, we were both suddenly, uncontrollably ranting about birth control and career women and long term relationships and whether or not it was appropriate to have only sandwiches at our weddings (neither of us is getting married any time soon). "I don't know why we are yelling about Plan B," I hysterically sobbed to my friend, who, shook her head with equally strong emotion and said, "I think it's because this place is for girls."

As soon as we ordered, (rather, after we were conned into ordering more food than we planned), we were given quarter sized, complimentary snacks from the kitchen. A circular, small papadum type of spicy, crispy wheat, topped with pureed beet, which was then topped with a dollop of burrata and a mint leaf. I had not been hungry until that point, when I popped about .25 cm of gustatory foreplay into my mouth.

small, tantalizing, delicious

Suddenly, I was famished.

fruity

We ordered cocktails to maximize our dining experience. My first cocktail was a mojito made with, among several other surprisingly obscure but fresh ingredients, Dominican rum and a French raspberry soda. My friend ordered something that she aptly characterized as a garden (it's actually called the "emerald gimlet"), as it tasted like all of the earth's finest in my mouth. We were so impressed by the art and adoration with which alcoholic creations were fantasized, that we ordered two more. The blackberries in my next drink were smoked on the premises, and so smoked fruit thickened and enslaved my tequila. My friend's second drink was the aforementioned "Barbie drink," which tasted like a terrifying combination of middle school and Limited 2 and lip gloss.

Our food was staggered, so we were able to enjoy the flavors--both eclectic and traditional, much like the city--of each dish without the unfortunate mixing and forgetting and neglecting of the artistry of each dish. At the risk of sounding like a trite food reviewer, I'll say that the "classic" pan con tomate, which we had with creamy burrata with which I played with my tongue, made it seem as though bread, tomatoes, and cheese were the only three ingredients one would ever need for any meal, for any moment, ever and forever. The empanadas we ordered tasted eerily like samosas, and, coupled with the papadum type freebie earlier, I was not sure if "India" was actually another theme of the restaurant. The pieces of eggplant on my "pizzetta" (which is a sexy way of saying large personal pie), were baked till crispy  and encrusted with Parmesan and bread and all things delectable.

After consuming great quantities of Barbie drinks and Barbie foods, I naturally had to pee. I was waiting on a long line for the single bathroom at the end of the restaurant, when a waitress came up to me and said there was another bathroom by the entrance. I nodded insincerely, because my bladder was too full to walk, and she shrugged and said, "I mean, there's free champagne."

rosé, candles, toilets

I blanched, and then immediately texted my friend the news, who replied in capital letters and exclamations and sheer wonder. After we paid the bill, we walked down to the exalted bathroom, and walked into the a room that may have been larger than most NYC apartments, and that smelled of lavender and love and lilacs. It was warmly lit, with couches and coffee tables in a carpeted area of the room. Across from the seating, there was a champagne bar. A lovely, tall, Swedish looking woman was popping bottles of sparkling rosé, and, thinking that we could have been delusional, perhaps because of the aforementioned artistic cocktails, we reluctantly hovered around the bar. "Um, can we have a drink?" She eagerly obliged, and filled two delicate flutes of sparkly, bubbly, pink, complimentary, bathroom drink. We sat by the lounge area, still in the bathroom, and sipped and appreciated and savored, and when I had to pee again, I was grateful all over again for the convenient location and luxury of Beauty and Essex and of America and of Manhattan. We decided to have seconds, and took our drinks to the lobby, after passing the men's bathroom, which, in gorgeously heteronormative fashion, smelled like beer.

bars and bathrooms

Still shocked that our dreams really had come true, that there actually was a land of milk and honey,  where happiness and champagne and bladder relief saw no bounds, we parted ways in silence.

Manhattan may not be the greatest city in the world, it may not be the center of the universe, but it can, like few others, boast of wonderfully luxurious bathrooms. New Yorkers really like to pee.

End of Day 7.

May 6, and I meet Uncle Salman, one of the most eloquent men in history

I was horrifically ill Monday morning. My oozing, swollen, reddened eyes were open all night, in constant search for Kleenex or toilet paper or even the Economist order form paper, so I could blow my nose and maybe breathe a little. The breathing thing never happened. And I continued to look like a monster.

Still, I was compelled to venture out in the city like a floating plague. One month ago, I bought tickets through the Asian American Writers Workshop for a reading and discussion with Salman Rushdie, and so I was obliged to depart from the comfort and darkness of my sweat-drenched down comforter.

The first hour was a reception, where folks tensely mingled with each other, feigning interest in the artistic endeavors of their fellow writers while actually anxiously anticipating the arrival of Sir Rushdie. My eagerness to see him (coupled with my allergy medication) induced hallucinations, and at one point I yelped to my plus one and pointed to an older, balding, brown-tinted man at the door. "That's him! That's him! Stay cool. We're in Tribeca."

My guest gazed in the direction I was pointing, and looked back at me blankly. "That's not him. In fact, not even close. Stay cool." 

I had been too preoccupied with my red wine order to realize when the guest of honor did finally walk in. When I noticed him, I actually looked back three times, to make sure it was Salman in the flesh. I expected from one of the greatest, most transformative and powerful men in the world an ebb of light, or constant stream of harp music, or even a bit of knowing swagger. Rather, with a sense of ease and humility, almost to comparable to an anonymous passerby on the street, Sir Rushdie was leaning, almost slouching, against the wall, obliging guests with photographs and pausing every few minutes to drink his whiskey.

After staring for several minutes, we decided to walk up to him. In true Indian fashion, several people cut ahead of us, as though there was an imminent shortage of Rushdie (but, really, there is), and we waited for significantly longer than anticipated. When he finally looked in my direction, I smiled, wrung my wrists in nervousness, and told him, "Sir, you must hear this from everyone, but it's really, truly an  honor to meet you. You're the reason I wanted to become a writer." And then I continued to tell him I had one of his books with me at work, and he chuckled and said, "You didn't bring it? I could have signed it?"

To one of the greatest communicators of all time, I responded: "No, sir. I screwed up."

He waved away my filter-less mouth, and then I asked if he would mind standing with us for a photograph. We positioned ourselves so that he was in the middle of the two of us, but he decided it would be better if I were in the middle. So, really, I obliged them with a picture.

You're welcome, Uncle Salman.

I was pleasantly surprised to learn that other prolific writers were also present. (Apparently, this was prior knowledge, but I stopped reading after I read "Salman" and immediately purchased two tickets.) Readings by from Zadie Smith, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Téa Obreh illuminated the love and respect for Sir Rushdie, who listened to the power of his own words as if for the first time. He was then called on stage to engage with Amitava Kumar, a journalist and professor at Vassar College. He spoke about his first encounter with Garcia Marquez, the influences on his writing, the literary theories in which he does not ground his work, which, he acknowledged, came only from his heart. He said that the way to write well, to "make a book," is to write about something in life you deeply love or hate--two emotions I've always considered to be eerily similar, exerting the same amount of passion and energy, both just as deleterious to your sanity and soul. 

Salman Rushdie, accepting his "bribe," as he cleverly noted his award

He then commented on the difficulty of writers from the Third World to shatter the expectations to only write of the third world. This dilemma of writers who are compelled to represent the developing block, even if they are, like Sir Rushdie, well educated, well bred, and not characteristic of the perception of the less industrialized nations, is the dilemma of all children of immigrants, who are only accepted as spectacles, only assimilated if they are exoticized. Our process of deracination goes deeper than migration to the U.S. (or the U.K., etc). It's an endless, exhausting, emotionally overwhelming process of having no home, and being expected to feel as though our home countries, our mythical pasts, our parents who speak another language, our grandparents who must boil water for us to be able to stomach it, that that is all home. 

I left the event with a heavy sadness, almost a nostalgia for a man I never really knew. He spoke not just from his heart, but from mine. I wanted to share my feelings, my sense of intimacy, but did not know how. 

We walked to Galli for stellar pasta and unparalleled "mozz chips", and then got drinks at the Antique Garage, a small drinks joint with live music and antique mirrors and frames adorning the walls, because I thought that my emptiness could have been hunger, or sobriety, or ennui. We spent the entire night in transit, as I was silent, dissatisfied, trying to find something to provide comfort to the unsettling sensation in my gut, the feeling of untold and lost stories.

Cinco de Mayo

I woke up on Sunday with my eyes swollen shut, and yet still allowing liquid to ooze through and roll down  my dried, itching cheeks. I pried upon my eyes to look at my phone, play a game of scramble, and answer the barrage of texts confirming Cinco brunch plans. I accidentally overdosed on allergy medicine, took two scorching gulps of coffee, and ran out the door. A piece of my hair stuck to the dried ooze on my left cheek, and, winning the title of the world's most attractive person, I was ready to take on the day, one Bellini and Mexican-inspired falsehood at a time.

Of course, as with all New York City plans, ours viciously fell through. We put our names down at every brunch place within a twelve mile radius of our initial meeting place, to the point where the only place we could avoid an arbitrarily hiked prix fixe or a two hour wait was an American Italian cafe on Staten Island. We finally discovered an uncharacteristically empty bottomless brunch joint, Bell Book and Candle, whose hostess was completely unaware of the brunch deal fine print and unintentionally roped us into paying $15 more than we'd anticipated. Exhausted and in need of something with which to celebrate this arbitrary day in May, we accepted.

It was glorious. Several different groups of friends joined, and I was bestowed the beautiful gift of seeing everyone I loved in one panoramic swoop. We toasted to nothing, cheered to everything, and enjoyed surprisingly stellar breakfast burritos. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the rest of the west village, imbibing in a made up culture and congratulating ourselves on our open mindedness and internationalism.

cheers, loves

The day ended with my stealing a Mexican sombrero and assertively ensuring the presence of nachos at our last adventure. I woke up the next morning, eyes swollen shut but oozing, wheezing, cursing at mother nature for her need of pollen, and yet blissfully content.

Happy Cinco de Mayo, and Cinco de every month. 

End of Day 5.

May 4, that time the entire borough of Brooklyn goes missing

On Saturday, May 4th, Patrick and I accidentally embarked on a walking tour of the city. Eight hours after we had begun the journey downtown, we each found ourselves face down in our pillows, shoes on, lights on, eyes closed.

The New York Indian Film Festival was ending Saturday, and so Patrick and I bought tickets for the showing of Please Don't Beat Me Sir, a documentary chronicling the political theater movement of the Chhara community in Gujarat. The community is one of India's "de-notified tribes," groups originally given criminal designation under British colonial rule, and subsequently demarcated by Jawaharlal Nehru. Unfortunately, the communities were not rehabilitated, not provided an opportunity to assimilate to mainstream society, compelling them to continue thievery. Coupled with a vulnerability to police brutality and corruption, generations of Chharas were enslaved to a social destiny, and the movie chronicled the younger generation's efforts to free themselves of the sins of their fathers.

Most of the Chharas spoke in Gujarati, though a more colloquial dialect that I had a difficult time following. I understood all of the swearing and the crass language, however, and could relate to the concepts of the words much more than the subtitles could afford. While the rest of the audience would look on in sympathy, awe, I tried to suppress uncontrollable, inappropriate laughter, surprised that the 84 year old Chhara grandmother on the screen could have such a foul mouth.

As with all documentaries, I was a bit skeptical to the veracity and authenticity of the stories. It was a spectacle, bringing to light a community only through one lens. And so, while the director took questions and lectured on the notion of art as political advocacy, my mind kept wandering off to my visits to India, when my grandmother's maidservants would suddenly change their demeanor when they saw a camera in my sister's hands.

After the film and discussion, Patrick and I suddenly realized how hungry we were. We wanted to get a coffee and pastry from a cute, ovepriced cafe, and thought we'd walk till we found one. We walked for some time, and then decided to walk into Brooklyn.

The problem was, while we  did see Brooklyn, could almost touch it from across the water, we couldn't figure out how to get there. We walked for hours, and the more we searched, the more elusive Brooklyn became.

We trekked through Battery Park City, the most disabling and discomforting part of Manhattan. Battery Parkis an artifice inspired by cities all over the country, but only the mundane parts within these cities. It is not Dupont Circle or Philly's art district, but rather is eerily similar to Center Street in Philly, as well as the corporate districts of Washington DC. Patrick and I walked around the perimeter of the constructed city in silence, as a sense of anxiety (and overwhelming hunger) prevailed upon us.

so close to Brooklyn, and yet so far

Every so often, Patrick would grunt in anger, and I would squeeze my stomach to stop it from growing.

Not once did we think to use our smart phones.

Just as we were about to keel over from starvation, exhaustion, and general dissatisfaction with this great city, we thought we saw signs leading us to the bridge. I pulled Patrick over to the first ATM I saw. "I need cash if we're going to Brooklyn. I don't know if they take credit cards." Patrick looked amused, but then must have agreed, as he drew cash, too.



It wasn't a mirage. We finally found the beginning of the Brooklyn Bridge Walkway. We initially thought we were the subjects of practical, cruel jokes, because the sign looked as though it had been made by a seven year old, not the municipality to which we pay taxes.

finally, we find Brooklyn.

Patrick and I eagerly walked, almost ran, in the direction of the sign, its paint still drying, and walked the length of the bridge. We took obligatory pictures, to document our travels, and finally, after what seemed, or what actually was, hours of painful, arduous searching, we crossed the line that welcomed us into Brooklyn.

Patrick looked at me. "I have never wanted a burrito so badly in my life."

We walked down High Street and into DUMBO, and looked around desperately for food. I was about to comment on how pretty and tranquil the neighborhood was, but my stomach immediately shattered the silence, and I instead decided to finally use my smart phone to find places to eat.

We passed by a candy shop, and without so much as half a nod at each other, we walked in together, and separated as we ran around the store looking for our favorite candy. It was wholesale, and so I bought two gummy sharks & 2 yogurt pretzels, and Patrick's quantities of his favorites were similar. We just needed something to keep us standing till we found food.

best decision of my life

We stumbled upon a loud, raucous Mexican bar aptly named "Pedro's," and we succumbed to its wafting fragrances of refried beans and tomatillo and sat down with audible groans. Within thirty minutes, we were duped into thinking we purchased nachos (it was only tortilla chips), I accidentally spilled an entire bottle of hot sauce and a glass of water on my enchiladas (still ate it anyways), and the waitress told us she didn't eat burritos (reverse psychology marketing ploy, we hoped). It was the best meal we had had in years.

Finally satisfied, we left in search of more candy. The candy shop closed, and wouldn't open again till noon the next day. It was not even 8 pm. I held up both my fists and denounced God, while Patrick was close to tears. "I hate Brooklyn."

The subway ride back home was somber. We were barely holding ourselves up, and Patrick missed his stop just because he couldn't stand in time. We left the car together, and woefully climbed the stairs back up to Manhattan.

I touched Patrick's elbow softly to say bye, but instead shook my head and said, "Brooklyn. Never again."

He nodded. "Except I'm going back tomorrow."

End of Day 4.

May 3, unintentional discoveries

The best nights in New York City are those that begin as epic failures. The past week, I've been neurotically rounding up my friends to ensure we went dancing Friday night. I wanted to cross off Lavo from my bucket list, and, more importantly, create an opportunity to wear a new dress I impetuously ordered online in between meetings at work.

Ultimately, due to a permutations & combinations of logistical issues (i.e., no one wanted to spend money on Lavo tickets), we settled on Riff Raff's, a place of which I'd not known, but that was on my friend's bucket list. She told me the dress code was "hipster hott." Since my preferred attire is a grey t-shirt and jean shorts, I desperately scoured Google images and ultimately concluded that I could not wear that new dress, but I could wear a cotton wife beater endorsing a Thai beer. (I actually have one.)

Some obligations after work prevented me from eating dinner, and so I clumsily ate Greek yogurt as I put on my stockings and red lipstick and ran around with one contact lens in. All of us were meeting up at different times and places, and so while I wiped honey off my chin, I was also texting my friends to coordinate our eventual encounters. Finally, we all found each other on the line at Riff Raff's.

fruit platter, with a side of sangria

We're living in times of scarcity. Even an allegedly low key venue rejected our group. Freezing, sleepy, and still hungry (the latter was probably just me), we went into the Hurricane Club to warm up and brainstorm over overpriced drinks.

A random, vagabond promoter from Riff Raff's followed us into the Hurricane Club, and like the self-proclaimed coolies on train platforms in India, almost forced us back to the place from which we were rejected. Dignities intact and expensive drinks recently ordered, we said no.

Instead, we decided to walk over to the Gansevoort Hotel, (where I probably should have worn my new dress instead of a worn wife beater). Miraculously, we got in.

the music was enthralling, the view was captivating, the friends were  inspiring

The music enslaved us. The beat was constant, tantalizing, and yet not overbearing, not suffocating. I danced more than I anticipated, more than I had planned for, more than my Payless ankle booties could withstand. We lounged by the pool on the rooftop, from which the Empire State Building appeared so close I could hear the residual awe from this morning's tourists. By the end of the night, most of us had dispersed, confirming brunch plans for Cinco de Mayo before heading home. I was still at the Gansevoort with a few eager stragglers, and so my friend and I got into the Red Room, which, true to its namesake, was a room infused with flashing red lights. Again, we danced, we threw our hands in the air, we rejoiced the delicious turn of failed events that transpired, that led us atop a stage in a red room, in the Red Room.

By the time a friend lost one high heel and the DJ repeated a Sean Kingston song, we decided it was time to make our exit. I took a cab home, made myself a spinach hummus wrap, viciously killed a cockroach, and slept peacefully till the next morning, when I was awoken by the sounds of my own heart beating excitedly to the prospect of a new day, of a new adventure.

End of Day 3.

May 2, and it's already a painful good-bye

I'm four years old. Or I'm a man. Or I am missing a social interaction chip. Whatever it is, I have great difficulty articulating my emotions. My feelings of fear and anxiety and anger simmer dangerously till the moment of release--the point at which I get a tingling in my nose, my face flushes, and a single tear rolls down my cheek.

I was a monster yesterday. The positive, carpe diem -esque spin on my imminent departure was temporarily subsumed by sadness, premature nostalgia, and fear--an incredibly juvenile, anticipatory fear of leaving everyone I love. 

I only bare the raw, vulnerable, unattractive part of my soul to those who endure and accept me.So, last night, instead of enjoying what little time I have with one of my favorites, I spent the evening brooding, constantly on the verge of tears, angry at him and the world. 

And then I got angry at myself for wasting one day worrying about my limited days. It's an endless, self-destructive cycle, all created in my own head. I really need a new hobby.

I promised myself (and my mother), I would chronicle my adventures daily, and write an entry in this blog everyday till I left the city. This one is solely a confession, an admission of my anguish. I write better than I speak, and so, I'm writing my heart out (literally; sorry, I don't know what's going on with the clichéd idioms and metaphors today).

I already miss so much this city, a place in which zephyrs smell of pizza at 9 AM, inhabitants walk together but in isolation, and sounds drown out the pain of your own murky thoughts. I already miss so much you, and you, and you, and definitely you. 

End of Day 2

May Day

It's easy to take New York City for granted. For that matter, it's not only easy, but common, to take your home for granted, to forget that what you have in your hands at a single moment is ephemeral. 

I've never been on the IKEA water taxi. I've never eaten at the Central Park Boathouse Restaurant or Cafe, Vanessa's Dumplings, or Beauty & Essex. When I ventured to the top of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, I was sleepy, cranky, and still drank from juice boxes. I haven't yet explored the Cloisters, the Bodies Exhibit, or the Museum of Sex. I have never taken an improv class and I don't understand dim sum. I don't know the names of buildings in Manhattan, and still get confused about the geography of Brooklyn.

Still, I consider New York City my home. I have always been here, and assumed my life was of permanence, despite desperately yearning change. I thus always looked to tomorrow. There was always tomorrow to go to Alta, tomorrow to go to Basement Bhangra, tomorrow to go to trannie bingo at the Bowery Poetry Club.

But all of a sudden, there is no tomorrow. The wind is knocked out of me, I'm gasping for air, I'm leaving New York City. In thirty days, I bid farewell to family, friends, a sense of familiarity. I'm departing from my youth, from the place in which I both found and lost myself, from the moments I can not recapture once I set foot over the threshold.

I am compelled by an overwhelming sense of sadness, of pain, to wake up. I want to see and smell and touch and fall in love with and hate every inch of the city, till I want to have nightmares about "Post No Bills" and Dan Smith (from whom I have not learned the guitar, something else to add to my list).

Grimaldi's, exalted as the best pizzeria in New York City, is on the aforementioned list of things I postponed for tomorrow, a day which never came to pass, until today. To commemorate the beginning of the end, I decided to finally catch up with the scores of tourists who appreciate the transience of the city more than I do. I went to Grimaldi's.

Now, I should preface this monumental event. After several fears that the Grimaldi's in DUMBO would shut down, the owner opened a new branch in Kips Bay. I thus did not try Grimaldi's from the original coal fired oven, but it's newer counterpart. Whatever, baby steps.

The block surrounding Grimaldi's is infused with the welcome, delicious fragrance of slightly salty mozzarella cheese melting on hot, tangy tomato sauce. We walked into the restaurant, which, as my companion described, only conducted a "soft opening," and so its phone number was only listed on Post-its on the counter, its patrons were but a few, scattered hungry souls, and its entrance sign was hastily plastered on top of the sign from the previous store it replaced.

The honesty of the [new branch of the] infamous pizza spot was refreshing. Like the authentic inhabitants of this island, the new Grimaldi's did not pretend to be what it was not, nor did it seduce us with a saccharine facade, a fake smile. Rather, we were drawn by the tantalizing smells, without hesitation ordered our pizza, and without so much as a nod acknowledging the relationship between pizza maker and pizza taker, we took the food out, where we could enjoy a king's feast in a Manhattan dorm room.

Grimaldi's, NYC

As is the norm for New York City pizza, the crust was the best part of the slice. Like my father, I prefer most things crisp--crisp personalities, crisp clothing, crisp pizza crusts. In this case, the crust was a bit soft, but it was still soulful, still strong, without ambiguity or pretense. Like those locals who devour it, the pizza feigned nothing, exposing its own flaws and harsh truths to the vagaries of a cold, aloof universe, at the risk of pain, of loneliness, of anguish. The pizza might not have been the best I ever had (Lombardi's might win this one), but it was more than good enough. It was satisfaction. It was home.

End of Day 1

my mother, not yet 50, but so damn close.

Today is my mother's makeshift birthday. She's a Leap Day baby, and so we've arbitrarily picked February 28th to be the day of celebration, not March 1st. Every year, I write my mother a birthday letter. Sometimes it's 48 things I love about her, sometimes it's reflections on 40, sometimes it's just an overwhelming amount of affection, difficult to convey in writing.

And every year she cries, a stable indicator of the quality of the letter.

So, with the maternal spirit of an Indian woman, my mother now has high expectations--not of me, but of my birthday letter, specifically. 

It seems quite easy, I suppose, to express in writing how I feel about my mother. She's my best friend, the last piece of my jigsaw puzzle. She's the funniest and most vibrant of all women in my life, and she also endearingly cries every ten minutes (I'm now convinced it's overactive tear ducts, not emotions). I tell her more things than most children should tell their parents, and I look to her not only for wisdom, for counsel, for advice, but for solace. I should be able to easily convey my feelings about my mother, wish her happy birthday, and then eat her slice of cake (she hates cake, so we get to have our cake and eat hers, too).

Unfortunately, it's just not that easy. The reality is, I legitimately perspire come February 27 (I don't do time management), and the backs of my eyeballs get sore because my brain twists and turns and the nerves in my spine resemble some sort of deplorable rat king. I always know what I want to say; I just never know how to say it.

This year, I stayed at the office a few late nights to think. 

The last year was difficult for the Desai's, and, ultimately, incredibly rewarding. Through it all, my mother remained strong, inspiring, and pushed us through to the next steps of our lives. But it was too cliché, I thought, to tell my mother how her fortitude and resilience helped me survive, to stay afloat, that without her reassuring hand on my head, I'd have probably crumbled.

I deleted that document and started again.

My mother is embarking on new professional adventures in her life. It's motivating to see a woman of her age, almost fifty, change her career and actively take charge of her own happiness. I don't do it at 24. I'm unhappy, and I let myself be, hoping only for the reprise of Friday evening. My mother, on the other hand, looks forward to every day, eager to come home and drink tea with my father, to gossip about Jennifer Lawrence with my little sister. She never fears aging because she's actually achieved contentment, and she actually loves her life more as it comes to pass every day. But, I thought, it was probably a bit trite to speak of her optimism. Everyone does that.

I then closed the document (without saving), and turned to pen and paper.

There was a period of time this year when I decided to be angry with my mother. It was the worst couple of days (read: hours) in my life. My mother has an inimitably open, porous heart. Except for the people who have hurt her family, my mother genuinely loves everyone. She has the ability to draw people, all people, from a diversity of backgrounds, perspectives, colors. She's magnetic. (My friends only stay friends with me so they can hang out with her. And I'd do the same.) And so, it's impossible to stay angry with her; when I was upset with my mother I would tell her why I was unhappy with her, and talk to her every day about my giving her the silent treatment. She's the only one in whom I can fully confide, even if I swear myself to silence.

It was too painful for a birthday letter. I didn't want to bring up a bad mood of mine. I crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the trash with my empty solo coffee cups.

Panicked, I finally wrote my mother an acrostic poem, a "roses are red" poem, and bought her a humorous Hallmark card. When I walked through the door last weekend, my mother hugged me, told me to eat, and then put her hands on her hips expectantly.

"Um, what? I'm eating as much as I can. I'll get fat, I promise."

"No, beta. I want my letter. Where is my letter?"

With hands shaking, I gave her the Hallmark card. She read it, smiled, and said, "thank you, beta." She didn't cry.

My mother's almost fifty. I haven't yet mastered the art of expressing my love and affection for her, but I'll drink to another fifty years so I can try.

Happy birthday, young lady.

Murphy's Law

Everyone in our office was excited for President's Day weekend. It was a welcome break in the middle of an onerous and frigid February, and Valentine's Day candy was on sale at Duane Reade.

I was not excited. I was working that weekend. I had to go to Jersey to get my car, drive to Albany, then drive to Ithaca for personal matters.

I had not driven since my back injury.

And now I was binge-driving.

On Friday evening, we received notice that we could head out slightly early. As I was heading to New Jersey, I ran around the office, tripping on wires, stuffing my letters in envelopes, talking to folks on my headset (I looked like I was running around screaming "ma'am"), and still could not manage to leave before 6. It began pouring rain when I stepped outside, and I lugged my bags and spare shoes to the corner, where I hailed a cab. It took one hour to get to Penn Station, usually a fifteen minute ride. I almost slammed into a small child when I opened the cab door, threw a handful of bills into the front seat, and ran to the ticket guichet, where I stood on line for forty minutes.

Apparently, Jersey has become a choice travel destination.

Finally home, and after bonding with my parents (monthly ritual) for a few hours, I decided to look up directions to the convention center that was hosting the Congressional Black Caucus, the event I was to attend. Literally at the 11th hour (it was close to 11 pm), I discovered that this place had no street address. I emailed some colleagues late at night, and prayed (desperate times call for desperate measures) that someone would hear my pleas for help. I woke up the next morning to no new emails. I was to drive to Albany on a prayer.

I set off with a hearty breakfast of eggs and fruit, and after about 15 minutes immediately realized I was lacking coffee. I felt inebriated by the dearth of caffeine, but was afraid to be late (especially since I had no idea of my destination). I drove in misery, and three hours later, after finally figuring out the address and getting lost and seeing a mirage of coffee fields, I made it to the convention center. I strategically parked far from the entrance, noticed the number "3" on the wall, and walked briskly to the convention. I was on time.

The only coffee available was that of McDonald's.

After I cried to members of the caucus, passersby, and into my phone, I did my job (and spilled McDonald's coffee on my grey blazer).

My friend was coming to Ithaca with me, and so I was to pick him up from the Bolt bus stop after my event. By that time, I was without solid coffee, starving, and shivering (the coffee on my suit never seemed to dry) and thus in a horrendous mood. I was to drive some of my colleagues back to their hotel, and so we headed towards the parking garage. There were four different levels. "Rucha, where to?"

I blanched. "Um, try 3."

We went down to 3. Each level was also split in half, and so I checked the north section, where I was pretty certain I had parked, and looked for my car (it's actually Manu's car, so losing it was even more frightening). It was nowhere to be seen. I ran back to the elevator, while one of our directors wearing painful high heels limped behind me, and I tried all the other floors. The car was just not there. My team ran behind me as I frantically searched for the silver Toyota. I feared I imagined driving into the parking lot, since I had become weak from the lack of caffeine, and double checked my pockets to make sure I had the parking pass.

I was close to tears (no, really, I was just that hungry). I ran back to level 3, and searched again. And there, in a spot I may have (definitely) overlooked when I searched the first time, I found my car. I breached the professional code of conduct and jumped into the embrace of my colleague.

After dropping off and picking up and driving around aimlessly to discover Albany (during which time there were fears my iPad may have shattered, a stuffed rat Beanie Baby was actually real, and I had pneumonia or lung cancer), I was ready to go to bed. And then my parents called me. "Beta, your insurance expires at midnight tonight. As of tomorrow, you have no insurance. Don't worry though."

Tomorrow came. Too scared to drive four hours to Ithaca, my friend and I went to brunch in Albany, instead. To make up for the previous day, I nervously chugged four cups of coffee, and packed up half of my potatoes and tofu scramble. As I was blowing bubbles into my water, in successful attempts to delay getting back on the road, my father called and confirmed that the insurance snafu had been resolved. (Daddy to the rescue, again.)

My father's parting words were, "Even though this is resolved, the card in your car is still outdated, so please please please adhere to speed limits, watch the road, and don't do anything crazy." I scoffed (I never do anything crazy), said good bye, and hung up the phone.

In two hours, I was pulled over for a speeding ticket.

I have never in my life received a speeding ticket; in fact, I have never in my life gone over the speed limit. I'm usually under. I'm that slow driver everyone abhors. I'm the one who gives women and Asian drivers a bad name. It's me. But, the windy roads upstate rapidly alternated between 55 mph and 30 mph, and I was usually going 40 (much to the dismay of the growing queue of cars behind me). As I hit the brakes to slow to 30, the cop, who was patiently waiting for me right next to the speed limit sign, turned on his lights and pulled me over.

I started blubbering. And then I proactively handed him my expired insurance card. "Sir, hold on, do you need this?"

My friend wanted to take the wheel for the rest of the drive (something about my "emotional instability") but I instead had him shout out the changes in speed limit just in case I didn't notice. (And then I got angry about the subsequent backseat driving).

I was still in disarray when we stopped for gas. I noticed a car wash in the back of the station, and, because I was so stressed out, I decided to treat myself with a traditional car wash (I don't do manicures). I had never before been in one, and always wanted to since I was a little girl, when I would watch Corrina, Corrina with my mother.

We drove the sparkling car to Ithaca, where we first stopped at Buttermilk Falls. It was incredibly silent, absolutely still. It was so cold in Ithaca that the water was at a stand still, hanging in mid-air like long icicles barely reaching the dense pool of floating ice below. There was no sound of babbling brooks or thunderous falls or children splashing, as everything had frozen into tranquility. We heard only the sounds of silence.

We quietly walked back to the car, which, we discovered, also froze into tranquility. Some of the water from the car wash must not have dried before we got back on the road, and so the doors and trunk were frozen shut. We manually pried everything open with our numb fingers, and then clambered back into the frigid car for some semblance of warmth. I ate cold tofu scramble leftovers to warm my insides, and when that didn't work, stuck my hands under my butt.

I got lost several times on my drive home, the day after. For three hours, there was nothing on the radio but Taylor Swift, and so I became disoriented and drove off the highway several times, in search of other radio towers. With some luck and Dunkin Donuts coffee (it makes a difference), I managed to get myself back to New Jersey, where my mother greeted me with questions of my mortality. "Beta, you look terrible. You look like you're dying. Eat. No, eat more."

And so I ate. And I warmed. And amid the conversation and my loud chewing, I desperately sought that moment of tranquility, the sounds of silence that rendered immobile the waterfall and the frenzy and the ennui.  And I couldn't find it.

fall from grace

I woke up to a text from my mother this morning. She warned me of icy, slippery roads. I smiled, accustomed to her anxiety for my well-being, and then forgot about her message as I hurriedly put on mismatched socks for the office.

And then I fell down.

(Per usual, my mother's fears were all but unfounded.)

I was having a rough day before the fall. I had come to work without make up, with a stomach ache, and in desperate need of chapstick. I found out the Pope was resigning because of waning mental energy, and felt even more disenchanted with 9-6 oblivion. I stepped outside to buy snacks (I can honestly say that I eat my feelings), and on my way back to the office, I slipped on ice and fell to my side, throwing out my left hand to catch my fall. More than pain, I was flushed with embarrassment. Some people stopped, others walked by. I quickly stood up and walked briskly back into my building, hiding my scratched up, gravel-ridden left hand into my pocket.

While I wished to burn this memory into obscurity, I have a moral obligation, a responsibility to clumsy ladies everywhere, to tell and retell the story of my antics. This is not the first time I have fallen, and nor will it be my last. In the fourth grade, I fell in the gymnasium during a relay race; in high school, I fell in the middle of a crowded hallway, amid my boyfriend's senior friends and teachers; in college, I tripped over an open drawer, and soared about two feet through the air and landed onto the hard floor on my right buttocks, after twisting my ankle. On the first day of my internship, I walked into a glass door, and when I was interviewed for a full time position, I walked in with a cane. Last Wednesday, I tripped over my own headphones, still plugged into my office computer, and then Friday, when I was cleaning a spill, I tripped over the vacuum and bruised my leg.

I tell these stories for the girls who, like me, will never be effortlessly graceful or immune to injury.  These girls are not just clumsy, but rather are women of fatal flaw, of frenzy, of flavor, and only fall because they are exploding with vitality, and are eager to say words and meet people and see the world.

And yes, in the process, these girls may get concussions.

I am my mother's daughter, my father's daughter

I've grown into my mother, into my father. And I'm definitely cool with it.

When I was a little girl, my mother used to make me cheese & chutney sandwiches for lunch. Until I was about 16 or 17, I desperately wanted to blend in, seeking conformity over identity, and thus trained myself to eat very quickly. The likelihood that someone would notice I was not eating turkey or peanut butter would decrease if I inhaled my food. One time, a dollop of mint chutney had fallen onto the cream lunch table. Someone declared it "bird poop". Others joined in vehement protest. Flushed with shame and fear, I slouched in my seat, and ultimately participated in post-crisis fall out.

My parents have always tried to give me happiness. I never told them I was embarrassed of food alleged to resemble avian fecal matter, but instead asked if I could start bringing peanut butter and jelly for lunch. My mother obliged. "Whatever will get you to eat, beta." Sometimes, however, they would fall back into their old ways. One night, we had taken my grandparents to the Country Pancake House, the legendary breakfast spot in town with pancakes the size of my face and fresh juices. My father ordered a carrot juice, his favorite, and, to my horror, pulled out a sachet of chaat masala from his jacket pocket and sprinkled some into his juice. He then passed it around to my mother, my grandparents, my sister, and by the time it came to me, I had crouched so low in my seat that my fingers grazed my Vans (it was a long time ago). My father then tapped my shoulder and told me to sit upright, warning me against bad posture.

My mother had always warned me against wasting food. While feeding me with her hands, she would remind of me of the starving children in India, the maid servants who clean my grandmothers' homes, our driver's son, "who probably makes his own crayons from plastic bags." (My mother is not a chemist.) The chronic fear of waste, the desire for survival, was thus instilled upon me at a young age. While I was trying to survive middle school by swallowing whole my chutney sandwiches, my mother would teach me about the less fortunate, tell me stories about her own impoverished childhood, and ingrained in me the sense of guilt every Indian is tasked with feeling.

I slowly grew out of my fear of standing out. I began to unpack my understanding of home, of myself (and coincidentally, bearing a unique, exotic identity soon became the new, fashionable way to conform), and realized I really liked mint chutney. My sister and I started sneaking extra airplane food into our backpacks, and hand out packaged water and rotis to hungry cows and children when we would visit our grandparents in India.

Last night, I went  with a friend to Verlaine for a fundraiser for Coalition of Asian American Children and Families. I bought my friend a kati roll for dinner, which he snacked on during the ride down to Rivington Street. It was a bit messy; chutney and corn spilled out from the roll and somehow into my hair, and so as we walked up to Verlaine, my friend suggested we toss the rest. My heart sank. "What? Why! We will finish this." I was violently shivering from the frigid city air, but took a large bite of the roll, risking flakes of potato to fall into my scarf. I then pulled apart a piece and gave it to my friend, but instead of handing it over, I accidentally shoved it in his mouth. "Um, sorry, but, the children, you know, the hungry ones," I stammered, before finishing off the rest of the roll.

My parents spent most of my childhood trying to make me happy (despite traumatizing me with their masala juices). Now that I've got my own white hairs & a legitimate back problem (which, apparently, actually is from bad posture), I finally realize how much they did for me.

We threw out the crumpled foil, and turned to walk in. "Rucha, you have some green chutney above your lip." I quickly wiped it off with the back of my hand, nervous someone would think it was bird poop. 

NY Chili Fest 2013

New York City is a series of theme parties. There's the frat-guy theme, the wealthy-democrat theme, the American-perception-of-China theme, and all three of these parties, Murray Hill, the Upper West Side, and China Town, have their own drink specials. There is also the idealist student theme, the impoverished theme, the forcibly indifferent dumpster diving theme. There's the theme of homogenous Brooklyn, of overpriced Manhattan, of fearing Staten Island.

And then there's the food theme(s).

New York City has a delicious infatuation with theme eateries. It's only in this city that a mac & cheese craving can be satisfied with a "masala mac & cheese," a "Parisienne mac & cheese" and "all-American mac & cheese," all under one roof. It's only in this city that a rice pudding break becomes an overwhelming endeavor, as "coconut coma" and "fluent in French" are among dozens of choices. And it's only in this city that hundreds of hipsters join together to consume voraciously endless bowls of chili.

Sunday, January 27th, was New York City's Chili Fest, a celebration of comfort food for chili connoisseurs from all boroughs. Tureens of steaming chili line the corridors of Chelsea Market, while chives and chips and steel spoons seem to be thrown about in frenzy. Those tabling and representing their restaurant, while seemingly cordial, are actually fiercely competing with each other for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title. To witness this historic event (and to be immersed in beans and beer), my friend spontaneously purchased tickets, and I began rummaging through my closet to find my flannel.

There is always that one girl who interrupts the flow of buffets or dinner parties to ask what is in the food. She's always the one with a deathly allergy to an obscure Brazilian fall grain or with the religious restrictions on certain meats or with neurotic fear of the waiter's thumb grazing her soup. And then there's that one girl who is a vegetarian by choice.

Competition was so cutthroat for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title, that restaurants could not compromise unique recipes for the registered meatless. We asked volunteers, chefs, support staff if there was even one restaurant with a vegetarian version of their chili. The response was the same. Everyone would initially stare blankly, and then open their mouths as if to say, "Alas! You're that girl," but would instead say, "I'm sure there is. But the bar is over there. Why don't you start with beer, first?"

There were all types of chili. There was chili with Thai spices, chili with beef and tofu, chili with Mexican flair. But the one ingredient they all had in common was beer. And so, the only way I could have vegetarian chili, that is, chili stripped of its meat, was to consume its most fundamental component.

And I obliged.

By the end of the night, chili fest had become a dance. Underscoring the perception of unity on to which each so desperately held, a wave of flannel and beards, a spectrum of different colors and sizes, swayed in unison.

There is no such thing as "classic New York," for it is only a series of theme parties, pockets of authenticity wrapped up and sold to the consuming mainstream (you, me, the rest of the world). But if there were such a thing, New York Chili Fest might come close.

the capricious north wind

On January 14th, 2008, at 11:30 pm, my grandfather died in India. When my father found out my grandfather was in the hospital, my sister and I hastily threw together a few pairs of socks, his travel documents, and a white kurta, and during rush hour on a Friday evening, my mother managed to get him to JFK International Airport in under 40 minutes. For the last five years, my father has spent the 14th of January in restlessness.

The rest of the India, however, comes together to rejoice on this day. January 14th is the widely observed pagan holiday of Uttarayana, celebrating the change in direction of the north wind. It marks the onset of warm weather, of harvest, of new beginnings. People all over India, regardless of ethnicity, religion, class, gather on rooftops and terraces and fly brightly colored paper kites, pausing only to eat nut brittle and puffed rice balls. The aim of the kite flying is to actually cut another kite down. The kite string is coated with finely crushed glass, and so, at the risk of beheading passersby, strangers and friends engage in a playful duel, all fighting for the right to yell "kai po che!" ("I have cut it!"), the triumphant exclamation of victory.

To observe the fifth anniversary of my grandfather's passing, my father and I traveled to India. My father and I visited all of my grandfather's surviving siblings, my father's aunts and uncles. At each home, in between sips of guava juice, my father would tell the story of my grandfather's death. All would nod, would contribute their version of the story, and then in the uncomfortable silence, when feelings are on the verge of exposure, someone would inevitably pass us more food, and emotions would be once again successfully suppressed.

My grandfather's brothers and sisters look scarily similar to him, speak with the same kind, gravelly voice, and employ the same reassuring mannerisms. My father thirsted for their conversations of red wine, of chance encounters with European diplomats, of cricket. The resemblance of my grandfather to each was so uncanny, it was as though we visited my grandfather several times over, and yet my father would leave their homes with a deepened sense of restlessness, as we were only surrounded by vestiges, ghosts, memories of my grandfather and his mark on this world.

On the actual anniversary, my father asked his mother if she wanted to go to the temple, or wanted to do anything special. "No," she strongly responded, and then immediately turned to tell me her theory on consuming large amounts of clarified butter to help me lose weight (it's a working theory). Like most of her generation, my grandmother does not dwell on pain. She accepts it, silently bears it. Expression of emotion has come with the new generation of anguished wanderers.

My father then realized it was Uttarayana, and so we walked to my uncle's house to celebrate with him and his neighbors on his roof. Though the morning zephyrs were slightly weak, in the afternoon the north wind rages through streets, the balconies, the treetops. The sky was teeming with paper kites, as the city slowed to celebrate spring, to hope for what is to come. People shouted, cheered, clapped, usually arbitrarily, as no one actually understood the science of cutting down another's kite. I apparently successfully cut down two with one stroke, though I'm still quite weary of this statistic.

In the evening, the thickness of kites waned, and the sky gradually filled with glowing, floating Chinese lanterns. Our terrace ignited about a dozen large, colorful lanterns, the heat from the flame causing the paper globes to rise, the light causing them to glow.

The smog and city lights will never allow the city of Vadodara to become fully dark, so it instead remains a fuzzy sepia (yes, an instagram classic). In the viscous, city air hung these lanterns, thousands dotting the dark brown sky. As if stars held in suspension, the entire sky glided in unison, the harmony of the lights shattered only by fireworks on the horizon. It was panoramic; we were surrounded on all sides by a constructed, starry night.

 My father and I moved to the opposite end of the terrace. My father's eyes have been searching for the last five years. My grandfather was one of the few people who could match my father's brilliance, compassion, and strong, stubborn sense of ethics. My father can discuss in depth on an unparalleled range of topics--Justin Bieber's rise, the Moghul Empire's fall, the economy of rice in South East Asia, the implications of Federer losing his seat as No. 1. He speaks better English than anyone I've met in the English speaking world. He's also a prolific writer, only comparable to his own father, the one who had instilled in him an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. My grandfather was just as attached to the past, just as disillusioned by the present, as is my father, who lost his connection to his childhood, to a glorified past, with the death of my grandfather. My father continually seeks memories, seeks to rebuild the past, seeks ways in which death could have been avoided. He retells stories, hangs on with relish every audible expression of nostalgia by a cousin or aunt, or even a shop owner who knew my grandfather.

On the terrace that night, my father's eyes darted restlessly across the horizon. "There," he pointed, "that dark building behind that pocket of light. That was Dadaji's hospital." A red firecracker splintered the heavy silence between us, or, more accurately, the silence suffocating him.

Back home, my grandmother, clad in her new royal blue cardigan, anxiously awaited our arrival.

"So, you enjoyed?"

And we had. Though my father's heart had been wrung dry, he and I enjoyed the time we spent together. On the roof, throwing lanterns into the air, I felt closer to my father than I had in years, even though I knew his thoughts were not on the paper kites, but elsewhere. That night, he and I stayed awake until 11:30 to light a diya for my grandfather. We bowed our heads in reflection, his hands held in prayer, mine clutched clumsily in front of me, and together we stood for several minutes. Shortly thereafter, I went to bed, but my father stayed awake till the flame burned out.

The next morning, the ground was littered with lifeless, torn paper kites, futile save for the memories they evoked of a glorious day in January.