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

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.

five hours till the eleventh hour

The world is ending quite soon.

Today, in between eating more falafel than a human should eat and blasting Bonobo as I speak to constituents, I've reflected on my 24 years on Earth.

If I had another 24 years of existing, I would probably wear jean shorts in the winter. I would drink wine every day, and go swimming. I would definitely stop being lazy about shaving my legs, and I would sit on a park bench without my cell phone. I would probably skip work to do something outrageous for a day, like eating hydrogenated peanut butter with Oreos or surfing in Long Beach with brand new board shorts. I would hang out with Manu more, make sure she doesn't become neurotic like her older sister. I would not quit the flute. I would move to Mumbai for one year and try to dance, before maiming the rest of my limbs. I'd go to Morocco. I would not grow white hair and I would continue eating pasta with ketchup. I would cry for the children who have died, for the children who have starved, for the children who have only seen pain, and I would stop crying for myself. I would make my bed. I would make my mother and father's bed. I would wear a hat every single day. I would do crunches. I would write a book, I would perpetuate my propaganda against cauliflower, and I would never paint my fingernails. I would be a better kid. I would buy a slip 'n' slide. I would kiss everyone. I would dance in the rain.

Unfortunately, we have less than five hours. Tonight is my last chance to eat pasta with ketchup while I wear jean shorts (and get pneumonia). No more thoughts of carpe diem, no more Dr. Phil, no more corny Hallmark cards about la vie. We're done.

Go forth and buy Oreos, while supplies last.

young & wild & free

For the last several weeks, I've been chained to my bed, unable to look left or right, up or down, and I still cannot touch my ears to my shoulders. In fact, I cannot even remember if touching your ears to your shoulders is a normal bodily function. (I'll be trying till the death.)

My body rejected the idea of 24, and so a disc popped out in my spine and the part of my buttocks that was double jointed has been making an ominous screechy noise. Oh, and some man on the street thought I was pregnant. (I reassured him I was not.)

As always, Patrick was there to help me move back into the city, to make my bed, to bake me apples, while I sat on the couch with my heating pad, pink snuggie, & fistful of pills, my head frozen in his direction. I thought, I actually have grown old with this boy. And then the part of my buttocks which is double jointed screeched again, so I shifted weight to my thighs.

Patrick looked over at the microwave, which bore the weight of my painkillers, steroids, vitamins, fish oil, anti-inflammatories, and the homeopathic remedies from my father. I offered him some painkillers and homeopathic paste, and we quietly sat on the dining table eating the baked fruit with Greek yogurt.

"I feel sore." Patrick cracked his neck.

"Want a fish oil?"

"No, I had mine today," he replied, and licked vestiges of the homeopathic paste off his fingers.

We continued to chew silently.

"Patrick, careful with that paste, it will burn your skin if you have too much. Oh, also, did I tell you about my white hair?"

Patrick looked alarmed. "What? Where?"

I pulled back the hair from my right ear. "See? I'm not making this up!"

Patrick's face visibly contorted with fear. "Why don't you pull it out?!"

"I don't know, maybe I'll dye it purple. I wanted to do that when I turned 70, anyways."

"True."

We continued eating.

I think I've actually grown decrepit with this boy, but I don't mind it much.

"Rucha, what was that your father used to look younger? Turmeric?"

first world problems

Yesterday, I overheard the following conversation:

"Hey, was your Instagram working yesterday?"

 "No, yours wasn't either? I thought I was alone."

"No, dude, like, no one's Instagram was working. Instagram was, like, bugging out yesterday."

Life is hard.

meditation

I was blinded last week.

Well, my right contact lens popped out at work. I had been violently rubbing my face with despair and frustration from having spent over twelve hours in the office, and when I looked back at my monitor, saw only a soft blur.  A dried, shriveled lens was on my dress. No one in the office had contacts solution, and after five minutes of frantic searching, dabbing with water, and rusty praying (it's been awhile), my lens cracked like plastic.

Now, the problem was not just I was half-blind (or half-seeing), it was that I had to go to a hot yoga class. In May, I bought yoga classes in bulk for a discount (#indians #gujaratis #ruchacreatesproblemsforherself). They were to expire in November, but given that I had been on a yoga binge in the spring, and went to the studio three or four times a week, I assumed this would not be an issue.

Of course, my yoga binge conceded to an ice cream binge in the summer, a pecan pie binge in the fall, and I suddenly found myself at two weeks before the expiration date with 20 classes left. I sobbed my way into an extension, and then after Hurricane Sandy hit, I was given a second extension.

So, the day I was blinded, it was imperative I go to my yoga class. It was not for my body. It was to justify my large purchase in May.

(I know, most of my problems are self-induced. If I took a second to think before I did anything, I probably wouldn't even need a blog.)

I became dizzy seeing only half the world, so I took out my left contact lens, as well. I walked to hot yoga by counting the avenues and streets, relying on math I had not studied in over five years. As soon as I reached my studio, I hesitantly inched towards a body I hoped was my instructor. I was too tired to preface the situation, so just showed her my card and said, "Hi. If I fall over in class today, it is not because I'm too hot or unwell, but it's because I cannot see anything right now." She looked back at me, though I'm not sure what her face may have been expressing, and I said, "Um, so I'll be in the front. Thank you."

Even in the front of the room, I could not see myself in the mirror. I knew the colors in front of me were of my own body, but I could determine the existence of nothing else. The room was silent, blurry, and I was completely alone. My instructor's voice was sharper than it had ever been; it seemed to cut through the solitude that engulfed me. For the first time in my life, I was fully immersed in the practice, not distracted by my own body, by my face, by my flaws. I was not comparing myself to the other yogis, or the teacher, or nervous that my short shorts were too short (they definitely were). My blindness forced me to commit my thoughts to the present. My mind did not waver, and I could feel slimy beads of sweat rolling down my temples, into my mouth, down my chest. I could hear the person next to me pant and grunt, and could feel my own hot breath hanging by my face.

I sat in the studio for several minutes after the class, trying to retain the fresh experience of being present, of being in my own body.

When I walked outside, I was immediately whipped by a cold, November wind. I parted my lips slightly as I walked, to taste the coolness in my mouth. I could still hear my heart beating by my ribs, and could feel heat emanating from within my wool coat.

And then I tripped on a homeless man lying in the middle of the street. In my defense, he should have been leaning against a building, or wearing a neon vest.

I counted the avenues and streets back to my apartment, and as soon as I came home I wore my glasses. I could finally see, and my mind was immediately clouded by my thoughts, by my vision.

Damn homeless.

Chin up, darling

I walk past the same street vendor every morning on my way to Oren's. I never stop; I get my coffee,  I sip, I walk back to work, head down, lipstick smearing on the white plastic lid.


Thursday, I stopped. I was parched, exhausted, and saw the cooler filled with slightly muddied Poland Spring bottles as an oasis.


I picked one out. "How much?"


The vendor, an older balding Indian man with a dark maroon shirt, had been in deep conversation with the guy who hands out flyers for Cafe Basil. He started, and looked down at me. "One and one quarter."


With coffee in hand, I tried to balance my open wallet and water bottle, and after some fishing around handed him the money.


I smiled weakly, and turned to walk away, and he called out: "So, where you from?"


I expected the question. It's a standard greeting, the response to which can make or break your inclusion into the diaspora. I still hadn't yet had a sip of my coffee. I looked down at the brown cup, looked back up at his brown face, and then resigned. "India."


(I usually respond, "New Jersey," just to be a brat, but my brain had not yet thawed [it was 89 degrees out].)


"Oh!" And then he stopped speaking English and told me he saw me walking every day, back and forth, to and fro.


I was a bit lost, and almost dizzy. "Yes, well, um, I understand Hindi perfectly, I just cannot speak it very well."


He stopped. "I was speaking in Gujarati," which is the language my mother speaks. I blanched, took a few sips of my coffee, and could finally understand what he was saying.


He told me where he was from, where he grew up, asked me where I was from, what my father did for a living, what I did for a living. When I explained my job, he asked to confirm: "So, you can help people?"


I took another sip. "Yes."


His eyes widened. "Do you have card?"


"Yes," and I proceeded to balance once again my water, open wallet, and with coffee in one hand, handed him a business card.


"You know," he said in Gujarati, "I see you everyday. Every day you walk by fast, and you never see anyone."


I nodded politely.


"Too many thoughts," he said in English, "sometimes, too many thoughts so you cannot see around you."


I stopped nodding. 


"Sometimes, try to look up. Nothing to see on ground." He smiled. "See the world."

therapy at Secaucus Junction

Secaucus Junction is the station at which all NJ Transit trains converge. Every morning, I join thousands of other commuters in the mezzanine, people teeming from all corners and spilling out of platform exits, all desperately trying (and failing) to beat the bottleneck that forms amid the finite number of automated turnstiles protecting access to the Manhattan bound trains.

This morning, right after a woman with a cane shoved me toward Sbarro, I briskly walked past the station attendant talking to a very petite woman wearing Louboutins. I was about to scan my ticket when I heard, "I know, I know, let it out sweetheart. You're fine. I'm here."

I turned back to see the station attendant stroking the woman's back, and the woman's face streaked with tears and mascara. Time stopped for them, and the two women were in an elusive nimbus, untouched by frenzied commuters.

The woman smiled bleakly back at the station attendant, nodded, regained what little strength she had left, and then walked towards the turnstile.

The station attendant yelled to her as she walked away: "Remember, honey, you're beautiful."

A mother with an infant child (most likely a Cabbage Patch Kid wrapped in a snuggie) elbowed me in the ribs and I lost sight of the woman in Louboutins and the station attendant, both of whom seemed to have vanished.

the Higgs boson: Man is Matter, and now we know why

On July 4, 2012, while my friends and I joined the rest of the country in toasting to America, to summer, to veggie chips, physicists across the ocean at CERN uncovered the final clue that could potentially solve the mystery of the universe. The Higgs boson, a fundamental particle whose existence was posited by Peter Higgs and his team to explain the diversity of existence, was (most likely) discovered by two teams of persistent physicists this past Wednesday. The New York Times' piece on the breakthrough provides more detail.


The powerful implications of the (almost) confirmed existence of the Higgs boson are a bit difficult to understand without a keen understanding of physics, of outer space, and of the Higgs' position in both fields (or without a very gifted and patient college science professor, as I was fortunate to have).


Essentially, this specific particle explains the fundamental question of why the universe is as it is, not solely how or what. Third grade science has taught us that we are surrounded by, and are part of, "matter," which is simply, "things." But we were never taught why these "things" came into being. Why is that that an atom can be of various weights, that oxygen is in vapor form, that humans have opposable thumbs? The immediate responses to those questions are much like responses our parents would provide to us as children, when we asked the fundamental questions of our childhood.

Daddy, why is my hair brown?

Because your mother and I have brown hair.

But why do I have to have the same hair color as you and Mommy?

 Just because.

In the same way, atoms of different isotopes can be different weights because they are composed of different numbers of neutrons, oxygen is in vapor form because at standard pressure its molecules bind as a gas, and humans have opposable thumbs because we evolved from primates. And why does all of that happen? Just because (well, and some more profound scientific rational, but for the sake of example, work with me).


However, there is an underlying structure, a gorgeous rhythm that pervades the seeming arbitrary nature of the universe.


It's cooler than Jesus.


In 1964, Peter Higgs theorized a mechanism (later dubbed the Higgs Mechanism) by which particles, everything in the universe is given mass. Essentially, there is an invisible force, a field that permeates the universe. It is the "quantum excitation," or breaks in the symmetry of this field that give rise to the seeming arbitrary distribution of mass in matter all around us, within us. It's a flaw. It's a screw up. The entire universe is a series of flaws, snowballing screw ups, exponentially expanding, creating, evolving. 


The Higgs boson explains why there was even a Big Bang in the first place. There was no man on the moon beating pots and pans, no looming head in the sky grinding his teeth. It was an arbitrary excitation of a point in this field that propelled into creation our unique universe. Though random, arbitrary, it was a flaw fundamental to the existence of the universe.


I'm not conventionally religious. I can't sit cross legged because of my bad knee and houses of worship make me queasy. However, the grand implications of this flaw are awe-inspiring. This singular "error," the quantum break in an otherwise beautiful symmetry, could have easily occurred on another point in the field, could have easily created a completely different universe, or potentially no universe, an existence of which we would not be a part. The specific excitation in the particular point on the field put in motion the creation of the universe as we know it, the creation of Earth, the creation of humanity.


I'm not sure what is God, and I don't think I'll ever be sure what people mean when they refer to God. The only certitude is that humanity, life, the entire universe is bound by a single, fundamental flaw, an essential asymmetry that shapes, creates, and renders mass to "things" and meaning to life.


I guess this just means we're all just a bunch of screw ups, but we're in it together, and for the long haul. Amen.

Parents Got Swag

I like walks on the beach and chocolate behind glass counters and used leather diaries with frayed yellow edges. I also like texting words like, "quintessence."

I know, I'm a bit outdated. I like to think of it as classic or "old school," but I think the harsh truth of the matter is that I'm still living like a kid from 1995.

My parents, on the other hand, have unintentionally functioned as the foil to my [lack of] youth and modernity. They have subverted the notion of age, of generational gap, and have created with vigor a new sense of the word, "cool." They're hip.

Most people find it amusing when their parents discover the Google. Sometimes, amusement concedes to frustration when their parents text their children blank messages, with false hope that the apparatus will convey messages in the same capacity as telepathy. Most people, however, do not have parents who can build and program computers, who look thirty years younger than their age, and who use "lol" the way it was intended--not when they're actually laughing, but when they don't have time to humor me.



The Young & the Restless (25 years ago, "lol")

 Last week, I had my usual mid-May, half-birthday break down, and I reached out to my parents for emotional support. Our basement is currently undergoing renovation, so our home phone has been acting a bit shoddy, and my sister's phone got rained on, so I was left with my parents' cell phones. I first texted my mother.

Rucha: Hi. Miss you!
Mother: mu
Rucha: What's mu?
Mother: miss you

I then tried my father.

Rucha: Hi. Love you!
Father: luv u2
Rucha: [insert blank text of exasperation]
Father: u try2 send pic?

I subsequently ate a $15 salad topped with veggie burger strips and watched Parks & Rec on my iPad (extent to my connection with Gen Y). I then got ready for bed. When I'm home, right before I go to bed my mother smiles at me, strokes my hair, and with a sincerity unparalleled, one that can only be produced by my parents (Gen Y's guests of honor), will say, "Jai Sri Krishna." It's a blessing, something that my parents sort of automatically chant without much heed, or at least, one that I usually receive without much heed. It never mattered much to me, but it's the entire practice around it--the smiling, the warmth, the genuineness--that touches me, that subverts the indifference of the world.

After I burped up some veggie burger meat, I texted my mother again.

Rucha: Love you! Good night.
Mother: lu gn beta
Rucha: gn?
Mother: good night
Rucha: how fitting
Mother: lol jsk

It took me about 12 seconds to realized "jsk" refers to the aforementioned blessing. I audibly sighed (to no one in particular.)

Rucha: Quintessence.
[no response]

six months in, and still can't microwave a cookie.

I almost burned down the office today.

(My bad.)

Today officially marks the six-month countdown till Death of Youth Day. (Yes, every year I seem to go through the same gastrointestinal acrobats about my increasingly apparent senescence. However, this year it's significantly worse. No, really, it just is. Humor an old lady.)

In six months, I will be the age my mother was when she gave birth to me.

In six months, I will be the age Nat Turner was when he sold Invite Media to Google for $70 million.

In six months, I will be the age Lawrence Braggs was one year before he won the Nobel Prize for Physics.

In six months, it will be the 24th Veterans' Day since 1988.

There was some sort of rager on the third floor of the building last night, so I slept with my ear plugs, the ones I bought on overstock.com with my LivingSocial offer. I woke up about 45 minutes before the alarm clock to take out the ear plugs, so that I would then hear the alarm clock when I woke up.

Evidently, I had thought much about this morning when I was tossing in conscious, exhausted misery all night.

And what I realized when I awoke (for the second time, after my alarm did go off) was not just that my most pronounced gray was leering at me, or that I may need to switch to Sensodyne, or that my perfume no longer masks the scent of Ben-Gay, but that the more I fall prey to the vagaries of a cold, indifferent world, the more I desperately hold onto the comfort of a past in which heartache was raw, friendship was pure, and hips did not retain pizza, which was inevitably voraciously consumed.

So it's not youth I miss. It's the fact that my screw ups were just that--mistakes in their most honest, benign capacity. No implications of cataclysmic proportions. No calculations, no derivations.

When my family first moved to this country, we were not as fortunate as we are today. Still, my mother, my father, and I (we were not blessed with my little sister till two years after our migration), lived gorgeously. In the first year in which we lived in America, we had not yet come to associate the notion of choice restrictions and authentic living as characteristics of wealth; rather, we were enamored of the mass producing capabilities of the American food & beverage industry, and so without heed to our effectively clogging 56% of our cardiovascular system, we engorged upon Entenmann's and fruit colas and Ellio's pizza.

My favorite snack was those large Pepperidge Farm cookies, the ones in the paper bag with tops folded over. I liked the white chocolate chip macadamia ones. I never knew till I took a bite if the piece in question was a nut or chip. It was a surprise every time. To emulate the just-baked sensation without just baking anything, my family would pop these already processed cookies into the microwave for ten seconds. (Yes, in addition to our cardiovascular health, we may have risked cancer. I personally think little gustatory pleasure is worth genetic mutations.) The microwaved cookies would be gooey and warm and exude a sense of American spirit so wonderfully pervasive on WB11 (CW11's predecessor, a station of the 90's).

I wanted to feel warm and gooey (and genetically mutated) today. We had Pepperidge Farm cookies in the office, and so after I bought my Oren's, I grabbed a cookie from the paper bag. I brought it to the kitchen on a Chipotle napkin, and put it in the microwave.

I stood around, looking up at the dusty ceiling, thinking about chocolate and young people and new Americans, when I smelled smoke.

I had put the cookie in the microwave for over a minute.

I ran to the microwave and opened the door. Dark grey smoke billowed from the apparatus, and the entire kitchen was engulfed in a thick stench. My cookie was steaming, the napkin was burned through, and the chocolate chips went beyond melty and gooey to blackened and hardened.

23 and a half years later, and I still manage to transform a bout of culinary genius into a case of pyromania. No, I may not be able to cook a precooked, thoroughly processed cookie, but I can definitely set things on fire and get ash on recently dry cleaned dress, all before 8:30 AM.

The office manager came running to the kitchen, smelling the smoke. I looked up, abashed, still holding my elfish cookie.

"Good morning. Did I tell you today was my half birthday?"

GroupThink

New York City is typically considered a metropolis of individuals, a community of distinct entities, each defined by a specific reservoir of values, perspectives, and frozen yogurt preferences (I like green tea and original swirl Pinkberry with mochi, mango, strawberry, and lychee, if it's summer).

However, New Yorkers may actually be subject to a psychological phenomenon that undermines the very notion of cosmopolitan individualism.

This morning, when I crossed over 42nd street on my way to work, I noticed an older, slightly greasy man with a large blue jacket racing to the other corner of the street. I double checked the walking sign, and saw that the "white man walking" or pedestrian green light was on, and that there was still another minute or so to leisurely cross the street. I rolled my eyes and looked back down at my shoes, which proved to be more interesting than Midtown East during rush hour.

In about two seconds, I felt a breeze by my left ear, and turned to see a woman in high heels, and two men with brief cases running (one of them inducing a slight asthmatic episode) towards the corner of the street now populated by the aforementioned greasier gentleman and a short man handing out flyers for a new Turkish restaurant.

I again checked the sign, and saw that pedestrians still had a very explicit "go." Literally, we had the green  light.

I then quickly checked behind me and saw several people, having taken note of the earlier joggers, make similar decisions to sprint across the street. A small Thai woman pushing a stroller jogged a bit to keep up with the older Mexican lady walking four dogs.

I was unsure as to what we were running, or from what we were running, but since everyone after the runners in suits seemed to follow suit, I presumed I was also expected to do the same.

So, I walked into the office with pit stains and a throbbing knee. My doctor has advised me against running, but in this situation, I felt I had no choice.

the higgs particle & other beginnings

Today, we are reborn.

And by "we," I mean me, you, Man, Matter. It's the Higgs Boson collision of Man is Matter, an explosion that will propel into creation a new vision of the world.

The curious, blurred vision of a little girl with three gray hairs and two left feet, and a strong affinity for spinach and thunderstorms.

Man is Matter originally formed to chronicle my adventures in London in the summer of 2009. I made observations about high tea and about British accents and about yellow tomatoes in Borough Market. I desperately recorded every moment, even the most mundane, hoping to hold on to every bit of London summer that the U.S. Border Patrol allowed.

When I returned to America, I found that my discoveries did not cease with the close of my summer travels, but that I continued to unearth treasures in the gullies of oblivion: the sterile, fluorescent aisles of Duane Reade, the rocky seats in front of the homemade ice cream parlor in Ridgewood, the open urinals in highways of Rajasthan.

When I could not leave my seat, I explored time, taste, touch and sometimes stuck out my tongue to check if it were raining. And when I had the opportunity to explore outside my own senses, I discovered mischief in the Dominican Republic and complex familial interactions in India. There were Mayan massages in Mexico and gray suits in Washington, DC. There was the man who sold $.75 coffee in the cart by my office, and the smiling blonde who sold $2.00 coffee at Oren's down the street.

Every day there was someone, there was something, of note.
And as with all things beautiful, I soon lost touch with the meaning of it all, with the meaning of discovery, forgot how rare it was to laugh on Tuesdays, to touch someone on a Wednesday afternoon, to figure out how you like your burgers cooked. The need to observe the world was reduced to an ephemeral phenomenon, something I did in my spare time, after I finished everything I was obliged to finish. I soon found myself searching for something I was missing, but searching in the wrong places, making futile attempts to move mountains, when all I needed to do was skip a rock into the river.



And, as the geographer told the Little Prince, I soon stopped recording life, because it became ephemeral, subsumed by the falsity of obligations and futures and responsibilities.

But it's precisely this quality, this "danger of a speedy disappearance," that prompts the Little Prince, and that has reminded me, to fall in love all over again.

I tasted the summer rain yesterday. My legs had goosebumps and my Calvin Klein flats landed in puddles and my hair formed its own sort of Indie-fro, but the rain tasted sweet, almost like warm milk and almonds and dates and peaches.

2009, when I tried desperately to claim all of London for my own, to grasp through slippery fingers a city that would forever evade me, is not unlike any other time, not unlike every other day.

So, once again, I shall desperately grab and clutch and scratch and fight, fight for a stillness and pause that will forever evade us.

I reclaim Man is Matter.

We're kickin it old school.

the perils of functioning in society

On St. Patrick's Day, I was infected with a terrible case of melancholy, as I allowed myself to be taken over by some existential angst and seeming warranted self-pity. I bought a green bagel with roasted red peppers, tomatoes, tofu cream cheese, and a large coffee, and sat celebrated the Irish through carbo-loading and "methods of reasoning" flashcards. The streets were teeming with green 20-somethings, and I found myself lost amid a sea of inebriated, swaying emerald on my way to hot yoga. I made my way through masses of joyous meatheads, and on my way back, I trudged through the same crowds, though the proportion of those still standing had slightly changed. As I sat by my window, slightly shaking from a raucousness reverberating through the thin walls of my new bedroom, I felt a profound sense of loss.

The following day, I woke up with a renewed perspective on my First World problems, most likely induced by a full night's sleep. I finished all my laundry, did extra hot yoga (along the lines of a double shot of espresso), and generally felt good about industriousness of the weekend (it had been a good green bagel). After my shower, I decided to take a stroll around my new neighborhood (i.e., head to the overpriced grocery store one block away). It was a particularly balmy evening, and I decided to dress to impress (myself), and wore my diamond earrings and my  yellow birthday scarf and my red lipstick.

I walked down 35th Street and caught some people staring at me. I noticeably turned away from the regard, to make a point about sexual equality, but I secretly thought, Rucha, you still got it. You got grey hair and you haven't seen daylight all weekend and you inexplicably smell like glass noodles, but you got it.

I walked into the grocery store and felt a slight breeze, the normal draft that follows a door opening.

People continued to stare. I continued to be falsely indignant, and clandestinely proud.

I had to itch my left leg (a continuation of the aforementioned First World problems), and so bent back and realized there was no fabric for me to scratch.

My whole skirt was tucked into my underwear.

People were still staring.

I did not still "got it." 

I officially lost it.

The Other Side of the Pillow

On the first business day of every month, I walk over to the Godiva store on Lexington Avenue and stare at the truffles behind the glass counter for about four minutes. I’m a rewards member, and so I’m entitled to a free truffle every month. The endless possibility of confectionery delight is simply daunting. I’ll stand with my right hip skewed, stretching my bottom lip with my thumb and index finger. I swish saliva through my teeth, in efforts to gain a profound understanding of exactly what I am craving. Sometimes, it’s the starfish with the raspberry filling, sometimes it’s the crème brulée dessert truffle, and sometimes it’s the caramel pecan praline, which is about the size of my face. I’ll pick out my one truffle, and the person behind the counter puts it in the token golden Godiva bag. If the chocolate is particularly arousing, I’ll nibble on it on the walk back to the office. The rare times I can resist a preemptive bite, I’ll head over to Oren’s, my favorite coffee spot, for another vanilla vice to accompany my monthly pleasure.

I’ll head back to the office, switch my Office Communicator status to “in a meeting,” and savor a few moments of blissful silence.

And then the phones start ringing, the bottom of my foot starts itching, and air conditioner starts blasting frigid wintery air into my graying head. (I’m officially at George Clooney status with my salt & pepper mane. No, really.) I lick off remnants of melted chocolate on my lips (and usually some on my elbow), and throw myself back into the game.

If I were to list the top ten most memorable moments of my entire life (quarter life crisis, bear with me), I’d probably forget to include the day I graduated from college (because I’m trying to block out the memory of smelling like a greasy pub on the day my “real life commenced”), or the day I learned to ride my bike (I might have crashed into an oak tree), or the day I got my license (I failed my driving test the first time). I might consider including the day I started threading my eyebrows, but the pain of that day might be better forgotten. And I'd probably prefer to leave out the day I realized the Freshman Fifteen really does exist. No, world, it's not a mythical monster under your bed.

I might list the night my sister and I watched Fast Five in theaters; it was the first of many later viewings of this movie, and inspired our South American travel plans (and pending nuptials with Paul Walker). I might also think about the time my mom and I got coffee at the Ridgewood Coffee Co., where we drank from real mugs and ate some sort of unremarkable pastry that tasted extraordinary because we shared it. There was also the time before my Sweet Sixteen when my father and I would practice our father-daughter dance in the kitchen; he would usually trip on my feet, and I would usually giggle uncontrollably, and I’m not sure if we ever improved. There was the time in college when my best friend followed me to the library in his socks, just so he could chat and say, “hi.” There was the time another one of my best friends and I sat in Central Park for hours on end, making observations about people and ourselves and the world, and trying out new ways of sitting, like “frog sit.” The moment my sister got into college was probably one of the happiest of my life; I could actually taste adrenaline in my mouth. The year before, I realized my (potentially far reaching) dreams of being a dancer were rendered obsolete by my arbitrary knee condition. It was my growing up (old lady) moment. There was the moment in India when my fellow Yatris and I thought we were going to be run over by a herd of stampeding bull. I had my moment of clarity last month, as well as my moment of confusion last year when Ricky Martin came out (I thought we all knew he was gay?)

Recently, I found out that a pillow which perpetually emits the sensation of “the other side of the pillow” was invented.

Feeling the calming coolness of the other side of the pillow immediately after it’s flipped in the middle of the night, is an ephemeral, and forever desired, pleasure. It’s that sensation of peace that touches your skin, allays the fears creasing your temples, and softens the blow of nightmarish realities pervading your senses. And with this invention, it would last forever.

I think I just found moment 11.

the Indian Diaspora

We're everywhere. We're in Guyana, Britain, and Edison, NJ. Stereotypically, we inhabit Dunkin Donuts and the front seat of cabs and medical schools and the receiving end of 800 numbers, but realistically we inhabit artistic enclaves and spiritual nooks and political crannies shaping the face of the entire world.

That said, the Indian dude who works at the Secaucus train station snack bar needs to stop singing Bollywood songs when I'm hungry.

Occasionally, I will stop by the little newsstand in the station for an overpriced snack. I try to balance health and frugality, and so frequently end up eating my gum. An Indian man in his fifties, usually wearing a faded suit-vest from which his belly protrudes, works at the register. He sings Bollywood songs and loudly yells to people who are buying snacks he does not like. "Hey! What is that? Dinner? Hungry hungry hippo!"

Most people are in a rush to make the train, and so being called a hippo is ignored.

Some people, like me, are part of his special club (no, I get no discounts), and so he also speaks to me in a colloquial Hindi I would only understand were I raised on the streets of New Delhi. As I grew up on the streets of Ridgewood, I usually nod and politely smile, and hope that my gum satisfies the pain of void in my stomach.

Last week, I was in a particular rush to get home since I was sick. My eyes were droopy, my face was wan, and I could barely stand.

"Hey! Hey you! Going home? Need your dinner? Food? Khaana?"

I stared blankly at him as I paid for my gum. "Yep, finally going home."

He smiled. "One day I will go home, too."

"The least you can do is ensure comic relief at my funeral."

My mother gives new meaning to the notion of "going against the grain." No, she is not a nudist, she is not a Ron Paul fanatic, and she is not allergic to sunlight. Rather, she hates birthday cake, she falls asleep in houses of worship, and she wants to free the world's horses. And, she likes talking about funerals.

While my sister, father, and I prefer not to talk about the loss of a close loved one, and would rather enjoy our Saturday morning lethargy in peace, my mother likes to lead discussions on mortality. "Old people die, and young people are born. It's beautiful. It's a circle of life."

Having experienced this circle of life through Simba's coming of age in Lion King, my sister, father, and I try (and fail) to nod away the imminent discussion on death, and try (and still fail) to veer the conversation towards Michele Bachmann or hot yoga or unopened boxes of Christmas truffles.

"Ruch, when I die, I want you to write my eulogy."

After I spit coffee onto my iPad, my mother will then elaborate. "You're funny. I want there to be lots of laughter and joy and a celebration of my life, not a commiseration for the loss."

I usually smile insincerely, and my sister chimes in. "I'm funny, too, why can't I write it?"

"Of course you can, but you'll be busy with the after party. I want lots of food, especially peanuts and tea, and lots of cute babies. Make sure they're cute and fat, the kind I would have liked if I were alive."

My father then looks up from his magazine. "You are alive."

My mother scoffs. "Make sure there is also lots of dancing. Don't skimp with this party." My father nods his head, in hopes that the conversation is close to a finish, and then looks back down at his magazine.

Since my sister is still angry that I was given the task of writing the comedic eulogy, I decide to change the subject. "Mumma, the world is ending this year, and we might not make it after December 21st, so I guess we can't have this after death party for you anyways."

Every single line in my mother's face is now infused with fury. "Ruch, don't talk about death like that in front of your sister. You'll scare her."