snow globes

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

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

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

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

very good bad day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The word of the day was swivet.

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

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

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

I had learned a new word.

the Family Circus

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

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

 

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

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






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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ruch! Please help your grandfather!"

"Ma, he said--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, everyone was just a bit cranky and hungry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's here.

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

Oh, and I'm 23.

(Seriously.)

It has happened.

(My hip hurts.)

It will stay.

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

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

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

Maybe it's just a matter of calling AARP.

my brush with fame

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

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

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

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

(I knew.)

"I mean, what nationality are you?"

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

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

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

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

(I hadn't asked.)

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

"Um, no."

(I did.)

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

I looked up, and finally met his eyes.

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

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

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

(How convincing.)

You can check out my demo on youtube."

I smiled.

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

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

My Father, the most sincere man in the world.

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

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

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

I emailed my father.

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn't last that long.

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

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

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

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

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

Spell was broken. Time to return to America.

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



Waving adios



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

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

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