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."

All celebrities have to start somewhere.

RMR-Debut

RMR-A Capella

RMR-Obama 2012


Stay tuned!

burn your fancy candles, eat pizza in your prom dress, and tell her, "I love you."

330-something days till the world implodes.

(No, it may not necessarily end, but the very fact that large waves of people still bow to the likes of defeated Michele Bachmann as she leads the nation's moral recovery [post-Obamacare, no doubt], speaks to the steep decline in our global welfare. The Economist now talks about an imminent "sub-Saharan Spring," China and India are up in hydropolitical arms, and it barely flurried once this entire winter. Human development has progressed to its peak; the social institutions of marriage, government, education, and medicine have ceded to carnal desire [#willworkforfood]. Science, cultivated over centuries of meticulous research and analysis, has ceded to the whims of the one social construction that has sadly maintained: religion.)

In fact, let's just say the world will explode. Seriously, the Mayans were on top of their shit.


At the risk of sounding like a poor cocktail of Oprah, Simple Abundance, and the usual trite New Year's carpe diem sentiments, I must say that this is the year to claim. It's the year when you travel to Zimbabwe just because it was the only Z-country you could think of when you played Scattegories; it's the year when you wear fuscia pants to work, even if it's a Wednesday; it's the year when you burn your fancy candles, the ones saved up for a special occasion.


It's the year when you rid yourself of fluff--of the shapeless pink dress in your wardrobe, that will only increase in its aesthetic horror, of the friend whose lies you continue to forgive, of the piles of miscellaneous papers gathering dust under your bed.


This isn't like any other new year, when you resolve to lose weight, work harder, and "be better." The time for nebulous goals has passed. In fact, the time for all goals has passed. Wistfulness ends. Fantasies end. Delusions of friendship, of happiness, of success end.

The time has now come to just do.

This is the last chance we have to turn our dreams into reality. All wishes must be fulfilled. All fantasies must be carried out. And the delusions upon which we have built our lives must crumble in the face of our own awakening.


On December 21st, if we're all still here, then we'd have spent an entire year living life, not just surviving. And if we're not, then we'd have spent our last year without secrets, without regret, without the uncomfortable uncertainty that the girl you've fallen for is yours for the taking.


Ten bucks says, she is.

And the clock's ticking. 

fingernails grow back.

My best friend's dog bit me about four months ago. My finger was in pain and quite mangled, but after a heavy dose of antibiotics and compulsive slathering of topical ointments, the bites soon faded, my skin grew back, and my finger looked almost human.

(Almost.)

While there were no traces of trauma on my finger (insert plug for Neosporin), my finger nail was cracked in the middle. After three months, the crack only worsened, and what was initially a slight discomfort grew into a routine nuisance that prevented me from running my fingers through my hair, typing without a Band Aid, or eating spicy food with my hands. After I returned from India, I discovered the snag had become a hole in the middle of my nail. 

I was permanently damaged. I was 23, had three white hairs and a dosa belly. I had a flesh wound without even having joined the CIA (yet).

And so while I sat in a corner and wailed about the end of  my life, my mother stroked my hair and told me what she tells me whenever I have been hurt, wounded, punctured: "Let it air. It will soon grow out, beta, and you won't remember it ever pained so much."

So I aired it (much to the dismay of work colleagues and unsuspecting subway car passengers who were forced to be in proximity to the flesh). I threw caution (and all my Band Aids) to the wind, and as I consumed myself with life, I did not realize my nail bed was slowly and steadily restoring itself. I promised myself that I would get a manicure (I actually hate seeing paint on my nails) once it was healed. The hole had moved up several millimeters. Diaphanous fibers had begun to germinate.

I was cured. 

At least, I was en route.

Vestiges of the wound now remain only in the crooked tip of my nail, and in a subtle dent right in the middle that I can only feel with the pad of my other index finger. It was an ephemeral pain (unlike my three white hairs, which have refused to budge), and it's been rendered obsolete with the new year.

I am getting a manicure on January 16th.

And all I did was air it out.