Sleep Walking Into Kuala Lumpur

It was a rough couple of weeks leading up to our Southeast Asia trip.  We hadn’t been sleeping much in the month of June or July, as we were constantly ticking off the various items on our mental (and physical) to-do lists.  In the midst of packing up our Boston life, setting up our new Brooklyn life, and finishing our actual work (oddly enough, the partners at my firm don’t let me bill for “mattress browsing”), we forgot to get excited for (and plan) our travels. 

We had the genius idea of staying up the night before our flight, so that we could finish planning our vacation (thanks, Vin), finish buying our new bedroom furniture (thanks, Vin), and finish drafting various motions in hopes of not logging in remotely from across the world (epic fail, Rucha).  It made sense, we thought, because our night time was Asia’s day time, and we would of course get an uninterrupted, satisfying sleep on our flight.  (Yes, we’ve traveled before.)

By the time the sun rose, we realized we were too tired to take the subway and NJTransit to Newark Airport.  We wanted to take a cab, but didn’t want to be subject to any surge prices as it became later into the day, so we just called a rideshare at 5 AM, six hours before our flight.   It made sense, we thought, because we could enjoy some complimentary food and other amenities in the Priority Pass lounge.

We got to the airport so early that the Priority Pass lounge was closed.  We sat on worn leather seats outside of the lounge, because god forbid we are not the first people in the lounge after the aggressive furniture shopping and answer-drafting that took place the night before (well, a few hours before).  When the lounge finally opened, we were too early for much of the food, and so we instead continued working on our earlier tasks, debating whether it was appropriate to have a beer at the crack of dawn because it was nighttime in Asia.

I was excited for my long sleep on the flight.  We were in a row of four, sandwiched between two passengers who at first seemed unassuming, quiet, and contained.  Unfortunately, the man sitting to my right decided it made sense to take up the entire armrest and lean into me for the duration of the 14 hour flight.  Unable to fall asleep with this man’s shiny head in my neck, breathing heavily into my clavicle, I stayed awake and tried to do more work and watch movies that made me cry, to lubricate my dry eyes.  Despite my exhaustion by the time we reached our layover in Tokyo, I willed myself to indulge in lots of free rice and seaweed snacks (and a bowl of hot ramen – that’s a little snack, right?) at the Priority Pass lounge, like a hero.  It’s hard to eat, sometimes, but I did it.

En route Kuala Lumpur, I passed out about 20 minutes into a Liam Neeson movie where one of his children is again captured and he proves he’s great at killing.

I woke up most likely in the middle of a REM cycle, because I could barely walk and didn’t know where we were.  Vin confirmed we had finally reached Kuala Lumpur, and I followed him to a taxi with one of my eyes still closed.

We finally got to our hotel about two hours after we landed.  We both collapsed onto the comfortable bed, eager to finally get a full night’s rest – only to discover we were wide-awake.  Vin and I just continued shopping for new furniture till we fell asleep. 

arbitrary frugality

Sometimes, Vin and I will splurge. We'll have a leisurely five hour dinner at a nice restaurant or we'll fuel several rounds of laser tag with mozzarella sticks. Other times, often arbitrarily, we'll be frugal (read: annoyingly stingy).

oh, we look good.

Like, we took a cheap flight to Tenerife, Spain - one of the Canary Islands - that required us to leave our apartment after 3 hours of sleep around 4 in the morning, flew first to Gatwick Airport in London, stopped for eight hours overnight, when even the bars were closed, before finally arriving on the beautiful island. Passengers disembarked wearing wide brimmed hats and floral dresses; to avoid paying for another kilogram, we wore sneakers and sweatshirts that matched the deepening grey underneath our eyes. We had used a $50 Olive Garden gift card the night before to buy several bags of their famous breadsticks for our budget flight, which did not provide free food; we thus ate cold, oily breadsticks in Queens, in Southeastern London, and even in the Canary Islands, as we waited for a bus to the hotel.

loosened the purse strings

Once we kicked off our bulky sneakers and washed our sallow faces in Tenerife, we suddenly decided it was appropriate to seize the day. We shopped at Zara (sale section), bought bottles of wine (one), and even dabbled in some (ruthless) rounds of mini golf. The wise words of Bobby McFerrin followed us as we pranced through the bustling streets, discarding our Olive Garden breadsticks in favor of mojitos on the beach.
That is, until we had to deal with transportation. We were flying to Marrakesh from Tenerife, but our flight was not from the airport near our hotel, but the one on the other side of the island (for similar reasons that motivated the selection of our inbound flight). We had a couple of options: take the bus at 4:05 AM (yes, again)- well, two public buses, with a 25 minute transfer in an unknown part of town before the sun came up; take a 100 euro taxi, allowing us to sleep in another two hours; or, rent a car for 50 euros (and the additional parking and gas expenses), which would be doubly useful as we had to figure out how to get to MB, where we had dinner reservations for our last night.

We thought through all of our options as we ordered more fresh mojitos from a street vendor. Maybe the sleep would be nice, since we were, after all, on our vacation and on a carpe diem kick. We spent about a half hour filling out forms and asking logistical questions and paying; we got into the car, threw our shopping bags in the backseat, rolled down the windows to let in the warm, salty zephyrs, and Vin looked down at the gear stick and said, "Oh, um, it's  not a automatic." The car rental employee kindly suppressed his laughter, immediately refunded us, and we were relegated to the bus.

The bus to MB, an innovative Martin Berasategui restaurant, took us along the mountainous coast, exposing its exceptionally manicured highway islands and the clear, sparkling waters on the horizon. The restaurant was inside the Ritz-Carlton in Abama, but, oddly, no one who worked at the Ritz-Carlton knew where the restaurant was. We asked about four or five people before ultimately pulling out our Google Maps gps. The restaurant was in an artificial cove, its otherwise silent interior peppered by the soft sounds of trickling water.

After five hours of gastronomic (and artistic) delight, we finally, begrudgingly left the restaurant. It was midnight; the last bus back to Playa Las Americas, where we were staying, was either at 11:44 PM or 11:52 PM - we were not entirely sure how to interpret the online schedule. We went to the bus stop, which was on a shoulder of a highway; there were no lights, except for the sudden flash of headlights from oncoming, speeding cars. We waited. There was no bus at 11:44, no bus at 11:52, no bus at midnight, and no bus at 12:15 AM. Vin commented that we were probably the only patrons to leave MB, or even the Ritz-Carlton in general, and wait in pitch blackness for a public bus, rather than take a taxi. I said it was not probable, but certainly a fact.

We were about to give up and go back to the hotel to call a taxi (we still had to pack and were leaving for the bus to the airport about three and a half hours later), when we noticed a post with the bus times on it. Vin quickly ran down to confirm we had been correct about the times, and had not waited in vain, when the bus loudly and gradually appeared out of the darkness. 

We got back to the hotel about an hour later, packed, and had time only for a 20 minute power nap before leaving for the airport. I was still belching truffle ravioli when we lugged our duffel  bags and backpacks to the bus stop.

From Marrakesh, we headed to the Dades Valley, Ourzazate, Merzouga, the Sahara Desert, Fes, and Paris. We had similar highs and lows - sometimes we dined at Michelin starred restaurants, sometimes we dined on the Nature Valley granola bars that had melted and congealed in our day bag (which smelled like Vitamin B from a medicine spill on our last trip to Bali); sometimes we bought souvenirs, and other times we drew pictures of the Moroccan landscape we planned to sell in the streets of New York.

I flew Norwegian to New York City out of Paris. I felt at ease in JFK; I was in my own city, was confident about taking public transportation, and had memorized the subway directions and frequency. But, I instinctually and without hesitation called a Lyft (Line, obviously), without even considering the more frugal options. 

I mean, life is short, right?

secret single behavior

When I am home alone, I like to stand at the kitchen counter in my jean shorts – even in the dead of winter – and eat thick slices of sharp cheddar cheese off a knife, as I watch The Office reruns on my cell phone.

It’s my thing.  It’s my secret single behavior, a term coined by Carrie Bradshaw in an episode of Sex & the City that I had watched when I was too young to understand the concept, too young to have developed these habits myself.  But I moved out of my family’s house ten years ago, and have since been living in the city, my preferences slowly calcifying into the fixed isolationist habits with which I now comport myself.

Now, I’m married.

My husband and I waited until we were married (although we are technically still waiting on the Orange County Town Clerk to mail us our marriage certificate) before we moved in together.  We were excited.  In anticipation of being roommates, Vin used to send me lists of the “Top 100 Knives” and the “Top 15 Dishrag Brands” and Gwyneth Paltrow’s pantry must-haves, and I used to send him screenshots of eclectic Manhattan décor and “small apartment space savers” on Pinterest.  The day after the wedding, we crossed the threshold, transforming from bride and groom into forever roommates, and celebrated with Old Fashioneds and takeout massaman curry.

Our life was perfect. Everything was pink and rosy and warm. We were actually living the last five minutes of every Nora Ephron movie (even the parts where they seem to be wearing makeup in the house).

It changed slightly, gradually. One afternoon, I put on a pair of my oversized jean shorts and went to the kitchen for a snack.  Vin was finishing some work on the desktop, and so I put headphones in my phone, and began watching The Office from the middle of an episode I had seen so many times I was reciting the lines in my head.  I decided to eat makeshift trail mix.  As Michael Scott tried to order a Gaydar online, I opened a Costco size bag of walnuts and grabbed a handful, then took several Craisins from a big bag in another drawer, and shoveled both into my mouth.  I didn’t see the utility in dirtying a bowl when I could just mix the ingredients naturally. 

“What are you doing?”

I quickly turned to find Vin looking at me, watching his once elegant bride walk around ashy-legged in ill-fitted shorts, with walnut residue around her lips.

I continued chewing. “Nothing,” I said, hesitantly, as I closed all the drawers and cabinets.

“Well, what are you watching? Why don’t you put it on the big screen?”

I swallowed my homemade trail mix.  The big screen.  That wasn’t something I did.  That wasn’t my thing.

“Well, Vin, I’m, I’m watching on my, um, on my phone.”

“Yea, I see that, but it’s more enjoyable on the big screen, and then we can both watch it together.”

I of course could not be the wife who resisted her husband when he wanted to share an experience with her, so I obliged.  After we signed onto Netflix on that inexplicably large computer screen, Vin said, “Actually, want to watch a new show? Why don’t we watch something neither of us has seen?”

I choked on a Craisin that had stuck to my molar.

“But, well, I mean, it’s easier if I’m making a snack so I don’t have to totally focus, and well…” I stammered something incomprehensible, and Vin gave me a warm, loving hug, kissed my cheek, and suggested Transparent, the new show on Amazon Prime about the transgender father. I of course could not be the liberal northeastern woman of color who resists watching a show about queer folks, so I obliged.

Unfortunately, it was a fantastic show, and watching it on the big screen was an absolute delight.

A few days later, something similar happened.  I was cooking dinner while watching reruns of Friends on my cellphone, with my headphones in.  Vin walked over. “What are you listening to?”

I reluctantly told him I was not listening to music, but watching TV, and he eagerly put Friends on the big screen, and then just as eagerly changed it to a new television show.  The desktop faces away from the kitchen, so I couldn’t see, but was assured the new show was very good.

After dinner, I suggested we drink some wine on our balcony.  I took out two crackers and cut one thick piece of cheese, and made myself a mini sandwich to take outside.

Vin followed.  “Um, Rucha? Since we’re living together now, I thought we should share with each other our pet peeves and idiosyncrasies.”

I was thrilled.  Perhaps Vin had some secret single behavior that would neutralize mine.  I pointed to the oversized jean shorts I was wearing again, but before I could say anything, he said, “Come here, I want to show you something.”

He led me to the kitchen, specifically to the crackers.  “Can I show you how I put away chips and crackers so they don’t become stale?”  He then proceeded to fold the snack bags in a very particular way, and suggested we purchase chip clips.

“Oh, OK. I usually do that, I guess I forgot this time.”  Vin still seemed tense, so I ordered chip clips online before we finished our wine.  “OK,” I said after I made the purchase, “Can I tell you my pet peeves?”

“Sure.”

“I like to wear the same pair of oversized jean shorts in the house and watch reruns of TV shows on my cellphone while I rummage for food in the kitchen.”

Vin nodded, and I wondered whether he understood that “I like” really meant “I need in order to feel whole.”    

He then looked at the cheddar cheese I was holding.  “I know you hate goat cheese, but I am going to make you something made out of goat cheese that will blow your mind.”

And that’s when I realized it – I’m married. He was just trying to make my life better.  He was performing the role of the perfect husband, seeking ways in which to make me happy.  He would hook up the surround sound system so I didn’t have to use the earwax covered headphones I’d come to love; he would toss my plebeian Shop & Stop brand cheese for one society has determined merits superlative praise; he would expose me to new television shows so that I wasn’t telling and retelling the same jokes like our fathers.

The days of my secret single behavior were over.  I was not single; there were no more secrets.

“OK, Vin.  Hey, you want to watch Transparent on the desktop?” I asked him, as I lovingly rubbed his arm, feeling warm and happy and in love.

“Um, actually, I just need like twenty minutes to myself to set all my fantasy line ups.  Sorry, it’s just something I need to do every week. It’s my thing.”

blessings from my taxi driver

People tend to think of God at three moments in their lives: birth, death, and marriage. I've seen births, I've seen deaths, and I've been to weddings, and yet, still, the only time I think of God is when I ride in a New York City yellow cab.

A few weeks ago, I took a cab to Vin's place. I was in pain underneath the weight of all of my textbooks, all hardcover, all maroon, and all stamped in gold, in an almost imperious, abrasive, unsettling gold. I hailed a cab with my left foot, and one screeched to a halt. I threw my books inside, dove in headfirst (unnecessarily), and yelped, "61st and York." As he was about to leave, I yelled out. "Wait! I think I left something in the vestibule." He hesitated, and then laughed, "I don't mind, I get good tip." I ran back to my apartment, found nothing, and ran back outside.

I sat back inside, letting the ripped, cheap leather and the soft, incomprehensible murmur of someone on his cellphone envelop and immobilize me. I stared outside, watching the city lights blur past me. I thought of my insurmountable amount of homework. I thought of my lost writing dreams and I thought of my friends, and how much I would miss them next year. I thought of how soon my entire life would change. I thought of wedding planning, of the great offense Indian guests take when, well, anything happens, and of the beauty that is in a large family coming together and celebrating you. I thought of my parents' expectations of me, I thought of my parents'  incredible spirit and energy. I thought of how, no matter how liberal or progressive people characterize themselves on Facebook, that at certain points in a woman's life - birth, death, marriage - society bears down upon her with a scrutinizing eye. I thought of Vin, I thought of our busy lives, and I thought of how I had not seen him alone, in silence, for weeks, maybe even a month.

And then I started silently crying in the backseat. 

The driver was off the phone. "So, where you from?"

I knew he wasn't talking about New Jersey. "India," I replied. "I am Gujarati." He asked me if I could speak Hindi, and I told him I understood it perfectly, so he could speak to me in Hindi if he didn't mind that I responded in a very English heavy version of Hinglish.

He was thrilled. He asked what I was studying, if I was married, where my parents were. A sudden anxiety washed over me. "I'm engaged, and I am in law school."

He started, and became very serious. "Beta, that's so wonderful. Please keep studying. Focus on school and grow. Nothing else is important. I hope you are not distracted by all small-small things. We need people like you in the law, beta. You can help us one day. I hope that the next time I see you, it will be on the Supreme Court. Beta, you will be a great lawyer, in the Supreme Court."

I smiled. "Thank you so much." He shook his head. It was nothing, he was just telling me the truth, and he wanted to know I had his blessings and he would pray for me. I wanted to reach out, through the dirty, plastic barrier that divided us, and put my hand on his shoulder, but the cab abruptly stopped in front of Vin's place, and I was jerked back into reality - a reality where it is not OK to touch an uncle's shoulder. I walked to Vin's apartment with my head held high, acknowledging all the sacrifices everyone had made for me to get to where I am. Before Vin opened the door, I closed my eyes, and for one very long, very heavy moment, I prayed to God that he give that cab driver all the happiness in the world. 

Today, I was walking from far uptown to go to school. It was a complicated walk - the Pope is in town and streets are arbitrarily closed off (in the name of ceremony, perhaps). After the second time I was redirected down the street, my shoe broke in the middle of the crosswalk. I certainly couldn't walk to school, and so hailed another cab. An older man with kind eyes and a turban pulled over. I got in and told him the law school's address. "Wait, Washington Square Park and Macdougal is the school, right beta?" I nodded. I told him I would have normally walked, and I stuck my foot out and showed him my broken shoe. He looked at me intently in the rearview mirror.

"Beta, you would have walked from here all the way down?" I assumed he was about to lecture me on how I am too frail. "That makes me so happy, beta. That is one and one half hours! Walking at your age is so good for you. People here, they don't walk, they take taxis." When I told him I was Gujarati, he exclaimed, "Oh! That's why you walk so much, beta. Very good, very good."

I got excited. "Yea! And it's good for the environment. And those subway prices are so expensive, too, right, uncle?"

He agreed. And then he asked me how old I was, expressed surprise that I was 26 (he said I looked like his 18 year old niece from Buffalo), and asked me about my parents. He asked if I spoke Hindi, and I told him what I told the other taxi driver. He told me he had been in America since 1988, the year I was born. 

I told him palak paneer was my favorite food, and that I wished I was from Amritsar, where he was from, so I could eat palak paneer for breakfast instead of dhoklas (which I don't eat for breakfast anyways). I asked him if he frequented the Punjabi deli on Second Avenue, and he told me he preferred the one on Houston and Avenue A and the one on Ninth Avenue and 21st Street. He said they had more vegetarian options, since the one I'd mentioned was Pakistani. 

As I left the cab, he told me I had his blessings. He said, "By grace of God, maybe I will pick you up in a taxi again someday, beta. So nice to meet you." I smiled. "I will see you at the Punjabi deli, uncle." He shook his head, in that ambiguous way that all Indians shake their heads - not saying no because they still have hope, but not saying yes because they recognize reality. I shut the door, and he quickly rolled down the window and said, "Beta, say hi to your parents for me."

"I will, uncle," I said, and I limped off with my one shoe, praying for him and his family, and thanking God that I met such goodness this morning.

One Story

I have always liked the idea of one. One favorite flavor of ice cream. One language spoken at home. One homeland.

It's a nice idea, but unattainable.

Tonight, the Islamic Center at NYU sponsored Aasif Mandvi, the tragically humorous, unheroic hero of voiceless, confused, hybridized browns. He read two stories from his new book, No Land's Man. The first story was about the way in which he tried to fit in at his high school in Florida, as a new transplant from England, where he had moved from his Bohra community in Mumbai. I almost thought he was reading back to me my life story; it was a story about youth and discovery and sky blue Volkswagens, not a particularized story about a larger, mythicized "Muslim American identity." The second story was about the trajectory of his inspiring and impactful career.

He then engaged the students - who came from all over NYU - in a thoughtful Q & A. People asked funny questions about light moments in the stories and for advice as Muslim artists and writers. People posed profound questions about race and religion and multiculturalism. He was asked about his perspective on the Broadway play "Disgraced," in which he played the role of Amir. In response to a student expressing her dismay and discomfort about the play's conclusion, which she said extended stereotypes to modernized/westernized/Muslims, he said that the playwright, Ayad Akhtar, was not trying to speak for all Muslims. Rather, he was just telling his story - what he was feeling, how he saw the world, how he saw Amir. It was not a political message, not a sermon. It was not his duty as a Muslim or Muslim American or American to spread awareness about his "cause" or "group." It was just one story. It was his story.

No matter how hard I try to fit my story into a neat package - a package of Indian American or American Indian or New York City or Law Student or Ridgewood or Woman - I can never get it to really stick. I do not adequately represent any one thing or any one person. Mandvi advised a student about this constant tension, that nauseating, irritating, gnawing sensation we have lived with in seeking to define ourselves. He said, "Your multiplicity is your source of power."

I will never have just one. I like Bailey's ice cream and mint chocolate chip ice cream. My mother blesses me in Gujarati and my father praises me in English. The boundaries of my homeland begin in Ahmedabad and end in New York City. Amid the versatility and the colors and the languages and the insecurities and the tragedies and the bounty, there is not one of anything - except, perhaps, one story. My story.

New York, you make my heart feel full.

I fell in love with New York all over again this weekend. As more of my friends and loves grow up, grow fast, and grow out of this beautiful island, I find myself fervently defending the one place that has always been good to me, that still nurtures and teaches me, that still cherishes me, as if it's still the first three months of our relationship, not the first seven years.

This weekend was the first in almost two months that Vin and I could explore our city--without phones, impending deadlines, or any thoughts at all, actually. My mind was finally blank, and I wanted to go to Brooklyn.

I had not been to DUMBO in years. In college, Manu and I used to eat spoonfuls of Nutella on the rocks looking out over the East River, giggling about all of the nothingness. Now, Vin and I took the A to High Street, and I immediately felt transported to seven years ago. I directed him down towards the river, and walked by construction enclosed by artistic pictures with captions that made no sense. It was lovely.

This caption was for an unrelated picture. We decided to justify it.

While blank and blissful, we were also desperately hungry. We decided to turn left, to Gran Electria, so that I could finally cross it off my bucket list. We walked past the bar in the front and through the small dining area in the back, amid the quirky black and white wallpaper, and into a beautiful garden, outlined by a string of lights. Couples were sitting on the same sides of tables, hand in hand, and waiters of all genders were wearing incredibly short shorts. The brown paper menus explained the various local farms and vineyards from where the organic ingredients were hauled. I smiled. We were in Brooklyn.

I am not proud of taking pictures at lunch. But, I did.

The drinks were made with fresh, whole, colorful ingredients--entire jalapeños, cold cucumbers, bright red pepper--creating exciting, earthy flavors that turned our drinks into true bebidas.

We ordered the setas quesadillas with quesillo cheese and oyster mushrooms (another thing I've fallen for over the last year and a half), and I got the rajas tacos.

Everything was clean, and delicious.

After lunch, we headed back down towards the river. We walked by the long Grimaldi's line, snickering at the visor toting tourists who waited on this excessive queue, secretly wishing we had the courage to do the same. I then wanted to ride the merry go round by the river with the other kids, but the line was just as long as the one for pizza,  and we instead walked to the water and watched the boats and the dozens of wedding parties posing for East River photo shoots.

Vin wanted dessert. We ventured towards the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, where we met yet another line. "What is everyone doing on line?" Vin shrieked in desperation (he has a sweet tooth). Though the afternoon had been filled lots of lines and lots of waiting, I felt actually grateful for a prolonged quietude. It was our last summer weekend together, and I had become incredibly sad.

But Vin was thinking about cookies. "Let's Yelp this." And then he listed the various places we could walk to for dessert. We got one thick, creamy hot chocolate from Jacques Torres to share, and then walked through Almondine and One Girl Cookies to make sure that we didn't want (or couldn't stomach) anything else. We sat on a bench, staring at more wedding parties (specifically, at brides in bedazzled, hot pink wedding dresses) taking pictures on the cobbled streets in front of Galapagos, and noticed a dark green, fully functioning trolley, with tracks that literally led to nowhere. We didn't question it. We smiled. It was Brooklyn.

After dessert, we wanted appetizers. We saw a chalkboard sign for $1 oysters at the cafe next door, Atrium, and swiftly welcomed ourselves. We ordered more bebidas, potions comprising ingredients we had never before heard of (what the hell is velvet falernum?). We also ordered a side of roasted kale (Brooklyn delicacy) and potato bread that was so hot that it steamed (and burned tongues) when we sliced it open.

We walked back towards the East River Promenade, where Vin got excited by a poster advertising a pool. He had actually been wearing neon pink swim shorts all day, instead of pants, since our weekend plans initially involved the beach. He looked at his pink shorts and then to me, in anguish. "I could have totally gone swimming today. Let's go see this pool."

And so, we walked through the entire promenade, by the construction of the new apartment complex, the roller rink, kids racing on scooters, and the many bright wildflowers and posies and petunias that littered the edges of the walkway, flush against the horizon. Vin walked on towards the pool, and I sat down on the ledge, staring into the glowing sky.

Summer was coming to a close. We could not find the pool, and the sun was soon setting.

We had to get back to Manhattan. Of course, the freest way to do so was walking the Brooklyn Bridge, and so, like I first did when I was 18, we strolled across the bridge, bumping into tourists posing for selfies and cyclists trying to kill everyone. We left our day in Brooklyn behind us.

On the other side, we ventured to Beekman Beer Garden, through an outdoor movie in a brick alley, only to find the garden had closed, permanently. Nervous about ending the night, we decided to watch The Most Wanted Man, feeling as though a celebration of one of our greatest artists was the only other activity befitting of such an evening. We waited for the movie at the nearby Pierre Loti, where we tried their famous haydari with warm pita (and loved it). And then we went to the theater, where a satisfied Vin fell asleep with his mouth open, and I discovered old gummy bears in my purse (win-win!). The film was tragic.

And our summer officially ended.

In his latest memoir, Joseph Anton, Salman Rushdie explains that the questions of life he knows how to answer are only those of love: "Who do you love? What can you leave behind, and what do you need to hold on to? Where does your heart feel full?"

For me, the answer is, and always has been, and always will be, New York City.

Though, someone who crosses the Brooklyn Bridge with me, hand in hand, into the sunset, in utter silence, is a close second.

good bye, summer.

My Mother's Daughter

When my mother was 25, she had already had her first daughter--a shrill-voiced, underweight one-year old, who was desperately attached to her. Together, they explored a new city, Delhi, traversing the paved and not-so paved roads in search for nothing else but ice cream, because in each other they had found the whole world.

24 years and several cities (and countries) later, I find myself in the same position. My voice is embarrassingly high-pitched, and my partner even finds my bony shoulders too fragile (read: "creepy") to touch. And, still, when I'm with my mother, I have everything.

As a transplant from another country,  I have struggled much of my childhood to find solace. I felt compelled to construct an identity that was digestible--a Hindu, an Indian, an American, an Atheist, a hipster, a conservative, and, my least favorite, the exotic girl (both in "Indian" and "American" circles). I was none of the above. Rather, I was in a state of constant recalibration, determined to figure out how to present myself, not only to the world, but to me. The only place in which I found a sense of home was in my mother. Her stories, her wisdom, her raw and authentic and brilliant sense of humor transcended the stark lines in which I was trying to color myself. My identity was simple, clear: I was my mother's daughter.

As I grew older, however, I thought to craft my identity against that of my mother. Unguided, lost, I began to reject much of which she taught me. I rejected the sciences, convinced myself I was bad at math, had boyfriends, had my heart broken. I wanted to be a world famous journalist. I told her I did not believe in marriage, that my husband would be a renowned chef so I didn't have to spend my time cooking (yes, ironically, those two ideas in the same breath--I might also add I rejected her sense of logic). I wanted to model, to act, to dance. I did not want to have children at 24 (and that ship has sailed now anyways).

And, the worst part of it was, she fully supported me in everything I did. As long as I was happy, she would say, she supported me 100%. My need to create my own self, in the interstices of what she had instilled in me, could only ever be superficial--there was nothing I did that was not inevitably a byproduct of my mother. My dreams, my restless need for adventure, my rejection of convention (if worth rejecting)--though she might not even realize it-- comes from her.

Through the years, I have also found her to be absolutely correct about, well, everything. She grounded my restlessness, stilled my racing mind. I sometimes find myself still seeking her approval, even when she is not around. I find myself excited to make Vin dinner, eager to decorate my new home, motivated not to just do well in law school, but to make it the best three years of my life. The older I get, I feel myself growing--not up, but into, into a woman who found joy in her family, in her home, and who did her work not out of obligation, but out of love for everything she ever did.

I can only hope to grow into the woman who not only gave me life, but taught me how to live it.

I am my mother's daughter, and nothing else.