Although I was born and brought up in the USA, India holds a special place in my heart. A welcome respite from the sterility and order of the western world, I can honestly say that I have never felt more alive than when I am caught up in the never-ending throngs of people, noise, heat and activity that characterize India. Unfortunately, these warm feelings of nostalgic longing are not ones reciprocated by the general Indian populace with regard to NRIs. Regarded with a strong derision, most Indians are extremely antagonistic to their bumbling foreign counterparts, who undeniably, have just gone soft in their sojourns abroad. The following list aims to enumerate some of the reasons why native Indians are probably not that far off in their (hurtful, but accurate) perceptions of the typical NRI.
1. The typical NRI couldn't pack to save his/her life.
Every year when my family and I touched down at Chennai International Airport, a small bus, rented from the local travels, would wait in the wings to transport all of our luggage to my aunt's flat. The typical airlines allows for a maximum of two pieces of checked baggage (weighing 23 kg and with maximum dimensions of 158 cm) and one piece of cabin luggage (weighing 7 kg and not exceeding 56x36x23 cm in size) per ticketed passenger. On top of that, passengers are also allowed to bring on board a small handbag, briefcase, laptop etc. To date, I have not been on a trip to India where we have not maxed out on our luggage limit, and our small handbags always seem, suspiciously, to resemble the sizes of our cabin baggage roll-ons.
If you thought that was amusing, picture this. It's 10:20 p.m., Chennai Egmore Station, 11+ pieces of luggage, and 2 minutes and counting to get to a second story platform and load said luggage onto the train. 6 extremely frazzled people, 2 of whom are arguing heatedly with the over-zealous porter over wages, and the other 4 who are busy pretending that they have no idea who the previous 2 are. 2nd compartment of the A/C 3-tier section of the Rockfort Express, and now 4 disgruntled fellow passengers who watch, dismayed, as every square inch of their precious space is occupied by bulky, foreign-returned suitcases, stowed away expertly by an intimidating woman who manages to maneuver acrobatically despite her constricting sari and high heels. Add to that the thrill of dodging past bribe-hungry policemen who insist that weighing in luggage of that size and quantity is standard procedure, although for a nominal fee they would be more than willing to waive the formalities. Now, I'd like to see our Superstar handle that-- wearing those ridiculous wigs, beating the baddies to a pulp while defying the laws of gravity, and lighting those cigarettes off of shirt collars are all getting a tad old.
2. NRIs are India's economic stimulus package. Ask me what my favorite city is and the answer that will immediately pop out without any hesitation is "Chennai." Ask me why I am so enamored of the city and the answer comes out a bit more hesitantly. You see, I could respond about how the amalgamation of cultures and lifestyles, from the cheri, Madras-basha afficianados along Marina Beach to the madisaar mammis of Besant Nagar, fascinate me. I could talk about the unique architecture of the city, melding its regal British colonial past with its modern, high-tech present. I could talk about the vibrant, youthful nature of the city, or of the infamous traffic conditions wherein one always travels with one's heart in one's mouth. Or maybe I should mention Kollywood and the infinite opportunities to celebrity stalk all over the city.
In reading the previous list, you are probably wondering why I mentioned that answering the question of what specifically attracts me to Chennai is difficult. I obviously had quite a bit to say on the issue. Problem is, in all of my visits to the city I have not experienced much of the above. All of the stuff I mentioned before is the stuff of my secret desires and the product of reading any travel guide to the city I could get my hands on. Truth is, the only parts of Chennai I have actually seen are Citi Centre, Spencers Plaza, Fountain Plaza, Alsa Mall, Higginbothams, RMKV, Naidu Hall (T Nagar), etc.
Three exacting women, two jet-lagged days, 6+ outfit purchases per woman. Enough said.
3. The Language Divide. NRI children will often lack the Tamil skills to communicate in any capacity with their doting grandparents. Do not be surprised, however, when nai, panni, pisasu, somari, kasmalam, and other choice words spew profusely from their lips. Such is life.
4. NRIs are an oddly shaped bunch. Nearly 40% of all Americans are obese, a health epidemic that is attributable to the sedentary lifestyles of the American people and the prevalence and relative inexpensiveness of high-fat fast foods. Unfortunately for the NRI, even if they manage to escape the siren song of American eating and physical activity habits, a greater evil awaits them back home. This syndrome, enacted at the hands of doting relatives who feel a compulsion to express their love through food, is aptly known as I'mSoHugeINeedToBeRolledOntoMyReturnFlight. Symptoms include relatives planning the several dishes to be present at lunch and dinner just as you've sat down to eat breakfast, and severe guilt trips equating eating "too little" with disinterest and a lack of affection for the cook.
5. NRIs have strange hygeine issues. My family and I once took a bus from Tiruchi to Bangalore, thanks to the lack of space by rail, as usual. When we were seated on the bus, every single eye was on us. The reason? My mother had taken out a pack of soapy diaper wipes and was energetically wiping her seat, the window sill, the bars of the window and any other surface the wipes would reach.
Also, on a side note, only the NRI would insist on paying 300 rupees for bottled Bisleri at every restaurant, despite its virtual indistinction from the cups of water the waiter places on the table.
I hope you enjoyed reading this list and got a good laugh. Feel free to add any other observations to the comments section.
P.S. No NRIs were harmed in the creation of this post.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Half-Pint Heroes
~ This post is dedicated to Trish-the-Fish, the most kick-ass three-year-old I have ever known.~
These audacious words were actually those of a tiny three-year-old, addressed with the greatest indignation to a grown man 47 years older and probably ten times her size. Sounds ridiculous, right? But then again, you haven't met Trish-the-Fish.
When I first saw Trish-the-Fish, she was just newly arrived from Dubai at her grandparents' home in our native place in India. I was also on a mandatory visit with my family (Trish's grandfather is my father's uncle), and as tends to happen on all coerced visits to elderly family members you see for half an hour once every couple of years, the evening was not going so well. I had already stated my name and what year I was currently studying in school, which was the extent of my expected contribution to these visits year after year. That left the rest of the evening free to sip away heartily at the ever-present cool drinks and to sit back and observe the proceedings that were about to unfold.
I think the first indication of the night that Trish-the-Fish would not become one of those nameless, faceless kids I had met over the course of my lifetime and whose lack of individuality was, to be frank, thoroughly depressing, came when the aforementioned words popped out of her mouth. Hearing her speak those words was incredibly surreal, almost "like firing a fifteen inch shell at a piece of tissue paper and having it bounce back at you", as Ernest Rutherford so eloquently put it. As amusing as it was to see adults put into their place by the chastising, fire-brand three-year-old, Trish-the-Fish had an aura about her that commanded admiration and a profound respect.
I think what impressed me more about Trish-the-Fish's totally unexpected tirade was the motive behind it and what it said about her character. Trish-the-Fish's transformation that evening from adorable chatterbox to foul-mouthed Amazon was instigated largely by our attitude towards her, and all other little kids for that matter. Try as you might to hide it, but most adults, unfortunately, have developed this complex towards little kids wherein they feel obligated to publicly dissect the poor child's personality, habits, vices, etc., all when the child is also present. How many times have you heard some variation of this at a party: "You are so lucky. Your Timmy is so sweet, helping out around the house like that. Meanwhile, my Bobby still wets the bed and leaves his clothes all over the floor."In a despicable attempt to condition their children's behavior, I have witnessed many a patronizing parent utilize this technique to encourage their kids to continue commendable behaviors and shame them into relinquishing their not so commendable quirks. Like some sort of twisted, medieval punishment, the poor, manipulated children wear the testimonials to their crimes conspicuously: smug, strutting demeanors on the exalted, and humbled, beet-root red ones for the shamed.
Trish-the-Fish was the first kid I had ever met who saw through the ruse and took matters into her own hands. She refused to take the baloney that the adults were force-feeding her, all about how adorable she was and how refreshing it was to hear her endless chatter. When she finally reached her breaking-point and unleashed her fury on the adults, every fiber of her defiant being screamed:"How dare you talk about me as if I were not in the same room and as if I can not hear everything you say? Who do you think that you are, talking down to me as if I were your pet monkey and not a person just like you? Just because I am small, it doesn't mean that I have to fit your conventions about how you think I should behave. I am my own person and I will do things on my own terms." I had never seen someone of such a tender age exhibit such a sense of self-worth and confidence, and needless to say I was bowled over. It takes true courage to be able to say what you want to say, publicly and uncensored.
My one wish for Trish-the-Fish is that she may continue to find the encouragement to freely speak her mind, even if for only a little while longer. The time will inevitably come when the world will have taught her to doubt herself and all she believes in, when she will feel the need to tread as lightly around people as if they were fragile figurines carved of glass, and when she will hide her true thoughts and feelings for fear of rejection and ridicule. Until that time comes, I hope that the people around her will continue to shield her and encourage that simple innocence she demonstrates as a beacon of truth in a sea of lies and deception.
And so I salute Trish-the-Fish for teaching me what it truly means to have a spine and for encouraging me to be brave enough to speak the truth, despite the consequences.
Trish-the-Fish was the first kid I had ever met who saw through the ruse and took matters into her own hands. She refused to take the baloney that the adults were force-feeding her, all about how adorable she was and how refreshing it was to hear her endless chatter. When she finally reached her breaking-point and unleashed her fury on the adults, every fiber of her defiant being screamed:"How dare you talk about me as if I were not in the same room and as if I can not hear everything you say? Who do you think that you are, talking down to me as if I were your pet monkey and not a person just like you? Just because I am small, it doesn't mean that I have to fit your conventions about how you think I should behave. I am my own person and I will do things on my own terms." I had never seen someone of such a tender age exhibit such a sense of self-worth and confidence, and needless to say I was bowled over. It takes true courage to be able to say what you want to say, publicly and uncensored.
My one wish for Trish-the-Fish is that she may continue to find the encouragement to freely speak her mind, even if for only a little while longer. The time will inevitably come when the world will have taught her to doubt herself and all she believes in, when she will feel the need to tread as lightly around people as if they were fragile figurines carved of glass, and when she will hide her true thoughts and feelings for fear of rejection and ridicule. Until that time comes, I hope that the people around her will continue to shield her and encourage that simple innocence she demonstrates as a beacon of truth in a sea of lies and deception.
And so I salute Trish-the-Fish for teaching me what it truly means to have a spine and for encouraging me to be brave enough to speak the truth, despite the consequences.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Hairy Tales: Volume 2
The answer to all my hair-related prayers came via an unlikely miracle worker. Enter L's Hair and Nails, the neighborhood salon where one's weekly quota of gossip, mani/pedis, facials and various hair services will be fulfilled by L and her trusty army of shrieking Vietnamese relatives.
My relationship with L and her charming establishment has always been bitter sweet. To sum it up simply, L and I share a relationship not unlike that of a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law: although she does nothing but criticize, it's only because she really does care. To this day, after 5+ years of patronage, she still addresses me by "girl," and I have yet to get a facial where I am not subject to disapproving noddings of heads and greetings with loud squeals of "Look, a lot, a lot!" in reference to my apparent gold mine of blackheads. For all her shortcomings and the severe damage done to my ego over the course of our relationship, L has been an important part of my life, primping me up for all of my most major milestones: graduation, prom, senior portrait, etc. Without fail, she managed to make me look good, and I am grateful.
For several years, I had started frequenting L's to get my hair shampooed. In this time frame my already wild hair had managed to become even more stubborn and totally freaked out, to the point where even my indefatigable mother was finally forced to concede defeat and seek help in taming my mane. Whenever I would drop by for these monthly washes, the staff of L's was starting to learn a valuable lesson regarding my hair and who really was the boss......
In the beginning, owing to the fact that my mother was a generous tipper, L's minions would fight tooth and nail over who would have sole access to minister to my hair, thereby absorbing the full tip for their already bulging pockets. After a few valiant struggles with my hair which resulted in some pretty nasty wrist injuries and damage to expensive salon combs, however, L and her minions were starting to get the picture and would run away in fear as soon as I entered the salon. "Too much hair, girl. You cut it off please?" they would plead, as they bullied my mother into paying $10 above the normal price for a shampoo in order to even come near me and my hair. Now it would take all three hairdressers at a time, each wielding a terrifying section, to calm the raging beast.
There came a point in time when even L couldn't take it any more. Disappointed by my mother's and my firm insistence that I keep the length of my hair, L finally came up with a solution that we all could live with: Japanese straightening. A gentle alternative to other permanent straightening methods out on the market, L insisted that the technique would make my hair soft, supple, and more importantly, obedient. I had had doubts about straightening my hair before, as other pioneering friends had also tried the technique and returned looking as if they had risen half-way from a jaunt in the electric chair. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and I gathered my courage to try, at least, all the while preparing myself to accept the worst that would inevitably occur.
On a Wednesday morning I trudged over to L's, water bottle and books in tow. Yes, I said books, not book; three weighty, glorious tomes on the scale of War and Peace and I still had plenty of time to spare once I got through them. L scheduled me for her slowest day, and by the looks of it she had probably even shut down the store to other customers in order to concentrate her resources on the gargantuan task that lay ahead. For a good 7 and a half hours L and the minions subjected me to a mind-numbing sequence of events: flatten hair using straight-iron, coat generously with noxious, booger-colored cream, allow to sit till locks are plastered to scalp in a hardened helmet, rinse, lather and repeat again. The fumes from the cream, coupled with the shrill, incessant Vietnamese chatter that attacked my ears from all fronts were inducing a migraine headache that would give even a hangover from a bachelor's party a run for its money, and I found myself slipping into an exhausted stupor. Next thing I remember, I'm being whacked in the shoulder and a hand mirror is being pressed in my hand, while L proclaims that the torure is finally over and that I should take a look.
When I finally screwed up enough courage to look in the mirror, the first thing that popped into my mind was that someone had rigged the mirror. I did not recognize the person that was staring back at me, jaw fully distended in disbelief. If you've ever seen the first Princess Diaries movie, I was totally having my own personal Anne Hathaway-esque transformation moment (and you thought the movies were just make-believe!!!!). I really did look as if I had had a "head transplant."
As I walked out of the salon that day, I had my first taste of what it feels like to let one's hair out, free to frolic joyfully in the breeze. The next few weeks were full of other firsts as random people at my high school, who up until that point absoulutely, certainly did not even know of my existence, came up to me and congratulated me on how great my hair looked. Even our circle of family friends was overjoyed, taking it in turns to pet my new and improved mane to allay their suspicions that it wasn't just a wig, all while raving on about how gorgeous I looked.
To be completely honest, all the attention, and that too over a new hairdo, which after all is just dead tissue, was more than a bit disconcerting. I quickly ignored the uneasiness, however, and settled into my new life, living out the scenarios in the countless hair commercials that I had drooled jealously over for the past 18 years. Only difference now was that I was the girl with the shimmering curtain of billowy hair, and it was everyone else's turn to drool jealously.
Despite my new-found happiness, I continued to experience this unidentifiable, uncomfortable feeling in the back of my mind, sort of like the feeling you get when you leave home and all that pops into your head are questions of whether you left the stove on, left the door unlocked, forgot to shut off the faucet, etc.. My apprehensions were finally revealed to me when I received an email from a cousin, whose opinion I value greatly. He wrote to the effect that he would miss my cute curls, and I was completely floored. All I had heard since I got my hair changed was how beautiful I looked; never once had I heard the same thing when my hair was still curly.
It was then that I realized what a fool I had been. I sold out on an idealogy I promised myself that I would always keep, namely to respect and love myself as I was. I promised myself that I would never change who I was or what I looked like just because of what other people thought, and yet, here I was, believing other people's lies that just because I had changed my hair-do, I was suddenly beautiful. The truth is that I was the same beautiful person with or without my curly hair, and I still can't believe that I let people convince me otherwise.
The moral to this incredibly long-winded saga is this: tell the woman/man/child/friend in your life that they are beautiful, unique, and just plain wonderful just as they are. I am sure that they are aware of this truth, but a little public recognition every once in a while doesn't hurt either.
My relationship with L and her charming establishment has always been bitter sweet. To sum it up simply, L and I share a relationship not unlike that of a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law: although she does nothing but criticize, it's only because she really does care. To this day, after 5+ years of patronage, she still addresses me by "girl," and I have yet to get a facial where I am not subject to disapproving noddings of heads and greetings with loud squeals of "Look, a lot, a lot!" in reference to my apparent gold mine of blackheads. For all her shortcomings and the severe damage done to my ego over the course of our relationship, L has been an important part of my life, primping me up for all of my most major milestones: graduation, prom, senior portrait, etc. Without fail, she managed to make me look good, and I am grateful.
For several years, I had started frequenting L's to get my hair shampooed. In this time frame my already wild hair had managed to become even more stubborn and totally freaked out, to the point where even my indefatigable mother was finally forced to concede defeat and seek help in taming my mane. Whenever I would drop by for these monthly washes, the staff of L's was starting to learn a valuable lesson regarding my hair and who really was the boss......
In the beginning, owing to the fact that my mother was a generous tipper, L's minions would fight tooth and nail over who would have sole access to minister to my hair, thereby absorbing the full tip for their already bulging pockets. After a few valiant struggles with my hair which resulted in some pretty nasty wrist injuries and damage to expensive salon combs, however, L and her minions were starting to get the picture and would run away in fear as soon as I entered the salon. "Too much hair, girl. You cut it off please?" they would plead, as they bullied my mother into paying $10 above the normal price for a shampoo in order to even come near me and my hair. Now it would take all three hairdressers at a time, each wielding a terrifying section, to calm the raging beast.
There came a point in time when even L couldn't take it any more. Disappointed by my mother's and my firm insistence that I keep the length of my hair, L finally came up with a solution that we all could live with: Japanese straightening. A gentle alternative to other permanent straightening methods out on the market, L insisted that the technique would make my hair soft, supple, and more importantly, obedient. I had had doubts about straightening my hair before, as other pioneering friends had also tried the technique and returned looking as if they had risen half-way from a jaunt in the electric chair. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and I gathered my courage to try, at least, all the while preparing myself to accept the worst that would inevitably occur.
On a Wednesday morning I trudged over to L's, water bottle and books in tow. Yes, I said books, not book; three weighty, glorious tomes on the scale of War and Peace and I still had plenty of time to spare once I got through them. L scheduled me for her slowest day, and by the looks of it she had probably even shut down the store to other customers in order to concentrate her resources on the gargantuan task that lay ahead. For a good 7 and a half hours L and the minions subjected me to a mind-numbing sequence of events: flatten hair using straight-iron, coat generously with noxious, booger-colored cream, allow to sit till locks are plastered to scalp in a hardened helmet, rinse, lather and repeat again. The fumes from the cream, coupled with the shrill, incessant Vietnamese chatter that attacked my ears from all fronts were inducing a migraine headache that would give even a hangover from a bachelor's party a run for its money, and I found myself slipping into an exhausted stupor. Next thing I remember, I'm being whacked in the shoulder and a hand mirror is being pressed in my hand, while L proclaims that the torure is finally over and that I should take a look.
When I finally screwed up enough courage to look in the mirror, the first thing that popped into my mind was that someone had rigged the mirror. I did not recognize the person that was staring back at me, jaw fully distended in disbelief. If you've ever seen the first Princess Diaries movie, I was totally having my own personal Anne Hathaway-esque transformation moment (and you thought the movies were just make-believe!!!!). I really did look as if I had had a "head transplant."
As I walked out of the salon that day, I had my first taste of what it feels like to let one's hair out, free to frolic joyfully in the breeze. The next few weeks were full of other firsts as random people at my high school, who up until that point absoulutely, certainly did not even know of my existence, came up to me and congratulated me on how great my hair looked. Even our circle of family friends was overjoyed, taking it in turns to pet my new and improved mane to allay their suspicions that it wasn't just a wig, all while raving on about how gorgeous I looked.
To be completely honest, all the attention, and that too over a new hairdo, which after all is just dead tissue, was more than a bit disconcerting. I quickly ignored the uneasiness, however, and settled into my new life, living out the scenarios in the countless hair commercials that I had drooled jealously over for the past 18 years. Only difference now was that I was the girl with the shimmering curtain of billowy hair, and it was everyone else's turn to drool jealously.
Despite my new-found happiness, I continued to experience this unidentifiable, uncomfortable feeling in the back of my mind, sort of like the feeling you get when you leave home and all that pops into your head are questions of whether you left the stove on, left the door unlocked, forgot to shut off the faucet, etc.. My apprehensions were finally revealed to me when I received an email from a cousin, whose opinion I value greatly. He wrote to the effect that he would miss my cute curls, and I was completely floored. All I had heard since I got my hair changed was how beautiful I looked; never once had I heard the same thing when my hair was still curly.
It was then that I realized what a fool I had been. I sold out on an idealogy I promised myself that I would always keep, namely to respect and love myself as I was. I promised myself that I would never change who I was or what I looked like just because of what other people thought, and yet, here I was, believing other people's lies that just because I had changed my hair-do, I was suddenly beautiful. The truth is that I was the same beautiful person with or without my curly hair, and I still can't believe that I let people convince me otherwise.
The moral to this incredibly long-winded saga is this: tell the woman/man/child/friend in your life that they are beautiful, unique, and just plain wonderful just as they are. I am sure that they are aware of this truth, but a little public recognition every once in a while doesn't hurt either.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Hairy Tales: Volume 1
Thumbing through the photo albums that have painstakingly chronicled my life, one very strange detail is immediately manifest: in every single picture my hair is always up, constrained in tightly wound braids, stabbed awkwardly in turn with a multitude of black bobby pins of various shapes and sizes to keep the hair in place. For a good eighteen years of my life, this was the state that my hair had to endure, restrained securely like Hannibal Lecter in his full straight-jacket and mouth guard regalia.
My hair was always an anomaly, the one piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. Incredibly curly, what would reach well down my back when wet would suddenly retreat well above my shoulders and outwards once dry, like those huge satellite-like contraptions that neutered dogs wear. Caring for these dreadful locks was an ordeal in and of itself; I have lost several combs, which I have yet to find, within my hair’s tangled, dense mass, and several others have snapped neatly in two, unable to handle the preternatural tenacity of my incredibly stubborn hair. It would take my mother, armed with a battalion of Frizz-Ease, detanglers, moisturizers and shine inducers, a good two and a half hours every other day to calm my unruly head into some semblance of order. My mother, unfortunately for me, was of the school which walks around carrying a big stick (a lesson she probably imbibed from the browbeating nuns that ran the convent school she attended), and she refused at all costs to admit defeat to my hair, which as she accurately insisted "could smell fear." Many are the clumps of hair and bleeding scalps that can attest to the success of her methods in the war against my head.
In my hair-induced anguish, I turned next to the root of my problems, my family tree and the genetic treasure-chest--and I use that term extremely lightly--that they endowed me with. Apart from clucking sympathetically and tossing blame at the other side of the family with the alacrity that accompanies the handling of a piping hot potato-- Didn't C's second cousin twice removed have the exact same problem? No, no, the liars! Everyone knows E's sister was the one with the wild hair and that didn't get better till after she had kids-- no one had any practical solutions to offer. The truth of the matter is, they really didn't have to because the blame could in no way be attributed to any one of them. My paternal grandmother had long, thick hair that stayed an enviable raven black until she was 65. My mother's niece's own coiffure formed a well-behaved, single braid that ended well past her butt and was bigger in circumference than a can of chili-- all by the time she had turned 12. My cousin's accomplishment is actually so revered on my mom's side of the family that it places a very close second (probably to the family store, of all things, which has only managed to provide generations of our family with an identity in our native place) on our list of treasured heirlooms. Even my own sister has gentle, stick-straight hair that easily grew past her butt, gaining her membership in an ever increasing club on both sides of my family from which I was irrevocably and most tragically barred.
Relegated to the sidelines, the state of my hair had put me in an understandable funk. Indian women are obsessed with their hair, as the constant barrage of advertisements for Meera Herbal Shampoo, Aswini Hair Oil, Garnier-Fructis etc. will attest to, all showing models swishing long,thick, shiny curtains of hair billowing carelessly in the breeze. While I had comforted myself before with the fact that these models had probably been well air-brushed and their glistening locks computer generated, it became harder and harder to believe this thinly veiled illusion as I was constantly surrounded by women in my own family with hair more gorgeous than the enviable specimens in the commercials. There was little left for me to do as my ears smoked in envy, except to continue with any home remedy suggested to me, no matter how ludicrous. And for years I did just that, marinating my head in oil steeped with foul-smelling herbs and spices, foregoing shampoo for rinses with peanut flour (which only made it seem as if I had an unfortunate case of dandruff), and my personal favorite, basting my hair with slimy egg washes to improve shine and softness.
TO BE CONTINUED......
My hair was always an anomaly, the one piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. Incredibly curly, what would reach well down my back when wet would suddenly retreat well above my shoulders and outwards once dry, like those huge satellite-like contraptions that neutered dogs wear. Caring for these dreadful locks was an ordeal in and of itself; I have lost several combs, which I have yet to find, within my hair’s tangled, dense mass, and several others have snapped neatly in two, unable to handle the preternatural tenacity of my incredibly stubborn hair. It would take my mother, armed with a battalion of Frizz-Ease, detanglers, moisturizers and shine inducers, a good two and a half hours every other day to calm my unruly head into some semblance of order. My mother, unfortunately for me, was of the school which walks around carrying a big stick (a lesson she probably imbibed from the browbeating nuns that ran the convent school she attended), and she refused at all costs to admit defeat to my hair, which as she accurately insisted "could smell fear." Many are the clumps of hair and bleeding scalps that can attest to the success of her methods in the war against my head.
In my hair-induced anguish, I turned next to the root of my problems, my family tree and the genetic treasure-chest--and I use that term extremely lightly--that they endowed me with. Apart from clucking sympathetically and tossing blame at the other side of the family with the alacrity that accompanies the handling of a piping hot potato-- Didn't C's second cousin twice removed have the exact same problem? No, no, the liars! Everyone knows E's sister was the one with the wild hair and that didn't get better till after she had kids-- no one had any practical solutions to offer. The truth of the matter is, they really didn't have to because the blame could in no way be attributed to any one of them. My paternal grandmother had long, thick hair that stayed an enviable raven black until she was 65. My mother's niece's own coiffure formed a well-behaved, single braid that ended well past her butt and was bigger in circumference than a can of chili-- all by the time she had turned 12. My cousin's accomplishment is actually so revered on my mom's side of the family that it places a very close second (probably to the family store, of all things, which has only managed to provide generations of our family with an identity in our native place) on our list of treasured heirlooms. Even my own sister has gentle, stick-straight hair that easily grew past her butt, gaining her membership in an ever increasing club on both sides of my family from which I was irrevocably and most tragically barred.
Relegated to the sidelines, the state of my hair had put me in an understandable funk. Indian women are obsessed with their hair, as the constant barrage of advertisements for Meera Herbal Shampoo, Aswini Hair Oil, Garnier-Fructis etc. will attest to, all showing models swishing long,thick, shiny curtains of hair billowing carelessly in the breeze. While I had comforted myself before with the fact that these models had probably been well air-brushed and their glistening locks computer generated, it became harder and harder to believe this thinly veiled illusion as I was constantly surrounded by women in my own family with hair more gorgeous than the enviable specimens in the commercials. There was little left for me to do as my ears smoked in envy, except to continue with any home remedy suggested to me, no matter how ludicrous. And for years I did just that, marinating my head in oil steeped with foul-smelling herbs and spices, foregoing shampoo for rinses with peanut flour (which only made it seem as if I had an unfortunate case of dandruff), and my personal favorite, basting my hair with slimy egg washes to improve shine and softness.
TO BE CONTINUED......
Best Friends Forever, or How I Came to Know that Forever Doesn't Last That Long
We were the best of friends. We were inseparable- two faces of the same shiny coin, unblemished by life’s rusting ways of experience, hardship, and responsibility. Our lives entwined in a myriad different ways as we experienced each of life’s milestones in one another’s company- first days of school, summer haircuts at our grandmother’s hand, the first Christmases we would ever remember. And although we lived nearly 10, 000 miles away from one another, it was not the physical distance that would come to separate us in the end. No, in the end what separated us was the fact that we had become total strangers to one another, fumbling blindly in the dark to recover what we had lost between us.
He was the first and only boy I ever ran away from home with. We were two years old, a mischievous pair of brats who would steal medicine cups from cabinets and plant weeds in them, lining them up in tiny rows to rival my grandmother’s venerable garden. How we managed to get out of the sight of at least fourteen pairs of watchful eyes is beyond me, but we had managed it and off we were into the great, wide world. As the story goes, we had opened the latch of the front gate and walked hand in hand all the way to a busy intersection down the road, heavy with traffic in the mid-morning rush. The neighborhood vegetable seller was the one who caught us wandering in the end, holding us hostage by the garden wall, as my mother- finally catching sight of the widely gaping doors of the front gate- hurried to catch the escaped convicts before we were crushed to a chutney consistency by some passing lorry. Whether there were beatings or relieved hugs and kisses waiting for those delivered from the jaws of death is beyond the powers of my memory to recall, but what I do know to be certain is that this was to be the last such incident in both of our lives. A new chapter had dawned for both of us at nearly the same time. We were no longer the babies of the household as our ever-increasing families grew to welcome our younger sisters, and as is often the case, with the promotion came a heightened sense of responsibility.
As we grew older very few things changed between us. We continued to rule the roost of our increasingly populous pack of cousins, coming up with ridiculous and imaginative ways to entertain ourselves. Although we maintained the appearance of sparing equal attention to all of our cohorts, both we ourselves and all those who knew us closely knew that this was a well-maintained façade. I lived for his approval and he lived for mine. We were both the best of friends and the worst of enemies, standing up fiercely for one another when either one was attacked by the criticism of an outsider, and yet turning just as zealously on one another in contests to establish our superiority over the other. He was my closest confidante and I was his, and together we built our own world of understanding impenetrable to any outsider, including our respective parents.
The year when he was preparing for the dreaded 12th standard government examination, India’s vicious method of determining whether one goes on to college or not, was the start of the end of a beautiful relationship. I barely saw him that year when I went to visit as all the time he had those days was devoted to studying, eating and sleeping, with studying occupying a disproportionately large amount of that allotment. He was barely home that year, shuttling from school to tutoring to home on his ancient, though trusted, bicycle, only to repeat the cycle day after day, without rest. Although I was disappointed at missing the chance to see him after two long years, I sympathized as I knew the same process only awaited me when I returned to the States. I convinced myself to be patient- what could change between us between now and the next time I would get the chance to see him? He would still always be him and I would still always be me- school was just a minor roadblock. When we got the chance to meet again we would simply pick up the pieces and continue uninterrupted from where we left off.
In the end, it turned out that I was wrong. By the time we got to meet again, he was no longer himself and I was no longer myself. He had already spent a year in college- I was just about to begin collegiate life. We had changed a lot in the time since we last met and the childhood experiences that united us seemed ghostly specters we had left in the dust of the past for a very long time now. Our first and only meeting that trip to India was awkward- like that first middle school dance where the boys and girls are lined up on opposite walls, unsure of themselves and of each other. And now that I look back on it, even if we had gotten the chance to meet more often that trip, our subsequent meetings would still have been just as awkward. We had just missed too much of each other’s lives to remain relevant to each other any longer.
What happened between us? How could I have forgotten the boy who grabbed my hand and guided me to take my first steps into the real world? How could I have forgotten my best friend?
He was my closest confidante and I was his. And although we lived nearly 10, 000 miles away from one another, it was not the physical distance that would come to separate us in the end. No, in the end what separated us was the fact that we had become total strangers to one another, fumbling blindly in the dark to recover what we had lost between us.
He was the first and only boy I ever ran away from home with. We were two years old, a mischievous pair of brats who would steal medicine cups from cabinets and plant weeds in them, lining them up in tiny rows to rival my grandmother’s venerable garden. How we managed to get out of the sight of at least fourteen pairs of watchful eyes is beyond me, but we had managed it and off we were into the great, wide world. As the story goes, we had opened the latch of the front gate and walked hand in hand all the way to a busy intersection down the road, heavy with traffic in the mid-morning rush. The neighborhood vegetable seller was the one who caught us wandering in the end, holding us hostage by the garden wall, as my mother- finally catching sight of the widely gaping doors of the front gate- hurried to catch the escaped convicts before we were crushed to a chutney consistency by some passing lorry. Whether there were beatings or relieved hugs and kisses waiting for those delivered from the jaws of death is beyond the powers of my memory to recall, but what I do know to be certain is that this was to be the last such incident in both of our lives. A new chapter had dawned for both of us at nearly the same time. We were no longer the babies of the household as our ever-increasing families grew to welcome our younger sisters, and as is often the case, with the promotion came a heightened sense of responsibility.
As we grew older very few things changed between us. We continued to rule the roost of our increasingly populous pack of cousins, coming up with ridiculous and imaginative ways to entertain ourselves. Although we maintained the appearance of sparing equal attention to all of our cohorts, both we ourselves and all those who knew us closely knew that this was a well-maintained façade. I lived for his approval and he lived for mine. We were both the best of friends and the worst of enemies, standing up fiercely for one another when either one was attacked by the criticism of an outsider, and yet turning just as zealously on one another in contests to establish our superiority over the other. He was my closest confidante and I was his, and together we built our own world of understanding impenetrable to any outsider, including our respective parents.
The year when he was preparing for the dreaded 12th standard government examination, India’s vicious method of determining whether one goes on to college or not, was the start of the end of a beautiful relationship. I barely saw him that year when I went to visit as all the time he had those days was devoted to studying, eating and sleeping, with studying occupying a disproportionately large amount of that allotment. He was barely home that year, shuttling from school to tutoring to home on his ancient, though trusted, bicycle, only to repeat the cycle day after day, without rest. Although I was disappointed at missing the chance to see him after two long years, I sympathized as I knew the same process only awaited me when I returned to the States. I convinced myself to be patient- what could change between us between now and the next time I would get the chance to see him? He would still always be him and I would still always be me- school was just a minor roadblock. When we got the chance to meet again we would simply pick up the pieces and continue uninterrupted from where we left off.
In the end, it turned out that I was wrong. By the time we got to meet again, he was no longer himself and I was no longer myself. He had already spent a year in college- I was just about to begin collegiate life. We had changed a lot in the time since we last met and the childhood experiences that united us seemed ghostly specters we had left in the dust of the past for a very long time now. Our first and only meeting that trip to India was awkward- like that first middle school dance where the boys and girls are lined up on opposite walls, unsure of themselves and of each other. And now that I look back on it, even if we had gotten the chance to meet more often that trip, our subsequent meetings would still have been just as awkward. We had just missed too much of each other’s lives to remain relevant to each other any longer.
What happened between us? How could I have forgotten the boy who grabbed my hand and guided me to take my first steps into the real world? How could I have forgotten my best friend?
He was my closest confidante and I was his. And although we lived nearly 10, 000 miles away from one another, it was not the physical distance that would come to separate us in the end. No, in the end what separated us was the fact that we had become total strangers to one another, fumbling blindly in the dark to recover what we had lost between us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
