When I decided to make the annual pilgrimage to the streets of Malleshwaram and Basavangudi to eat masala dosas at CTR and Vidyarthi Bhavan, I realized that, for the first time since my flight to the USA in 2011, this trip back to the city was not an “escape” from a pressing issue. No grad school pressures. No summer internship searches. No on campus job postings to track. No EAD card follow ups. No full-time job search or changes. No winter blues to recover from.
With nothing to stress about, I recall getting off the flight, getting into the car and honking my way home.
Vacation began with the mysterious turning off the ceiling fan at 8.30 am. A newly formed sweat drop now rolled its way down my forehead. I suspect the maid turned off the ceiling fan to sweep the floor. And of course, she did not turn it back on. I stared at the fan and the open door with my left eye, taking care not to wake up the moody other. I was waiting for a kind passerby who could turn on the fan.
No one came visiting.
One layer of the bedsheet came off. Then the second. A distant “soppu,” woke me up.
‘CET results expected today. Counseling to follow,’ announced the daily newspaper.
“Where is the watch I asked you to buy from Walmart?” asked an excited mother, holding a belan. “It’s for Suresh’s son. His CET rank is 432.”
I reached toward the phone to check the date. “Where is today’s newspaper?”
*
‘Studies and extracurricular activities are this topper’s secret.’
‘My son will take up engineering, says a proud father.’
‘She walked 5 km to school every day.’
The usual post results news articles.
I flipped a few more pages landing on the comics section. Garfield, my old friend, still had swag. I then did a quick read on what the stars had in store for me in the horoscope section. Finished my tea. Folded the paper.
CET reminded me of my pending trip to BMS College. I needed to pick up the 8th semester marks card.
“Lift beka?” (Need a Lift?) asked a familiar motorist as I rushed to catch bus 60A to Ramakrishna Ashram stop. “Illa bus pass ide.” (I have a bus pass)
After picking up the marks cards, I had a long chat with a friend. We met up at the same adda on campus where he had taught me unit 7 from Advanced Thermodynamics course 20 mins before the exam. That lesson got me a passing 35 mark.
The rest of the week was uneventful as well. It involved gym in the evenings. More honking in and around Bangalore. Some street food. Excessive Facebook updates. F.R.I.E.N.D.S marathon at 2 pm on Saturday.
Sundays were however reserved for Maya Sarabhai.
As I sat to watch the ‘Popat kaka’ episode of the show, already humming to the tune of ‘Guzar gaye Popat Kaka…’ it struck me that there were now new episodes online. Sarabhai vs Sarabhai Take 2.
The first video began.
Wait, where is the intro song?
I paused the video. Opened up youtube in a separate tab. Played the intro song.
There was balance in the world again.
Back to the new video.
The house looks different, doesn’t it?
It’s okay, nothing to panic. There is a new version of the Mona Lisa painting. But there is the painting nevertheless.
The old house did not have pink birds for showpieces.
It’s okay Nishanth, let it go. LET. IT. GO. Madhufufa is still the same. There comes another ‘hain?’
And then walked in Maya. Ah, Maya Sarabhai.
Wait, what’s happened to your hair?
Is that grey hair?
“This is not Maya. She looks different,” I complained, turning to my sister.
“The Maya you have in your head is from 2006. Its 2017,” she laughed.
CET results and related news articles – 60A – bus pass and swalpa adjust maadi – BMS College – F.R.I.E.N.D.S – Sarabhai – honking – puliogare point hotel was my routine in 2011.
Between chasing and waiting for things to fall in place since 2011, nothing had changed except, wait, everything had.
That familiar face who asked me if I needed a lift was the kid who was in class 6 the last time I remember seeing him. He was Suresh uncle’s son.
When I entered BMS College, I was asked for an ID. (Wait, what is an ID again?) And did I make a security book entry to enter my college?
And the conversation with my friend who taught me thermodynamics may have started off with it but ended with hair care solutions to prevent hair loss.
The Facebook posts I liked were no longer of friends getting engaged. They were pushing out babies.
When did everything change?
When did everyone grow up?
Glossary:
Malleshwaram and Basavanagudi: Localities in Bangalore, India
Masala Dosa: an Indian snack.
CTR, Vidyarthi Bhavan and Puliogare Point: Hotels in Bangalore, India.
Soppu: Leafy vegetables. Sellers on a cart walk through streets loudly calling out the vegetable names to announce their presence to potential buyers.
CET: Abbreviation for Common Entrance Test. A mandatory entrance exam to get admission into engineering or medical colleges.
Belan: Rolling pin used to make Indian flat bread.
Adda: Hangout place
Hain?: Eh?
Maya, Madhufufa: Characters on Sarabhai vs Sarabhai, a show.
That was, by the way, small talk. Nailed it. Like.a.Pro.
But learning the art of small talk was tough and a skill I acquired only when I arrived to the USA. I still remember the day I landed in Raleigh Durham Airport, the day Small Talk first flirted with me <Insert hearts here>
August 3, 2011. 6.30 PM. A to be grad/broke student (whichever arrives sooner) is fresh off the boat. Wearing a navy-blue blazer over a black blazer, (that was the only way I could “carry” both outside of the overweight check in bags) with a cabin bag in one hand and three text books in the other, I was making my way towards the plane exit.
I was nervous and scared. Nervous because this was the first evening I will miss chai. Scared because of having to go potty in an unfamiliar toilet.
People ahead of me exiting the plane came to an abrupt BMTC sudden brake halt. I almost looked out of the windows with handpicked cuss words to offer. And that’s when it happened.
“How was your flight?” asked a voice from a seat on my right. Her smile brightened up those tired blue eyes. It was Small Talk wearing a pink lipstick.
Now, I come from a country where if someone is being nice to you, your first instinct is to show extreme caution. They obviously want something from you. They will most likely steal. Thoughts like maybe they are genuinely interested in your wellbeing or that they want to help you never cross your mind. It will take us many more “Aww…this will make your day” videos on Facebook to change this hardwired thought.
I did not respond. I chose to look away instead with a million thoughts racing my mind.
Maybe she is targeting my watch? Can my multi colored watch from BVK Iyengar road be as awesome as the red toothed paan eating seller claimed it is?
Or maybe she wants my Integral Calculus books. I can’t give them away. They have been with me since Dr. AVS’ IIT coaching class in BASE (Bull Temple Road branch).
No, it must be the Puliyogare in my cabin bag. Ah, it still smells so good. It should last for a week.
I could not get her out of my head. My love affair with Small Talk had just begun.
The many first dates went well. I saw her when the cashier checked out milk and bread in Kroger. I saw her when the tattooed guy complained about fuel prices in the gas/fuel station. I saw her when the old, bald man with the white mustache in Walmart welcomed me with what seemed like a pre-recorded “Welcome to Walmart” message.
Small Talk was everywhere. She was always giving. She put me ahead of her comfort-always wanting to make sure I was doing okay.
I wouldn’t call them misunderstandings, but I felt our relationship needed some interest-particularly from her end.
She always spoke in short sentences. It would have helped if she maintained eye contact when we spoke. It must be that research and thesis that’s stressing her out. We spoke about the weather every day. It was always too hot, too cold or sunny. Never perfect. But my love deserved perfect weather.
If it was a Monday, she would complain about it being a Monday (?). If it was a Friday, she would ask me my weekend plans, quickly adding a note on traffic and bad roads.
“Good Morning Nish,” she said, as we ran into each other in the hallway today. She was looking at her phone but she knew it was me. I liked the way she called me Nish, I must admit.
“It’s my birthday,” I whispered.
“I’m good. Thank you for asking,” she announced, quickly pacing away.
I was low all day. I cried during lunch.
What has Small Talk done to me? I used to be a straight forward guy who did not tolerate brainless filler talks. If you wanted something, you needed to get straight to the point and ask me before I cut you off. And today, I wanted to take small talk a step forward and have meaningful, genuine conversations?
I decided to get myself out of Small Talk’s small talk zone. I proposed in the elevator today.
“Hold the elevator for me,” shouted a senior manager I work with, running toward me in the hallway. This dude should not try to “run.” A horrifying image of what he would look like if he fell on that Michelin tire he had for a tummy crossed my mind.
“Take your time, take your time. We are in no rush,” I shouted back.
Out of breath, he entered the elevator, took out a now brown, previously white handkerchief to wipe sweat off his forehead.
“Is it Friday yet?” he asked, now covering his mouth so we don’t hear him breathing loudly.
“I know. It’s been one of those days.”
*Ding* The elevator began her downward journey.
“So what plans for the evening,” he asked, now blowing his nose before attempting to fold the moist piece of cloth in neat rectangles.
“Nothing much, just the gym,” I responded, taking a few steps backward, away from him.
*Ding*
And then it struck me. Why am I moving away from Small Talk when I needed to get out of the “zone?”
“You know what, I want to change that response.” It was a strange feeling where I could tell I was crossing that social line and going out of the comfort zone. Anything could happen. Small Talk could say yes. We may go for that second date. It could happen right now! I was going to tell her about my life goals. I was going to tell her about my fears. I was going to teach her 5 ways to tie a garbage bag.
I turned around. My feet were facing him as well (this, I hear, is important). I made intense eye contact.
“Eh?”
*Ding*
“I am not going to lie buddy; I don’t think I will make it to the gym today. It’s because I don’t have clean clothes. I was supposed to do laundry over the weekend but was busy stalking friends on Facebook. So, I don’t have enough clothes to wear this week. I literally counted available chaddis, ran a solver in excel and allocated them across days. This T-shirt was also worn last Wednesday. Do you remember you liked the prints? It still smells okay.”
*Ding*
“I think I will get off the elevator now,” he said, making a face. I was blocking the elevator exit.
“No, you won’t.”
I pulled the stool and sat down. “I need to tell you the whole story.”
“So, where was I?”
“Oh yes – the clothes calendar. You would think I can do laundry today, right? But I can’t. I don’t have quarters. I could go get quarters but I am waiting for the paycheck. Will I get a raise this year? I need at least a $20 raise per paycheck to afford weekly laundry.”
“While growing up, I did not expect life to turn out this way. I always sat in the first bench. I did my homework, partially because I was the bench leader but I always did my homework dammit. When I went to the school day trip in Class 7, I even took my Physics text book with me.”
“And here I am in this to-be-soon-smelly situation. Laundry was always taken care of by Devarajamma, my maid. But how life has changed since I got to the USA.”
“I must tell you that I think Devarajamma has changed. When I was talking to my mother on skype, she told me she came to work 30 mins late today. And to top it off, she is asking for a 5 day vacation this month to go to her village. I think she is originally from the Mandya area.”
“My mother was tensed. I think I almost saw a tear drop. My dad had to buy her a new saree to cheer her up. When she asked me what to do, I offered her some of the negotiation strategies we developed for the supplier negotiation earlier this month. You don’t remember? It’s the one where we lost and took a price increase instead.”
“My mother however won the negotiation. She is a tough lady. It’s now a 4-day vacation. Isn’t that mind blowing?!”
“Remind me to never ask you your plans – even during performance reviews” he said, before rushing out of the elevator.
“But why?”
I did it. I continued to sit on the stool for a whole 20 mins, blushing, unaware of the elevator going up and down.
<Insert an image of the sun rising and setting. Clouds moving. Birds chirping. Dogs barking. Auto drivers asking for One-and-a-half here> Many days passed by.
Since the proposal, I haven’t heard anything back from Small Talk. She continues to talk weather. I think she has commitment issues. I’ll play along, but you know I’ll be waiting.
Glossary:
Chai: Tea
BMTC: Transport Department in Bangalore that runs local bus services in the city
BVK Iyengar Road: A road in Bangalore that sells electronic goods.
Paan: a combination of Betel leaf with areca nut often chewed for an extended period.
Its 5 pm on a Friday evening and my face-off with excel is interrupted by a text.
“Party at 8 pm at the Howling. Hope you can make it!”
Oh no, not an other party. We went out to the bar recently: November 3, 2016. It’s just April 28, 2017. Why again. Sigh.
I choose to return to excel instead.
5.05 pm and the cost actuals vs target graph still does not make sense. They seem to be pointing to opposite directions.
“You’re still here? Get out of here! You can always finish it tomorrow?” said an instant message with a ‘ping.’
“I’ve to leave early today to make it to a party,” I had lied to my colleagues in a meeting earlier in the day. <Insert a happy faced Nishanth here>
“My manager is making me work on a special project. Can’t get out of work today. <Insert a sad face Nishanth here>” I had lied to my friends.
My plan: Binge watch Narcos in my shorts eating Maggi. No human interaction necessary. No emoji needed.
I began packing up for the day still unsure if I should go Howling. There’s usually loud music and too many human beings. I’m too old for this. I am no longer 25. I’m 27 already. My definition of a good party has now changed to board games, pleasant music, good conversations and back home by 10 pm. The 10 pm deadline is within my dinner time and most restaurants close by 10. I can “party” but till 10 pm only. That’s when I go to bed.
But perhaps the biggest challenge to going out is getting ready. And it’s not even what you think it is.
The common man may put some effort to pick out outfits to wear. In my case though, the outfit chooses me. I always know what I want to wear. Negotiating with my shirt takes time. Let me elaborate.
I have a large wardrobe with shirts purchased at varying points in time. Some L. A few XL. And a few more XXL. I’d like to stop here. But they all fit me perfectly when I tried them on at the store.
When I need to wear them after the purchase though, either my head does not make it through the t-shirt, or the t-shirt chooses to not completely cover my tummy. In some cases, the two parts of the shirt button near the belly button simply don’t want to meet halfway to close the deal. Stubborn button bitch.
Now people have told me I’ve put on weight and I’ve lost weight throughout the year. But they are people-what do they know. I however truly believe the shirts and the dryers are jointly conspiring against me (and the humans). Think about it. One wash and a quick dry, the shirts shrink! By writing about this scandal, I urge you to speak up against these monsters!
I finally find one that fits me. I get ready and go.
*
Standing in a corner, pretending not to be the creep, I scan the bar and give it 3 stars. There is the usual loud music, people dancing, good lighting, a food menu (?) and bowling. Wait, food? I’m excited. I may give them a 3.5 stars after all. Do they have Gobi?
I push myself away from the wall and head toward the kitchen area to check out the menu when I am pulled to the dancing floor instead.
With a red drink in their hand, they are singing and dancing. “…got this feeling…bones…dance, dance, dance…got my sunshine…oooh…imagine, imagine, imagine…dance…”
I give the biggest fake excited smile I can make, simultaneously doing a left-right-left march. Those are the dance steps I am allowed in public. No, those are the only dance steps I can do. And if I notice anyone noticing me, I throw in a confusing Indian bobble head nod. Gotcha!
6 mins later, the music ends with a loud cheer. I think the song came to an end.
No, I know music beyond Bollywood. I have heard of a Sia chick and her song once during Apple’s keynote speech. I understood the lyrics. Two phrases in the song count as understood in my world.
“I’ll get a drink,” I say and slip away. I go get some water, without ice.
I see the kitchen again. It’s at least 40 steps away. Maybe even 60 steps if I need to go around that bachelorette party. I did not want to distract the bride to be. She had already made her choice.
I can make it to the kitchen. I’m going to make this evening count.
I take a shot of water, crush the plastic glass and leave it on the bar counter (not the dustbin). This is important. I’m being a badass tonight.
I’m interrupted by Rahul. “Bro, it’s so good to see you! It’s been such a long time! How have you been?”
Now, this guy was genuinely happy to see me. It’s uncommon. I don’t think I would be happy if I ever ran into me. So, I stopped for a bit to see how he was doing.
He had been very busy with a project.
“Oh what do you do?”
He went on to explain the financial module in SAP for a whole 20 minutes. We spoke about SAP transaction codes. He explained the procure to pay process. He spoke about warehouses. We discussed company stocks. All in all, a very good chat. I even made notes.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said.
“I just had. I’m pacing myself,” I replied.
Good guy. He was drinking an ice tea from Long Island.
I take a few more steps toward what may eventually provide gastronomic bliss. I see an unattended menu lying on the bar counter. If I can decide what to eat while I walk to the kitchen, I can save some time. It’s already 9.30 pm.
Before I could get there though, a very good looking girl gets there first. She’s just standing there, looking around, sipping some beer.
This food quest just got better. I could talk to her while attempting to get the food menu.
I take a deep breath, hold it in along with my tummy and walk up to her.
“I’m Nishanth. It means end of darkness.”
She stares blankly. Takes a sip of beer and looks away.
<Insert additional small talk here>
<Rains. Death. Crossfit. Job search>
She continues to remain silent.
Two guys approach us. One guy reaches to her hand. They hold hands. The three continue their conversation.
<insert more small talk from my end>
<MS Excel 2016. Pivots. What’s brown and sticky? A stick>
I end my speech with a “Good bye and good luck in all your endeavors.”
I pick up the menu. They don’t protest. Good people. I’m awesome.
10.05 pm and I now know what I want to order. This downtown Cincinnati bar did not have Gobi Manchurian, but they had a vegetable platter that sounded like Bajji Bonda! This would go well with tomato soup and a burrito!
I hurriedly make it to the kitchen. I had to even pass my wingman Nithesh’s idea on a slightly different quest. This was important-er.
“Yes sir, I’d like to order now. Bajji-I mean this, and this and this. And make it spicy.”
“But we closed the kitchen 5 mins ago. Sorry buddy.”
When the 6 am alarm woke me up, I was glad it was a Monday morning. I prefer work weeks to weekends. When I tell people that I dread the weekends, many laugh and conclude I am a workaholic. I would have welcomed the remark in front of the boss. I may have, just may have, got a raise. But these friends, I am sure, did not even know what I did for a living.And in any case, we all know how the conversation on “raises” go anyway. I had recently finished a review myself. I almost told my boss to keep the “raise” until it adds up to something significant. I then remembered the loan on my phone and humbly accepted the additional $20 per paycheck.
No, I prefer Mondays because it brings back the eat-sleep-work routine that I closely follow to the T. Grocery shopping every Sunday afternoon is the only allowable disruption. Work is a distraction to keep the mind occupied. Weekends disrupt this schedule. And the mind does not know what to do with the time on hand.
I get out of bed. I get some tea. I sit. I log into Facebook.
‘Martin Luther King Day Weekend Sale at Walmart’- an Ad pops up.
Today is a holiday. It is the long weekend.
I look outside the balcony. It’s still dark. I haven’t seen the sun in days. It’s dark when I get to work at 8 am. It’s dark at 5 pm when I leave work. Reheated Dal-chawal is eaten at noon under the bright tube lights of the cafeteria.
I stand up, lean on the balcony door tilting my head to the left to see if it snowed last night. A cold stream of air hits my shin through that small gap in the door. I adjust the stubborn door again. It still won.
I see several inches of fresh snow.
I go back to the chair thinking about the snow cover on the car. It took me 20 minutes yesterday to scrape snow off the car in the -15-degree weather. No, I was digging the car out of snow.
‘Enjoying the sun and sand in Florida with Vikas Shah and 15 others’
‘Eating masala dose at Vidyarthi Bhavan eating evening snacks with Akshatha S and 3 others’
‘Aishwarya and Vikram are celebrating 8 years of their friendship’
‘My husband was the best thing that happened to me! with Amar Singh and Priyanka M Amar Mehta-Singh’
‘I hope the concerned government authorities look into the matter. This video is disturbing!!!’
I see more posts. I have no reactions to add though. But its 8 am now and I have scrolled through the Facebook feed for 2 hours. Everyone is doing something productive with their life. I stop scrolling and the blue screen stares back. I could almost hear a ‘eh?’
I switch to YouTube. I stare at the homepage for a few minutes.
I switch back to Facebook.
I open a new tab.
I am not sure where to go from here.
The silence is broken by a sound of an ambulance in the distant. It passes quickly.
I close my eyes. I lay still in my chair. I can hear myself breathing in-breathing out.
The last time I heard myself intently breathe in and breathe out was on New Year’s. But the situation was so much different. What a night it was!
A group of 9 friends decided to rent a cabin at a state park for New Years. The plan was to welcome the year and go hiking the next morning. This meant a 12.30 am sleep curfew was imposed. We were determined to make it happen.
It was a 3-bedroom cabin with 3 beds in each room.
As soon as it hit 12.30 am, I diligently killed the music and the party, wished everyone a happy new year and reminded them of the impending hike next day. “But its New Years!” said Prashanth. “We can’t sleep so soon.”
I could see his enthusiasm transition into pure hatred toward me as I continued to kill the mood with a lecture. This was way past my bed time too. And just like that, by 12.50 am, we were all ready to fall asleep.
“I’m sorry Prashanth,” I said, looking toward Prashanth’s bed. “You will thank me after seeing the sunrise.”
“Don’t talk to me Bit*h. You interrupted my Kala Chashma dance. It was epic!”
I could hear Laksh giggling.
“Wait, what did you call me?”
“Bit*h! You better stay away from me you … I will get you for this.”
“It’s the alcohol talking. Do you want some filter kaapi?”
*
1:00 AM. Sleep is eluding me. I say a quick prayer: “Ramaskandam Hanumantham …”
1:10 AM. Still no sleep. I thought prayers work. I’m going to ask for a refund.
1:15 AM. Prashanth begins to snore.
Never having spent time beyond an evening with this group, it hadn’t occurred to me to identify and outcast the snorers in advance. I am a light sleeper who, given the right conditions, could probably even hear your hair grow.
1:20 AM. Snoring has hit the fan, ceiling, the four walls and me.
I tossed and turned in bed five times. I did a 180 degree flip and swapped the pillow position closer to the door. I was always told to keep the head furthest from the door in case of an attack. I was willing to risk my life today.
1.35 AM. Still no sleep.
“He he he,” I heard Laksh laugh from under his sheets.
“Are you still awake?” I whispered.
“Maybe,” came a reply.
“Dude, lets wake Prashanth up,” I whispered back.
“Isn’t that rude?” his face still hidden under the sheets.
The snoring grew louder.
“Who the ….” Suhas stormed in our room, ready to beat up the culprit. “We can hear this Bhains through the wall!”
I sat up straight on my bed. The rest of the party joined the room.
A group of 8 sleep deprived individuals and 1 overly rested individual were now sitting in the dark at 1:55 AM, Jan 1 2017 looking at one another for a solution.
“We need some white noise. I’ll turn on the fan.”
We all looked up in unison. The fan was already running ever so quietly. “Damn, where is my Usha fan when we need it.”
Google boy “Googly” Manish decided to look up a solution online.
“Here’s a 8 hour white noise fan YouTube video,” he excitedly announced. “But who can stream the video? Do you have data to spare?”
I made myself comfortable, leaned against the wall avoiding eye contact and the open question. Googly leaned on the door disappointed. He continued to search online, his faith in Google still strong. He was a software engineer. I don’t blame him.
“We need an unexpected sudden noise to scare the snore away,” Suhas said. “I’ll punch him,” he added, quickly making a fist.
“Wait, wait. Hold onto your violent streak Mr. Hulk.”
I dropped the water bottle to the floor making a “thud” noise. All eyes turned toward the sleeping lump. The snoring stopped. It changed its sleeping position and resumed snoring.
We then went on to try fake coughing over the snoring decibel. It did not work.
We tried poking the snoring belly from a one arm distance (for safety) to wake up the Kumbhakarna.
“Charge, one quick belly tap and a quick retreat.”
It did not work.
We increased the belly tap frequency to three taps a second. It still failed.
Still hiding under the sheets, we could hear Laksh taking deep breaths.
“What is he up to now?” sighed another.
“I’m syncing my breathing with the snoring. Take a deep breath in as the snore reaches its peak and let go.”
3 minutes into the meditation for restoring peace and quiet and its 2:57 AM now.
I turned off the fan. We huddled together to develop a new strategy. 30 seconds into a pros-cons discussion, we hear a “Who turned off the fan?”
Prashanth was up.
“Are you all ready to take a hike?” he asked.
I play the Kala Chashma video on my phone. I should call Prashanth, I tell the now excited self! I dial. The call connects. Its ringing. I try clearing my throat. I haven’t spoken with anyone since Friday evening. And for the first time over the weekend, I am smiling.
It’s still ringing.
‘Sorry, 9197652… is not available right now. Please leave a message at the beep. Have a nice day. Beeeeep’
I cut the call. He must be busy.
Its 11.20 am now and the hunger is returning to haunt. The stomach has started grumbling as well. I drink some water to pacify it. It still won’t listen.
I drag myself to the kitchen. The living room looks like an obstacle course with worn clothes lying around, groceries from the shopping yesterday, work laptop and its bag in another corner and not to forget shoes.
I turn on the kitchen light.
Unwashed dishes are lying in the sink piled one above the other. Recent on top. Oldest at the bottom. I have used up all utensils. I open the refrigerator.It’s as empty as my stomach. I close it to open the freezer. What was I expecting to find in there?
I have no mood to cook. Sigh. I turn off the kitchen lights and go back to the earlier sitting posture.
10 minutes pass. I’ve aimlessly scrolled through more Facebook feed. I am getting a slight headache. I need to eat.
I push myself to get out of my chair. I make my way back to the kitchen. I open and close cupboards hoping to find something to eat. I stare at the refrigerator for 10 more minutes before popping two scoops of sugar and turning towards the dirty dishes.
I randomly play an episode of Malgudi Days on Youtube to break the silence. ‘Ta Na Na TaNa Na Na Naaa…’ Oh, the sweet comfort of familiarity.
I begin scrubbing the first utensil. I had eaten curd rice the entire week, twice a day, through the week.
“I eat curd rice every day. Its tasty and healthy,” Niveditha had explained when we last met. I knew her from Class 5, B Section. She was roll number 23. I was roll number 22.
Two years ago, one month in advance, we scheduled a meet up. It was a Friday evening. We were going to eat Italian at The Cheesecake Factory.
But she had a dilemma. The foodie in her wanted to eat pasta and cheesecake. The South Indian in her felt betrayed.
So, we ended up at the restaurant to eat four cheese pasta with two parrot green Tupperware containers containing curd rice and pickle.
‘Remember the curd rice story?’ I text her. Why not call her directly?
I dial. Its ringing.
It’s still ringing.
“Hi this is Niveditha. I am not available right now. Please leave a message.”
She must be busy.
I abandon the dirty dishes and decide to pick up some food. I can pick a place on the way.
While the engine is heating up, I am sitting in the driver’s seat looking up yelp. After scrolling for 10 minutes, I close the app and decide to just begin driving.
A few minutes into the drive and I join the highway.
Where do I go, where do I go.
A few more minutes and I take exit 188.
Where do I go, where do I go.
Two lefts and one right later, I’ve arrived at the parking lot of the grocery store I was in yesterday exactly 24 hrs later.
Driving to pick up groceries was a 1 pm Sunday afternoon ritual.
But today was no Sunday. Or is it? No, no. Facepalm.
I restart the engine. I begin to leave the parking lot to eventually rejoin the highway.
*
2 minutes into the drive, I think I hear a sound.
Ring Ring. Ring Ring.
Quick Comment:
Thank you for reading through my short story. The story is part fiction but I hope you could connect to it as a reader. I intentionally wrote it in first person because we have all been through some of these experiences at some point in time.
Glossary:
Dal-Chawal: An Indian food comprising of rice or chawal and lentils or dal.
Kala Chashma: It’s the name of a Bollywood dance number.
Kaapi: Indian filter Coffee.
Ramaskandam Hanumantham: Starting words of a prayer.
Bhains: Hindi word meaning Buffalo.
Usha fan: Fan brand in India.
Kumbhakarna: a Mythological character who slept 6 months straight.
Curd Rice: a dish containing yogurt mixed with cooked rice and salt.
Growing up, when I attended weddings, I recall sitting in loud wedding halls and enquiring the names of the “uncle” and “aunty” getting married. My focus and priority was always the laddo in hand. But I did feel this sense of responsibility to know who was paying for it and the meals to follow.
This continued until recently when a distant relative jokingly asked my mother when I was getting hitched. We all had a good laugh and she responded with a “Soon.” I looked at her. She looked back with a “What.” And it suddenly hit me that I was soon going to be one of those “uncles” who were paying my free wedding meals!
Preparations for bride search began the next day. My mother had taken up the role of the relationship manager and my sister was her tech support. Mum got onto Facebook and began “liking” every picture I was tagged in. She stalked my wall for potentially disruptive posts and made a list. They called it the cleanup phase. Pictures on social media now go through two stages of approval.
Content creation came up next. My name was up on most matrimonial websites with approved pictures to support. I was shown my profile, and I must admit, was impressive. For one, I did not know I had a reasonably presentable face. And for another, the many (many) talents identified on my profile. I gave the team inputs on bride preferences – the basics – “smart and well educated.”
Outsourcing bride search seemed to be one of my best ideas. Or so I thought.
Nevertheless, we were all set.
Searches on matrimonial sites go through three stages before acceptance. The first stage is the initial phone screen where the relationship managers (most likely the parents) chat. The second phase is a phone interview where the potential bride and groom talk. The last phase is an onsite interview over a cup of coffee (in my case, chai).
The phone calls began. So did the rejects.
One asked my educational qualifications. I have a Masters in Engineering. They wanted a double Masters (Engineering and Business). Then came another asking the name of the city I resided. The girl had specific geographical requirements. It did not work out. A third had specific minimum financial cut offs. A fourth thought my nose was too big.
This was job search all over again with “We regret to inform you that you are not a good fit. Thank you for your interest,” messages.
There was still hope. I could look into profiles and call them as well!
Most profiles came with Names like “Later” and “Not Now” with no pictures either. I later learnt the ingenious logic behind it. The girl’s families did not want to disclose her name until the second phone screen.
“So you want me to look at a profile that has no name or picture?” “Yes,” came a as-a-matter-of-fact response.
There was one profile that stood out with a name called “Soon.” I thought it was a refreshing positive approach taken by the girl. 5 points for creativity. 0 for rejecting me.
You know you have not done anything worthwhile in life until your parents sit across the dining table one evening and ask you if there is someone in your friend circle who you like. I had no answer.
My mother concluded the root cause behind this lack of progress was I did not know how to introduce myself correctly. “Yes, yes,” my sister added, nodding her head in agreement. “Look at Sharmaji’s son. He had 3 girlfriends in college and got married 2 months ago,” sighed a disappointed father. How many ways are there to say ‘hi’?
With no progress at home, I needed an unbiased third party to review this issue. I met up with a wise friend.
“You are clearly Uppit Coffee material,” she slammed. “You failed to plan ahead of time. It’s not that you did not have chances while in college.”
Uppit Coffee is a term indicating a combination of Upma and Coffee typically served by the bride or groom’s family when either visits the other during the onsite interview phase.
I was taken aback. She was right. I spent time in undergrad and masters studying, working on projects and assignments. And yet, I did not have Concepts of Physics by HC Verma as my wingman.
There was an immediate need for action. After an extensive research into dating apps, the markets they serve, their competition, I enrolled myself into one. I was determined to work hard. I could not let my parents (and my grandmother, <insert random name> uncle and nosey neighbors) down. I was even prepared to stand on the highway with a “I can provide a home. Call now!” sign. The stakes were simply too high.
After weeks of swiping right and sending many, many hearts out, I got a call back.
The girl in question was good and worked in the HR department of a company. I could get to know her and also the company I was interested in. Things could not have fallen in place any better way.
