Nishanth S Coontoor

It’s about 9.30 pm on a humid Friday in downtown Cincinnati. We are playing pool at a local watering hole. And I think I just won.

Tak!

“Did I just win!? Wohoo! High five!”

I raise my hand in excitement. I get no response. The waitress however walks over and hands me a bill. 

“But there is another white ball on the table. I can still win. Hic hic!” said a friend now filled with several glasses of red wine. 

He picked up the ball and dropped it in the pocket.

“SEE! I did it! I think I won. Not you. I won. You’re a liar just like my professor. I won. I can finish my thesis.”

I gave up.

“Okay, let’s go join the others. And this bill is yours. Here, take it.”

“…professor…graduate…defend…proposal…” he continued to murmur.

“And you need to sit down. Try this drink.”

I hand him my glass.

“Hat you drinkin’? I’m a connoisseur of wine – not a bewda (drunkard),” he insisted.

“It’s called H2O light. It takes a while to hit you though. You will be fine. And its free,” I assure him.

When we reached the comforts of the corner couch, the gang decided to play ‘Never have I ever.’

The game was simple. Each person takes turns to share an unbelievable experience in one sentence starting with a ‘Never have I ever…’ Others guess if it is true or false followed be the revelation. For example, never have I ever got arrested. Or never have I ever gotten someone fired at work. Or never have I ever won a lottery.

I was feeling pretty badass that evening. And it was not even because it was 9.55 pm and I was not in bed!

Anyway, I had an unbelievable story in mind. Remember those signs on highways that say ‘No stopping or standing or parking’? I was once a rebel who stopped in front of this sign to switch seats. For the 2 minutes that I had stopped, I lived the thug life. Yeah, I was a thug once, bitch!

For some reason, as the game went on, my story started to appear dull. I frantically started searching my head for a story. It was empty. No, no, the part of my head that has stories, not my head per se. But then again it depends on who you ask. Let’s just not go there, please okay thank you.

“So, what is your wild streak story buddy?” asked one.

“Never…hhhmm…never…hhhmmm…”

I could almost see the ‘Still Loading. 78% complete’ Windows 95 dialog box in front of my eyes. The brain was working. About time, I’d say.

And that’s when it happened.

“Never have I ever sat through 2 hrs of today’s Hindi and Kannada TV serials and survived to tell the tale.”

There was pin drop silence. Aishwarya looked at Rahul. Rahul looked at Nithesh. Nithesh looked at Ayush. Well, Ayush was looking at a chick all evening. 

Clearly, everyone was speechless.

Rahul stood up and pat my back to comfort me with a ‘Aap theek ho?’ (Are you okay?)

Aap? Respect? That’s a first. 

I was offered a full glass of water.

“Take your time. You’re such a brave man.”

*

It started when I was in India recently for a vacation in a vacation. It’s a complicated story. I began to reminiscence my childhood days over a hot cup of Complan – the complete planned food.

Growing up, my weekday routine involved school, tuition, play, TV and homework. I would finish tuitions by 6 pm. Finish playing by 7.30 pm. (My dad had strict rules that kids do NOT stay at home in the evenings. During tests and exams, I had to beg him to let me stay at home and study). In the meantime, my mother would finish watching her batch of Tamil serials between 7 and 8 pm.

The TV would be mine between 8 and 9 pm. This was followed by news during family dinner before opening our doors and shutting down logic to Ekta Kapoor at 10 pm. 

This was the era of Instant Khichdi, Hatim, Son Pari and the new Star one channel. I also grew up watching Hum Paanch, Idhar Udhar, Dekh Bhai Dekh, Small Wonder, Malgudi Days, I dream of a Jeannie in a bottle and Sarabhai vs Sarabhai.

Sunday mornings were reserved for Rangoli, Mahabharath, Ji Mantri Ji and Musafir Hoon Yaroon. The good old days. I still watch some of these shows during downtime to reboot.

I have no clue what’s on Indian TV today in 2017 though. That evening, I challenged myself to get out of my comfort zone of Game of thrones, John Oliver, Silicon Valley, Parks and Recreation and instead watch the TV that brought us three Mihir Viranis.

I sat with mum to watch my first serial. She was watching a Kannada serial called Brahmagantu (Sacred knot, in English).

It’s the story of an overweight girl called Geetha. She is a lively and a good person but, yes, believe it or not, it’s a deal breaker – fat. She will eventually marry Lucky, a fit guy who is a wrestler. The serial, I presume, is about how she gets from her current position to eventually marrying the guy with the possibility of some ab workouts along the way to lose weight.

“I am not watching these stupid serials. I’m going to watch football,” my dad declared, before abandoning his wife and kid (me). He had invested in a second TV the day the world realized Mihir Virani was indeed – alive.

He walked away to the bedroom.

The scene playing on screen had three characters. Geetha, the obese and two other ladies. They were about to eat some rotis (Indian flat bread).

One of the ladies, my guess is out of love, decided to feed Geetha. Actually, I take that back. She said so herself because the dialog was followed by a sentimental music and tears.

Anyway, the camera focused on the roti. You guessed right-she tore a small piece (step 1 complete), and was about to feed Geetha (step 2) when it happened.

Geetha stopped her.

The roti had a thin layer of ghee!

The frame paused for a moment.

“Oh ho,” gasped my mother.

Geetha was trying to lose weight or the societal understanding was that she had to lose weight – I am unsure.

My dad walked in to ‘get some water.’ He ‘casually glanced’ toward the TV and asked if Geetha gave into her moment of weakness.

(Wait, he knows who Geetha is and what was going on? Is there really a football match today?)

“She still hasn’t eaten,” advised my mother.

He declared this was a stupid serial and disappeared to the bedroom again.

Anyway, back on the serial, the three ladies were again filled with tears. That piece of ghee-wali-roti still in the frame.

The ladies were trying to comfort Geetha. They empathized with her. They discussed life. They discussed her good nature. And at the end of it all – it boiled down to her wedding. How could she find love if she was fat?

20 minutes into the dinner scene, the serial ended abruptly as my dad appeared (again) out of nowhere asking if Geetha ate her roti.

“Not yet-maybe tomorrow,” replied my mother.

That day, dear Miss fat Geetha sacrificed ghee wali roti to find love. What did you sacrifice for love?

Soon, it was time to switch scenes and enter the life of a rich family based in Rajasthan. The Hindi serial was called Peheredaar Piya Ki (The One who takes care?). It had hukums, palaces, luxury cars, money and gold, servants and of course, enemies to defend them all from.

“It’s a new concept,” explained an internet reviewer.

5 minutes into the serial and I realized that it’s about a 10 year old kid who gets married-like for real married-to a woman at least 2.5 times his age!

I was done for the day. I could somewhat relate to Geetha giving up ghee wali roti to lose weight because I was trying to eat right as well. But realizing that the kid (with money) got a girlfriend while I had failed in this project was too much to handle.

The family agreed and we went back to watching Arnab shout at his guests.

That was day one. I was doing relatively fine. I was a little disturbed but nothing that Hanuman Chalisa by MS Subbhalakshmi could not solve.

For day 2, I was feeling a bit courageous. While Geetha and her family were still deciding who will eat the roti, I picked up my personal laptop, declared that I had “office work” and was not to be disturbed. I was going to dare to watch Sasuraal Simar Ka (The household of Simar). I locked the room for privacy.

I sensed an awkward silence. I quickly went back and clarified I was going to watch an episode to blog about later. It was necessary.

I opened Youtube. There were no full episodes. Each clip was about a minute long. Maybe it was a good thing?

The first clip showed the entire family sitting at the breakfast table all dressed in fancy clothes. The ladies were wearing heavy jewelry and the guys wore those costly sherwanis only dry cleaned and reserved for your rich friend’s wedding. The servant was about to serve rotis (again) when the mother-in-law stopped her.

The enlightened and learned mother-in-law explained how it was unhealthy to eat heavy for breakfast. She wanted fruit instead. She was about eat a piece of fruit when she was interrupted (again) by a fly!

And guess what? The fly is Simar (the main character in the serial!) I bet a hundred flies you did not think of that!

So, Simar, the dutiful, designer saree clad, red bindi daughter-in-law has been cursed to become a fly because she disturbed a meditating saint. Yes, it’s for real!

The clip ended. I stared at the laptop screen. I did not know what I was feeling. Do I need to find this funny or should I be sad for Simar? Maybe I need to feel sad for myself because I unknowingly walked into this challenge of watching a new TV serial. What am I doing in life? Why am I doing what I am doing?

Youtube’s autoplay was unstoppable. The next episode introduced a Witch attempting to kill the mother-in-law, a now human Simar trying to fight her with swords. Another introduced an aunt who is really a gangster in the reel life. She could easily pass off as anyone’s adorable mother but she was a gun wielding gangster.

A third clip-from a different serial called Nagini took me through the trials and tribulations of a daughter in law who is a snake! She can transform between being human and a reptile. She has fallen for her human husband who does not love her but agreed to marry her? This series had a concept upgrade though-it had 2 honeybees who could turn into their human forms on the fly. Thapki Pyaar Ki, another serial, has a gorilla in love with the lead.

I immediately closed my laptop screen. I pushed it one arm’s distance away. I still felt threatened. I pushed myself to a corner.

I could hear Geetha’s voice through the door. The serial was still on TV.

I laid on my side in a fetus position. I did not want to ever leave the room. The reel world of 2017 was scary. It isn’t meant for a 90s kid. I am happy being stuck in the 90s TV world of Monica and Chandler, of Sunnu and Punnu and Sudhir, of Swami and Vicky.

It took me several weeks to recover from the shock and return to normalcy. I’ve had some panic attacks but I made it through. During a conference call with a warehouse manager and the Vice President at work, I saw a fly enter the conference room. For a minute, I thought it was Simar. I blanked out with fear. Then I realized that there is no way that Simar can get a VISA to come to the United States. And thankfully it’s a long way to fly for a fly from Mumbai to Cincinnati.

I am scared of flies. 

Nishanth S Coontoor

“Y’all sing well, bless your heart. Y’all could be heard nine miles yonder.”

“Oh shit! Oh, well.”

*

When Shreyas, a friend from sunny Cali ringed me up one day to tell me he wants to come visit Cincinnati, my response was, “Why?” Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not a placist. I love all places irrespective of their geography. I spent 3 years in a small town called Peru, Indiana contemplating my life choices living alongside the Wabash river with an occasional deer for company. I was concerned for him. Will a Californian be able to survive the mid-west?

“Listen, nammooru (my city) is not big. You won’t get to explain complex directions at a stretch.” (Per Saturday Night Live’s sketch titled The Californians, I am to understand that Californians spend time explaining highway routes?)

“I can show you Cincy in half a day. Do you like Patel Brothers?”

But he was adamant. “Okay, in that case, let’s go to Nashville, the music city?” he suggested.

“Nashville? Oh. Hhmm…Music?”

“Why, what happened?”

I hesitantly agreed that day. How could I tell him my secret, deep, unresolved childhood music issues I had been hiding from myself and the world? A recent post on Facebook by a friend showed him singing on stage at a downtown bar. Is this what I will end up doing?

Music city Nashville reminded me of the childhood ‘incident.’

It was a rainy day. There was thunder and lightning. Suddenly, the power went out! I heard a distant cry…no, no wait, that’s a different story. Sorry about that. The head is tired. This is past my bed time. We will come back to it in another piece. There was nevertheless an ‘incident,’ but my love affair with music started as a happy one when I was in Class 5.

My sister and I joined Carnatic music class along with other kids in the apartment block. 3 days a week, every week, we diligently went to class to sing the Sa Re Ga Ma Pa. I was good. I was very good. I was very, very good. I never sang solo, so don’t know how I sounded, but it’s the self-belief that counts, right? We all sang in unison during class.

Soon, we moved on from Sa Re Ga Ma to SaSa ReRe GaGa MaMa. Then to SaSa MaMa ReRe GaGa. And then to geethas. I still remember the day we started off with Lambodhara…I had eaten Bisi Bele Bath for lunch.

Around this time, I got an opportunity to take part in a music competition in school. I could neither make it to the school choir nor the kho-kho team for reasons I simply don’t understand, but I was determined to find my calling. I enrolled myself. There were no entry requirements.

I went to music class that evening to share the news. I was going to make my guru proud.

“What shall I sing in the competition tomorrow? Can I practice the song in front of you?”

“Sari (Okay). Let’s finish the class. You can sing this one-see, this one, here, at the end of the class. We have been singing this all year-you know the lyrics well. Sari-ya? (Okay?)”

That was the first time I waited for the class to end. (End of class meant homework time. And who wants to go do that Algebra homework?)

“Okay, give us a preview of what’s to come.”

And that’s when I sang. I sang my heart out. I sang as pleasantly as the cool, early morning Bangalore air, with an occasional bus coughing up black smoke. I sang as balanced as the Shavige Bath you just made – until you eat it – and you realize you haven’t evenly mixed salt and there are lumps of plain cooked shavige here and there. I easily put those local Mumbai train singers singing “Pardesi, Pardesi…eh, eh…Jaana Nahi” to shame. I got this.

Two girls in class began whispering to each other. My ‘friend’ sitting next to me pretended to adjust himself and distanced himself. Three others were covering their laughter. My singing must have moved their hearts. Those are happy tears. My mother had a blank expression on her face. Her eyes now wide open in a pleasant (?) surprise. The music Maami was avoiding eye contact and looking at the tubelight (?) (Salman Bhai fan?)

A possibly spellbound on-looker disturbed the shruthi box. It fell to the floor with a “thud.” The shruthi (music) died. And along with it my musical.

I think I heard a ‘Ayyo shivane!’ (Oh Dear God!). Yeah baby, thank the Gods.

There was pin drop silence. I was waiting for my applause.

The music Maami and my mother exchanged glances. Their non-verbal communication ended with a nod.

“How was it Maami?” I asked.

“Kids, the class is over. Go home. Practice this week. Tell bye-bye to Nishanth.” Bye Nishanth.

The teacher and my mother had a ‘meeting’ in a distant. Parent-teacher meetings are never good news. But I was not worried about this one.

On the way home, my mother brought up the fact that I should learn the tabla.

“Why?” I asked, my hands full with butter biscuits in one hand, and hot puff in the other from Variar bakery.

“Just like that. You have learnt enough music. Tabla has more scope in the future.”

“Okay – but music classes along with Tabla classes? I won’t have time for tuition classes.”

“You know what, you are right. I did not think about it. Let’s drop the music class. You will have some time to play then, right?” she reasoned.

“Duh? Sometimes I don’t think you are smart amma (mom).”

“Yeah, I know. Are you still taking part tomorrow?” she asked, referring to the music competition.

“Yes, why not?”

It took me 3 minutes – the duration of the song, the next day to realize that my mother was the smart one. 15 seconds into the song, in front of an audience of 500 students, I remember coming to an abrupt pause.

Is that how I sound? Is that my voice on the speaker?

Yeah. It was all me baby.

The whispering, laughing and stunned look on everyone’s faces from the evening before finally made sense. We should have solo performances in class, I told myself. The ‘Gumpal Govinda’ (blending into the crowd) strategy did not help me.

*

When we stopped for brunch at a Waffle House near Tennessee, I hesitantly asked this Cali guy if he plans to sing some country music while in Nashville. He was overwhelmed with the Waffle House menu to immediately respond.

“I reckon you will throw a hissy fit. We don’t got no gluten free, y’all,” the server responded. “Here’s the water.” Bam!

“I have bigger concerns man. Look at the menu,” he pointed, clearly frustrated.

“And by the way, we don’t call California ‘Cali.’ And I am from The City (referring to San Francisco). We don’t do ‘directions’ either. That’s all SoCal.”

Nashville is called the Music City. It is known for Country music. The city has the famous Grand Ole Opry, among other landmarks. We chose to start with a tour of the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum.

The museum explained Country music evolution in generations. Ever since the ‘incident,’ my music knowledge plateaued at MS Subbalakshmi. Country music was far from my imagination.

This record label poster will make a good profile picture. No, this guitar will make a better one. Maybe I should check-in to show I have diverse interests? My head was swamped with very many thoughts.

My friend however was lost in the world of Country music. He even had his pen and notebook out.

“Listen to this. This is called ‘hillybilly’ music released by Columbia Records.”

“See this picture. This is the Carter family.”

“See this music clip in Black and White? These are Barn Dances. That is the Grand Ole Opry.”

Bill Monroe and The Blue Grass Boys, Honky tonk, Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline later, I was inspired. Wow. Country music wow.

The last leg of the museum had a dummy recording studio where we could experience recording a song. It was small closed room with sliding doors and see through windows on all four wooden ‘walls.’ It was equipped with headsets and a monitor where we could read the lyrics. Think of it as a Karaoke. The only difference being there was no loud music. Music was being played through the headsets and limited to only those who wore it.

Freshly inspired by the legends around us, we decided to try ‘recording’ our future ‘hit.’

3…2…1, we hear music through the headset, the lyrics to the song appear on screen, we sing. Simple instructions to play the game.

“Let me slide the door shut. This room is sound proof, right? I can’t sing. Let me rephrase that. I am not allowed to sing in public,” I explained. I looked if there was a gap in the door. It seemed air tight.

I waved at the ‘recording studio’ adjacent to us. There were other tourists. I mouthed a ‘good luck.’ No use saying the words out loud-they can’t hear us.

I heard a faint ‘Good luck’ in return. Wow! How?

I could still hear some faint footsteps and noises but there was no one around us. This isn’t a real studio-it cannot be totally sound proof. I brushed it off.

Alright, let’s get started.

Music begins. Lyrics appear

Almost heaven west virginia

Blue ridge mountains

“Sing! Sing with me!” exclaimed an excited Shreyas.

“Wait, I am getting a hang of this.”

Shenandoah river

“Sing!”

I tagged along.

LIFE IS OLD theeeeeerrrrreeee OLDERthanTHEtreeeeeeeessssss!!!!

“What is your Shruti?!”

COUNTRY ROADS TAKE ME HOME! YEAH! YEAH! OH I MEAN tooooooooo THE PLAAAAACCEEEEE I BEEEEEELONG!!!!

“Wait, wait. Pause, Pause. I got this one. Let’s try again! The door is shut, right?” I recalibrated my voice. I wanted a do-over.

ALMAST HEEEEVEN West VIRGINIA!

BLUUUUUUUEEEEE REEEDGEEE Mountain….Mountaaaainnnsss

SHEN…what…what is that word…Shendoah river!

Life is OOOOOOLLLLDDD there. Oldddddeerr than tree. Aaaaa….

“This was a mistake. Stop. STOP!” Shreyas paused the video.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, now disappointed. “I was on a roll there! I’m awesome!”

“We should leave. There are people gathering around us. Look.”

“Screw them! We are rockstars! We are gonna make so much money out of this! This is our first recording!”

“Ha ha ha! What are you saying!” he asked back.

“YEAH! No one can hear us dude. It’s okay. This room is sound proof. See the door is shut.”

We did 2 more takes after this. Many had gathered around us which is odd because no one can hear us singing, right?

Remember those faint talks, footsteps and noises? They were now distinct and clear. But, how? This room is sound proof.

At that moment, I looked up to thank the heavens and noticed the room has no ‘roof.’ It was open at the top. It was a ‘studio’ without a hat.

I froze. That explains why I could hear noise from the outside. That led me to seek an uncomfortable answer to the next question: So, people around heard me sing?

Stop, stop. I immediately advised my friend. “We have got to stop,” I hushed, pointing towards the heavens. He got it.

We paused the video. Pulled the sliding door open. Stepped out of the ‘studio’ with the most sophisticated look we could put up. Yeah nothing unusual here. Nothing to watch here. Yeah, keep going on with your mundane life folks.

Maybe no one heard us. All’s well.

We took a few more steps toward the exit. It’s all over, I told myself.

“Hey!”

“Y’all sing well, bless your heart. Y’all could be heard nine miles yonder,” someone shouted at us.

(You all sing well (bless your heart = sarcasm). You can be heard 9 miles from here.)

“Oh shit! Oh, well.”

The whole room burst out laughing.

Glossary:

Y’all: A southern ‘You all.’

Placist: one who discriminates places based on their geography? I don’t know. I made it up.

Sa Re Ga Ma Pa: Selective notes that add up to make an octave.

Geethas: a Carnatic music form.

Carnatic music: a system of music from India.

Raga: a melodic mode in Indian classical music.

Kho-Kho: a tag sport.

Shavige Bath: a noodle/vermicelli dish

Pardesi, Pardesi…eh, eh…Jaana Nahi: an old Bollywood song. Typically, at least a few years ago, beggars in Mumbai trains would seek donations while singing poorly.

Salman: Actor Salman Khan and his new movie Tubelight.

Shruthi box: An instrument used to continuously provide a drone while in music concert or in practice.

Tabla: a musical instrument

Nishanth S Coontoor

Tuesday, December 12, 2000. 9.45 am.

Maths Period. Imagine set against a backdrop of a Fish Market.

“Roll Number 24?”

“Present Miss!”

Random Background Talks: Kannada Homework, bindi sabzi, Kyunki Saas…

Roll Number 25?”

“Yes Miss!”

More Random Talks: Contra game, Boom Boom Boomer, Fish (?)

“Roll Number 26?”

“Roll Number 26!”

“Roll…Nishanth! NISHANTH CONTOUR!”

“QUIET! IS THIS A FISH MARKET?”

The class fell silent. Now imagine the backdrop suddenly changing from the fish market to the setting of the depressing Principal’s chambers.

“Eh, yes, yes Miss,” I responded, waking up, pretending to have never fallen asleep and hiding a stubborn yawn.

“WERE YOU SLEEPING IN MY CLASS?” asked Rekha Miss.

“My aunt has come from out of station. She has come from Amaereeka.”

“SO?”

“So, I had gone to pick her up from the airport at 2 am.” There goes the yawn.

“Did you submit your homework?” she asked, her Reynolds red dot pen now pointing right toward the pile of books arranged on the table.

“I haven’t. I was waiting for my aunt to bring me pencils from Amaereeka.”

Pencils. Those yellow pencils from America were a status symbol that showed my small world of A, B, C and D Sections of Class 6 go-ers that I too had an aunt who was abroad. And each year she visited Bangalore, she brought me stationary that included these distinct yellow pencils.

These did not last long. The pencil leads broke often. They did not write dark enough. But nevertheless, while they lasted, they replaced the local brand of robust Nataraj Black and Red striped pencils.

Carrying the heavy school bag on my back with a tiffin basket in one hand and the yellow pencil in the other, I proudly walked to school each day with my head held high.

“He thinks he is better than us because of that light shade yellow pencil,” I imagine my jealous friends murmured under their breath. I so wanted to respond with a “Yeah!”

Fast forward to 2012. I got a chance to travel back to India and be the mama (uncle) who lived abroad. I was looking forward to disrupting my parent’s sleep schedule and made sure to schedule a flight that landed at 2 am. I also purchased 3 boxes of yellow pencils to take with me.

2 days before my trip, I did a Google hangout with my friends.

“Let’s meet up the day you land, okay?” said one.

“Yes! How about 7 pm? I have purchased a special gift for each of you!” I responded, flashing a smile. I looked toward the pencils. I did not want to give the away the surprise.

“We knew it! Did you buy me a iPod? I heard you have an iPhone?”

“I want Bose headphones-see if you can get one.”

“Do you get good quality power banks? Your iPhone doesn’t need a power bank, but my phone does.”

Wait. What. Wait. What are they saying? They don’t want my yellow pencils? :O

“Electronics are cheap in America, I heard. My cousin brother’s friend’s uncle bought his sister a mobile phone.”

I was then a broke grad student living with 3 roommates. We did not even have a dust bin at home. The pencils were from the money I would have otherwise paid toward the internet bill. The iPhone was financed.

I remember purchasing the headphones in Best Buy and returning them 1 hour later only to buy them again an hour later. I’m sure Best Buy has me on some customer watch list.

That New Years was spent grocery shopping in Walmart to offset the expense.

I had gotten fairly ahead in life by the year 2013. I now had a full-time job and only one roommate. Still no dustbin though. That’s a story for another time.

Two weeks after accepting the role, I planned a trip to India. My parents were excited. Someone had made my dad realize his son was earning in Dollars in the USA = he is loaded. Expectations were running high.

“No, no, this flight is better. I will land in Bangalore at 1.30 am. I’m not landing at an odd time again. You can all wait at the coffee shop outside arrivals,” I explained over skype. “Let me show you my new apartment.”

I stood up with my Mac.

“What do you want me to bring from USA?”

“There’s one room, there’s another. Sanjeev uses that room.”

“Tell me what to buy, I will finish shopping today.”

“And that’s the kitchen and the hall.”

“Son, when are you buying a bed frame?”

“Oh I don’t need one – the mattress is comfortable for now.”

“You don’t even have a dustbin?”

“Ha ha..the reason is…”

“And where is the TV in the hall?”

For some reason, not owning a TV was concerning to my parents. A TV provided basic entertainment and luxury. And if their son did not own a TV = he needed help.

“Let me buy you a TV. I know rents can be expensive where you live,” said the concerned and slightly disappointed dad.

I was about to explain how I watch shows online on Netflix, Youtube and other channels, but then I realized this was an opportunity to extract money from him. Why let it go.

“You are right dad. Rent is too high. This was the only apartment available in this short time. And you know I just bought a new car. The insurance is almost the same cost as the monthly payments. Plus, the interest. I thought I will get an interest free loan, but it’s still under review. I just started the new job so it will take me some time to resolve all this.”

“Don’t send money to the USA though. You can deposit it in my India bank account for now. 1 USD = Rs 55. So, deposit more money.”

Is he really falling for this one?

“Alright. And listen, don’t buy me anything. Here, I think your mother wants some items from the Dollar store. Talk to her.”

I took with me kitchen rolls, 1 dollar slippers, night lamps, show pieces, elastic bands, mugs, sandwich bags and more. Most economical India shopping ever!

This went on for a few months until SBI asked for its student loan money back. Dad’s money stopped pouring in when I wrote that first check. This was still the easiest 2000 bucks I made. Thanks, dad.

Glossary:

Kannada: an Indian language

Bindi sabzi: a dish made of Okra

Kyunki Saas..: An Indian TV series by the name Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi

Boomer: a chewing gum brand

Best Buy: an electronics store in USA.

SBI: State Bank of India