So Are the Days of Our Lives
It’s weird. When I was younger, a year used to seem like such a long time. And for good reason, I suppose; when I was five, one year was 20% of my life. But now, one year is just under 4% of my life. One day is barely over one hundredth of one percent. Holy shit!
Now why should I feel any sense of responsibility toward a period of my life that constitutes a trifling hundredth of a percent?
And yet, when I look back on these 324 months I have lived, I can say that a cumulative 1% of my life has bore the most significant impact. That one percent did not come in one lump sum, but in bits and pieces: a conversation, a small gesture here and there, a chapter from a book — fractions coming in tenths, hundreds, thousandths, billionths, added together — microscopic golden epiphanies, embroidered into a quilt of giddy, giddy sloth.
I want golden embroidery to equate to more than one percent of my quilt. And yet with each passing day, the quilt helplessly expands, and the same quantity of golden thread that was once one percent is now becoming a smaller and smaller proportion, subsumed into the fabric of complacent inertia.
One hundredth of a percent does matter. Each day should be an indelible thread, and my quilt should radiate extraordinary simplicity.
Dammit.
OK, time for a nap.
Let It Bleed
One morning in fifth grade, I was just going about my usual business: brushed my teeth, pulled my pants down to pee…
“Oh my God… I shit in my pants!!!”
I was mortified by my rectal incompetence!
But wait, it didn’t really look like shit; it was brown, but it had more of a… soupy texture. I didn’t know what to do with this, so I just took off my chaddi and presented it to my mom.
At first even she was surprised. You didn’t get hurt, right?”
“I don’t think so; I never felt anything there.”
“OK, well… it looks like you got your period.”
Ohh. I remembered her telling me about this period thing. I would start bleeding every month because later I would have to have a baby, and I couldn’t go to the temple when I had this thing — but I thought that was going to be when I was thirteen or fourteen, not ten!
“So what do I do now??”
“Ek minute.”
She went to the closet and came back with a small green package.
“This is a maxi-pad. You just tape it to your underwear so it covers the hole where you are bleeding from — you know, that is where the baby comes from. Do you want me to tape it for you?”
I liked to think of myself as grown up enough to figure things out on my own, so I declined the offer for help and proceeded to the bathroom with my pad.
See No Fat; See Only Urine
His name was Dr. Khare. A urologist by profession, he was also a self-proclaimed brahmin pundit that had expansive knowledge in a realm of subject. Within the Indian “holistic care” medical community, he was famous for having come up with a system to mend people’s dilapidated vision without further need for any corrective lenses or eye surgery. He was thus brought to our house in the summer of 2000 upon the recommendation of my maternal uncle.
After muttering our introductions, Dr. Khare asked my sister and me to stand up and turn around for him, and then sat us down for a pep talk.
“You are good guhls, and that’s why I am telling you this, because you are like my daughters,” he began. “There are some things all guhls want, no? Such as, all guhls want to have children, right? Biologically, all guhls desire to nurture and bring up children. Any guhl who does not want this would be abnormal, na?”
I nodded while wearing a blank Homer Simpson stare, internally shuddering as I envisioned myself muffling my ears with the pillow as my future babies cried for milk and a diaper change from their turd-infested playpen.
Dr. Khare then proceeded on to his next logical leap.
“And to have children, you must get married, no?”
I nodded again, fantasizing about cloning myself in a petri dish and naming the result “mini-ree,” or having a wild and irresponsible night with Johnny Depp and birthing his bastard child (John Abraham wasn’t around then).
Then came the upshot: “And who will marry you if you are fat?!”
My sister and I glanced at each other incredulously.
khushboo-bhari yaad: a bilingual poem of love
barson baad meri jaan
aayi mujhke ek yaad
woh thi ek choti si
mithi si paad
after years my darling
a memory came to heart
it was an endearing
and sweet little fart
andhi hokar bhi mujhe
ehsaas hua uska
bade hole hole se
khushboo ghusa
though i was blind
its essence i felt
at a very slow pace
its scent i smelt
ab is choti si paad
se juda kaise hoon
mera ek hissa ban gaya
jaise mera lahoo
now from this small fart
how can i distance myself
it’s become a part of me
like the blood in my cells
A Civil Procedure
Jan. 18, 2005
I broke two vibrators last year.
This is what happens when you’re in law school. You can’t focus, so you masturbate. Your focus trials get shorter and shorter, and your handling of the vibrator gets more and more reckless. Before you know it, it’s been 48 hours, you’ve gone through eight packs of double-A batteries, and your vagina is numb as a mofo.
Civil Procedure was the most horrendously boring class of all, and, it was at 9am — meaning, I never went. So I would at least try to do the reading on my own. I would open up the book to the assignment and see “Rule 26: Discovery Procedures.”
My head would start to spin.
OK, I need a break.
I’d come back 15 minutes later, open the book again, and think, OK, this stuff is pretty heavy though. I should take off a full hour.
One hour would turn into three, and before I knew it, I’d be headed out to grab some more batteries. (Lord Ganesha, remover of all obstacles, I thank thee for the 24-hour Safeway.)
You know how Ivan Pavlov did that experiment with the dog, where he’d ring the bell and give the dog food, ring the bell and give the dog food, until the dog began salivating upon hearing the bell? Well, I inadvertently used classical conditioning to make myself horny upon the sight of the Civil Procedure textbook. I am probably the only person who gets horny thinking about Civil Procedure.
Checkin’ In From the Margins
Growing up as a second-generation South Asian in a Northern California suburb, others often made me aware that my family life and cultural heritage were distinct from all that was “American.” Inside the home, my parents would gracefully incorporate cultural history, practices, foods, arts, languages into our regular lifestyles along with celebrating Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. However, America declined our offer to hyphenate our identities and subsume ourselves – at least somewhat – under this prestigious label of “American.”
I suppose that in some ways, it should not be a matter of particular remorse that someone of my appearance or heritage could not be classified as American. If “American” connotes vapid consumerism, bland food, female objectification, corporate exploitation, and turning a blind eye to the country’s legacy of genocide and imperialism, then in its present form, it is a label I could do without. Still, I cannot claim to be unbothered by the marginalization of people of color; I seek to expand and redefine this American identity, despite the seeming imperviousness to its symbolic borders.
Triple-A Rated
Nov. 25, 2003
This morning I was determined to go to Civ Pro. The class started at 8:30 and it usually takes me about 20 minutes to drive there, park, and walk to the class, so I left my apartment at 8:31 (better late than never). I put the key in the ignition while bobbing my head to that asshole R. Kelly’s track which was playing in my head, when I realized that the key was impotent. I tried twice or thrice more, but my efforts proved frivolous and barren. I called a couple of friends who are more adept in matters of common sense than I, and they recommended calling the Triple-A for a jump start, possibly towing. So I called.
For some reason or another, my parents had taken me off their membership, and my “inactive” status would require a full 24 hours to be re-activated, I was informed by the African-American male customer support representative (thank God for social constructs, as I shall explain later). If my mother were physically present, she would be able to authorize, but I had no power of my own.
I have been known to make my parents drive long distances to bail me out of self-induced unfavorable circumstances, but my parents were now in India, so it would be a bit much to ask of them.
From A to Z
March 8, 2004
This story is about the letter “A”. No, it’s not The Scarlet Letter, but the act that warrants its telling is no less fraught with ignominy.
I was briefing a Contracts case when I entered an animated revelation over equitable estoppel and recklessly scraped the “A” and “Z” keys off my keyboard. “Fuck!” I exclaimed, while scarfing down Fritos and eyeing the keys as they plummeted to the lint-ridden floor of the law school basement. After finishing the chips, I picked up the keys and tried to replace them into the keyboard. The “Z” I was able to pop back in with relative ease. The “A”, though, would not properly affix. In fact, every time I am typing the letter “A”, I have to apply unnatural amounts of pressure with my left pinky, a finger whose presence I had taken for granted thus far.
I hauled ass to Comp USA in Vacaville and presented my crippled keyboard to the adolescent employee. He smirked at the missing key, informing me that I would have to get the entire keyboard replaced. “For just one key?” I inquired incredulously. The employee nodded, rolling his eyes in contempt at the hardwood-designed contact paper I had recently applied to the cover of my laptop. It can’t be right that I have to replace the whole thing for just one key. He probably didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Men usually don’t.
Since then, I have talked to people at Circuit City, Toshiba, Toshiba’s service center at Comp USA in Sacramento, their tech department, back to their service department, back to their tech department. The verdict is inconclusive as to whether I need to replace the keyboard, and if so, how long that will take, and whether it will be covered by the warranty. I think I’ll just continue developing the muscles in my left pinky and forget about replacing the key. I mean, fuckin’ A!
Traffic Violation
April 5, 2004
Dear Madam or Sir:
I am writing to contest my traffic violation, Cit. #03617, dated April 2, 2004.
On the date in question, a gentleman had suspended himself from the Bay Bridge, threatening to commit suicide and hence delaying traffic for several hours. Although I had responsibly left my abode in Davis with an empty bladder and a full tank of gasoline, I found those proportions reversing as I inched forward on the 80. By the time I made it to Oakland, two hours and twenty minutes later, I found myself intimidated by the slew of cars awaiting the toll, and I thought it would be in my best interest to exit in Oakland, re-fill my tank, and proceed to San Francisco via an alternate route.
Although I saw a sign that read “Buses Only” on the right side, I saw another sign a few feet ahead that said “Last Oakland Exit”. Thinking that the “Buses Only” referred to the right-most of the two exiting lanes, I opted for the left. It was here that I was pulled over by a smirking pig that really should have had better things to do on this fateful night than punish minor traffic infractions. After receiving the Notice to Appear that I am now contesting, I realized I was deceptively led into thinking this was the last Oakland exit, when, in fact, it was a route into San Francisco that allowed one to by-pass the toll. However, the pig instructed me to jut into the toll lane rather than proceeding on the bus lane. Being the law-abiding law student that I am, I paid the $2 toll after this traumatizing encounter. Talk about adding insult to injury!!
In the event that you cannot dismiss my infraction despite the extraordinary circumstances surrounding it, I request that you delay my court date until June, so as not to interfere with my studies during my final examination period.
Sincerely,
LRK
