Putas In the Park
Reena, Deena, and Sheena are all college freshmen, returned to their respective homes in the San Francisco Bay Area for winter break. Veena, Reena’s younger sister by two years, is decorating the Christmas tree as Reena looks on. Reena is waiting for Deena and Sheena to arrive so the three of them can go to Christmas in the Park . Reena and Veena are of South Asian descent, and Deena and Sheena of Southeast Asian, Arab, or Middle Eastern descent.
Scene 1: In Veena and Reena’s Living Room
A doorbell sounds, and then the door is opened; Deena and Sheena enter the living room where Veena is decorating and Reena is occasionally picking up and moving things around.
Veena: Will you just get out of here and go to your stupid Christmas in the Park thing? I want to decorate this my way.
Reena: You’re not even arranging things neatly or trying to make it look nice.
Veena: And since when have you been the poster child for effort?
Reena: Since the day your mama whipped your lazy ass out of her womb and nothing got done right anymore.
Deena: <Walking up into the tree area along with Sheena> Oh my God, you guys are terrible.
Sheena: “Guys”? They both look like women to me.
Deena: <Smiling apologetically> My bad, you women are terrible. “Womyn” with a y.
Sheena: <Smiling> I’m just sayin’… it’s easy to succumb to androcentric norms, especially with language. I’m just trying to be more conscious of it now. How you doing, Veena?
Veena: Not too bad. What about you guys? Um, girls?
Deena: Good, just trying to live up the holiday cheer!
Sheena: By the way, we’re not “girls”; we’ve all gotten our periods. <Smiles and winks>
Reena: Good deal. <Grabbing keys off table> OK, let’s bounce. Later, V. Have fun with your fugly tree decoration.
Deena: <Shaking head as they open door to exit house> You’re terrible.
Livin’ La Vida Et Cetera
At several points in my life, I have found myself outside the scope of traditional employment. Feeling stagnated by the nine to five (or beyond) routine, I have solicited various projects on a contract basis from my home — or I have taken up random odd jobs, say, trudging door-to-door in business districts hoisting up marathon training posters for $12 per hour.
In other words, I have been unemployed, if you wanna be a dick about it.
At the particular time in question, I had been finished with the California Bar exam for about six months. The knowledge that I had passed the exam had been followed closely with cross-continental travel and soft narcotics. Eventually, I realized it was time to buckle down. Merely having passed the exam was not going to pave a career for me, or bring me anywhere near the capacity to repay my student loans. I needed — *gulp* — a job.
This epiphany took me straight to the “Et Cetera” section of Craigslist.
gham gum ki khudkhushi: a bilingual suicidal verse
tere gham mere gham gum se jod do
gham-ball karke saare dum ko phod do
khushi lekar khud ko chhod do
tere gham mere gham gum se jod do
you are glum, i am glum, tape that with some gum
with a giant glumball destroy the prescient one
joyfully give to oneself true deliverance
you are glum, i am glum, tape that with some gum
vulnerability playlist
esoteric pleasures siphon downward
through a forlorn canal
no more remiss
acknowledging crisis
awakened languorously
to discomfort in incongruity
sound composure
changes composition
a legacy of upbeat juxtapositions
displaced by polyphanous harmonies
musical charades
of a confounded jugalbandhi
smears syncopation
reciting a new nomenclature
Khoon-Hawas Ka Aalam: A Bilingual Rock Ballad of Vampirism
Sab kehte use pardesi lekin sab hain uske pyaare
Uske andar hain laakhon ke rakht ke angaare
Koi de na koi suraag ya aakhir koi to ishaare
Kahi jaan kho na baithe uski hawas mein hum saare
Khoon-hawas ke aalam
Mein woh rehti hain
Sun hawas ke aalam
Sab yeh kehte hain
Woh ajnabi
Woh barbaadi
Khoon-shaarabi
Hain shaitani
Khoon-hawas ke aalam
Mein woh rehti hain
They call her a stranger but to her we all are dear
The fresh blood of thousands fuels the fire for her to sear
Oh please provide a clue, or some signal we can hear
Lest we lose our lives to quench her thirst, an abominable fear
In the world of blood-lust
Is where she resides
Yes the world of blood-lust
Don’t you hear the cries
She’s the outlaw
She’s the fatal flaw
Blood-thirsty jaws
She is Satan’s spawn
In the world of blood-lust
Is where she resides
Rose-Tinted Shards
After spending my afternoon wedged between leather and bare-skinned pot bellies at the Folsom Street Fair, and then playing some intense rounds of Scattergories and Celebrity with my buddies from law school, I BARTed my way back to the 19th Street stop in Oakland, ready to hop into my car and zip on back to my apartment and crash.
After descending from the train, I pranced over to my car parked on Broadway and opened the door to the backseat. I was about to set my purse down when my gaze fell upon a procession of pretty, blue-tinted shards of glass. I scratched my chin and wondered whether I had unknowingly left a glass vase in the back seat, then unknowingly jerked my car around violently while failing to hear or feel the impact of the vase’s breakage.
I shrugged and closed the back door, opening the door to the driver’s seat. My eyes were met with the sight of even more shards of glass on this seat, and some object in front of the brake resembling a tombstone. Then I saw the broken window on the passenger’s side.
Put a cute boy in front of me and I will begin palpitating; put my own burglarized vehicle there and I may as well be at a meditation retreat. I just stood there for a moment, taking in the deftness of the thieves who so precisely broke just that one window without causing any further damage to the vehicle; quite considerate of them, I thought. They hadn’t even taken any of my vehicle registration documents, so that would save me all the drama with the DMV. I simultaneously bemoaned the thieves’ misfortune of finding nothing of value except a stack of mixed Bollywood CDs I had burned off of iTunes.
Finally I realized that I needed to get home, report the incident, and eventually get the window fixed. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and saw that its battery was on the verge of death. Sighing deeply, I crouched down and maneuvered around the glass to put my key in the ignition so I could plug my phone into the car charger (also generously left intact). I first called my sister to ask if she could pick me up, and then I phoned the Oakland PD, who quite understandably couldn’t care less about my measly car theft. I decided to leave the car there and take care of the fixing the next morning.
Injured
May 24, 2005
I was excused by the prosecution attorney from serving on the jury today.
Most people would jump for joy at this situation. I would have at age 18, when I got called in and purposely clad myself in a pink Backstreet Boys baby tee, capri pants, and butterfly clips — for a successful dismissal.
But I’ve acquired a different sort of consciousness since then, and jury duty is no longer something I want to dodge. Our criminal justice system has only a few redeeming qualities, and I want to be an active part of the process to enact justice.
The case was in Yolo County. The jury pool (100-some people, narrowed down gradually) was all white, save for one black woman (who never got up to the jury box), one Latino man, and me. The defendant was a black man. The charges: possession of a burglary tool, threats to police, and resisting arrest.
What in fuck’s name is a “burglary tool”? I took Criminal Law over a year ago, and from what I remember, burglary consists of breaking and entering a dwelling place with the intent to commit a felony. My godforsaken pinky finger could be a “burglary tool” to push open someone’s door; that’s all it would take to be considered “breaking and entering.” I’m sure there are more sophisticated instruments that have been designed specifically for burglary, but I’m just sayin’.
A snapshot of the process: the peeps in the jury pool chill on the benches in the back of the courtroom, and the clerk calls up 18 people to sit in the jury seats. The judge addresses those 18 people with his questions and instructions, but wants everyone else to listen so that if/when they fill in the seats, they can quickly dislcose any issues that would potentially qualify them to be dismissed. The judge first asks some preliminary screening questions to make sure you don’t know any of the parties such as defendant, attorneys, or witnesses (the prosecution attorney is quite some major social butterfly; a bunch of prospectives were excused because they had played golf with him), and to determine if you would have any experience or belief that would prevent you from being “fair and impartial.” If you have some valid excuse for not being able to serve, the judge excuses you and the clerk calls up someone else to fill that seat. This goes on until the judge is satisfied that people will be able to set aside whatever baggage they have to be “fair and impartial.” Then, the attorneys have the opportunity to ask questions to the prospective jurors, and the judge can again excuse people accordingly. Finally, the attorneys have the opportunity to excuse a limited number of people for any reason other than race, gender, or other immutable characteristics. The judge emphasized that though we all have our own experiences and beliefs that will color our thinking about the law, the important thing is that we be able to apply the law, as it exists, to the facts, without writing in our own beliefs to the verdict.
One of the guys that got called up toward the end of this process was finally a man of color, a young Latino male. The judge asked if he had any concerns with any of the questions that had been raised so far, and the guy said, “I won’t be able to be impartial because I’ve been harassed by the cops a lot and I don’t trust them.” D’oh!! Of course, he was excused, as was probably his goal. On the other hand, the white constituency of the jury pool vocalized a largely enthusiastic attitude toward police, and they were not excused.
I was the very last person to fill in that box of 18 jurors before the judge was satisfied and the attorneys had the opportunity to question. Before I entered the box, the questions from the attorneys included the following:
A Marriage Proposal
January 7, 2005
I was wondering how my sister and I had avoided being subjected to the parent-daughter discussion about marriage that ordinarily burdens every Desi woman starting around age 17. Then finally today our parents brought it up at dinner.
“One daughter is 24, the other will soon be 29 — it is a new year, and our goal is to find husbands for you both.”
My sister grunted, and I calmly explained that I had no interest in the institution of marriage, finding it utterly obsolete, among other things.
“Yes,” my mom smirked dismissively, “Come on. You must start thinking about settling down, marrying, having kids…”
“I have no motherly instincts,” I declared. “I hate kids. I can’t stand them. If I had any, I would neglect them and sit on the Internet all the time.”
My sister nodded, adding that she does like kids, but plans to adopt them rather than continue to overpopulate the planet. And, she pointed out, you don’t need to be married to adopt. Nor, incidentally, do you need to be married to conceive, should such a thing ever interest either of us.
But it was my comment that my mom couldn’t let go. “Yes, you have no motherly instincts,” she agreed, “Because you have no instincts at all. Let’s see: today when you left to get groceries, you didn’t lock the door. When you came back, you didn’t think to check the mail. Yesterday you brought back a nice suit from the dry cleaner and just left it crumpled on the ironing stand. Motherly instincts indeed.”
My sister and I reverted the topic back to marriage, preferring it over the commentary on our many vices. My mom suggested that my sister place an ad, but my sister explained that she was not a car.
Nevertheless, tonight we treated marriage prospects as cars by browsing shaadi.com with our parents. We soon learned that there is a limit on how many profiles you can view without creating one yourself. Alas. I proceeded to form an honest profile of myself using my sister’s input for the last line, and my mom was alarmed by its contents:
I like to eat and sleep. I go to bed at 3am and sleep until 2pm every day. I have no maternal instincts. I cannot cook, except heating up morningstar breakfast patties. I like to eat them with hot sauce and ketchup. I like all sorts of food, including pizza. I have no ambition other than to eat and drink. I love watching Bollywood movies- at least two every day. Mujhse shaadi karoge?
My mom tried to reason with me, pointing out that the habits and qualities I described were not among my best. However, I was emphatic about retaining the description as it was the most proper summation of my most salient characteristics that could be made in a paragraph. My mom scowled, but said to go ahead and make whatever profile, as long as it allowed us to browse the prospects. We entertained ourselves for an hour or so, but it was my mom that eventually got tired of the fruitless dig and went off to bed.
The Whistling Cashier
Nov. 12, 2003
I like studying at the small Cafe Roma. Sure, it’s dirty, and stepping into the bathroom makes me want to hurl, and there are flies everywhere — but there is always an empty table, and it’s huge enough to spread out all my gear. Why, this is my territory. I’m the motherfucking lord of the flies!
Anyway, so I was at Cafe Roma, purportedly reading Criminal Law, when I got distracted by the sound of melodious whistling emanating from the curly-haired cashier. He was white, but not that white — Italian or Jewish perhaps? — and had a very benign demeanor. After he finished wiping the counter, he wandered off into the kitchen, and eventually I forgot about it and went back to my reading.
Then came on the next track, and the whistling recommenced as he resumed his position on a stool back at the cash register. He was so totally in key, able to effortlessly hit all the highs and lows in a manner reminiscent of Lord Krishna’s seductive flute.
I tried to concentrate on my reading again, but then he added a taal to the sur, tapping his palms on the counter, and I could help myself no longer… I had to seize the moment.
“Can I get a refill on my hot chocolate, please?”
The whistler retreated from his stool to provide service with a smile. “Sure, we are out of chocolate, but there is white chocolate, which is actually better.”
“OK, I have never had it before but I can try,” I replied, smug in my esoteric appreciation of the racial metaphor.
“Whipped cream on top?”
“Yes, please.”
This whole conversation was had in vocal monotony on my part, for I was fantasizing about whistling in bed with this fine gentleman, and not focusing much on improving my vocal variation. However, the moment he informed me that the refill was only fifty cents, the cheap desi in me sparked a visceral valley-girl resurrection in my vocal cords, as I exclaimed, “Oh, cool!”
To top off the night, the gargantuan quantities of lasagne and chai I had consumed throughout the day had not served my sensitive stomach too well, so I left behind a cardamom-scented gust of air.
All In My Grill
Last spring, I dated a boy named Dan. When speaking about him with friends, I referred to him by the moniker of “Jadoo” (“magic” in Hindi) on account of his magic fingers; of the details and context behind this discovery, I shall spare the reader.
He was a character, this Jadoo — although I may not have had proper perspective on just what sort of a character at the time. Sure, I am a keen social observer, often able to provide in-depth and largely accurate character assessments of other people’s love interests just by brief anecdotes that they provide. But since when do we creepy introverts inject logic into matters of our own hearts? To me, his intelligence, sharp wit, impeccable grammar, sincerity and commitment to his work, artfulness with whispering sweet nothings, good looks, and, well, magic fingers, somehow seemed to elide any and all possible downsides.
So what if he had a chemical dependency on poppy tea and underwent erratic moodswings without it?
Why did it matter that he diligently cloaked his hands in gloves before touching the steering wheel of his car (if only I could learn to be so meticulous!)?
And what a matter of admiration that he had trained himself to drive using his knees — with his legs crossed… a useful skill indeed in the event that one leg or the other should ever go out of commission!
And carrying around a knife — not a Swiss Army knife, but a bona fide murder weapon — well… I decided just not to give much thought to that.
I thought he was just so great.
It turns out that a month later, he took a road trip to Washington with an ex, and they ended up getting married there — so that was that.
After a long pause and then a series of incredibly unromantic encounters, I met “Paneer.” The big cheese.
What can I say about Paneer? He was THE most PERFECT guy EVER!! He had all the good qualities of Jadoo, plus he was politically active, adventurous, spontaneous, Bollywood-loving, ambitious, entrepreneurial, laid back, a joker, a midnight toker, and just — SO much FUN! There were no red flags with him, and not just out of delusional blindness. I just knew that I would NEVER ever POSSIBLY meet ANYBODY like him EVER again!!
All this after one date.
