The Fat Uncle

The fat uncle first of all is from "foreign." Not America – he has not made it that far – but from Europe or Australia. Because of this the fat uncle is laboring under the delusion that he is always right. Delusion, I say, because this is nearly always untrue. The fat uncle visits India only once or twice every decade, and he calls it ‘my country’ in as patronizing a manner possible – “In foreign, they give you big-big ice cream scoops, and I am telling in my country one ice cream scoop is not even half the size!”. This is another thing – the fat uncle doesn’t have any grammatical skills to speak of and refuses point blank to accept it. His English is also heavily accented, which for some reason becomes even more extreme when he is in public, as if he is trying to prove something.

The fat uncle has a fanny pack. He has a camera also. He will bring these two items with him everywhere. The fanny pack resides under his ample stomach rolls and no one knows what it contains, but he tucks his thumbs under the straps importantly as if its contents are of national importance. The camera is a source of constant interest to him. It is an SLR and is of course equipped with multiple lenses, flash diffuser and all. He will take all this out and always be screwing and unscrewing something. Then he will take aim ostentatiously, preferably cutting across your line of sight, and when he takes a picture it will make a loud ‘click’ sound. He has set it up like this to make sure you know he is very good in photography.

And God forbid you live in America and the fat uncle decides to drop in. He will bring his fanny pack and his camera and he will be unbearable. He will force you to take him sightseeing and he will insist that you stop at all the places on the freeway marked ‘tourist view point’ and he will take out his camera and take many ‘scenic’ shots. Then he will ask many questions and compare all your answers to what it is like in foreign (Europe or Australia or whatever). If you go anywhere the fat uncle will cling to you like a wart plaster and nothing you say will dissuade him. Even if you are going out to buy vegetables and toilet cleaner he will insist on accompanying you. Then he will adjust all the settings in your car – stereo volume, back rest, everything and he will talk so loudly he will give you a headache. And he will probably stick his arms out of the window on the freeway too. Then when you reach the shopping mall he will be tired (from what?) and decide to wait by the fountain while you complete your work, and when you come back he will be taking pictures with his camera again. When you ask to see these pictures he will tell you they have not turned out well and he will pretend to delete them, but actually he is just worried you will upload them to your computer and try to pass them off as your own (he has great faith in his talent).

When you reach home he will collapse on the couch and occupy the whole thing also (after all he is the fat uncle). He will sit like Ganesha and look like he is waiting for you to feed him grapes. If any small children come near him he will poke and prod them until they are dissuaded from occupying such a location. Then he will drag himself off to shower and when he comes back he will refuse to play with the children (that he has only previously riled up) because he has had enough exercise from accompanying you to buy toilet cleaner and after all he has just showered, besides.

Finally the day will come when it is time for him to fly home. On the way to the airport he will ask many questions whose answers can be found on the roadside signs, and then he will answer them himself as if he has figured it out all on his own. After all this is his last chance to show that he is very knowledgeable even if he is not living in the same foreign as you. When you reach the airport he will read all the signs out loud as if he is the designated navigator and actually knows where he is going.

After he has gotten his boarding pass he will make you sit with him to give him company, and then he will take out his flashy touch screen cell phone and play games with the volume on high. In between he will get some calls which he will not answer because of the roaming charges, but nevertheless he will let the phone play ‘Cosmic’ (or ‘Rumba’ or whatever ringtone he has chosen instead of a normal ‘Ring 1’) for a full fifteen seconds before dismissing the call. When you tell him it is late and you want to go home he will insist that you accompany him all the way to security, just in case there is something in his bag that is not allowed (hasn’t he flown to America from his foreign? Doesn’t he know you can’t take water bottles through security?).

Once he is through security he will wave forcefully at you for at least ten minutes, and then he will gesture regretfully that he has to go (he has probably only just figured out in which direction his gate is) as if he is depriving you of some very basic happiness by taking his leave.

We all have these uncles. We can’t say anything also. What to do? Athiti devo bhavah.

You bet I'm an AB(no C)D

Born to Indian parents in America, I don’t really count as an immigrant. But there are some differences between me and the other Indians born here – back home we call them ABCDs, American Born Confused Desis – that make me feel like one. My accent, for instance. My roommate, one of the only people comfortable with commenting on my accent, says I pronounce the “th” sound in “thank you” like a “t”, making it sound like “tank you.” I don’t see it. But I don’t see a lot. There are so many things high school in India neglected to teach me – that blt stands for bacon, lettuce, and tomato, or that in America, movie tickets rarely have to be bought in advance (in India, tickets to a first day showing have to be bought as soon as they go on sale, or chances are you won’t get to see the movie until everybody else on the subcontinent has). Sure, I learned to solve diff eqs before anyone in AP math had heard of them, but only after living in America a year did I break the habit of giving truthful responses to the worn out question “How are you?”, or realize that telling friends’ parents about “my boyfriend” wasn’t going to make me seem racy or impertinent (in India, although the mindset towards “dating” continues to soften, many parents still see it as almost shameful for their teenage children to have significant others). Although you’d think, me being born here and all, that my brown skin would be the only things to delineate me from everyone else, there is an astounding amount of difference between us.

In India too though, my friends tell me I stick out like a sore thumb – affectionately, of course. Apparently my Indian accent has developed an “American twang” – again, something I don’t see. But there are some manifestations of my “American-ness” that have convinced me that maybe the countless people who tell me I’ve changed have a point. For example, auto drivers no longer nod unquestioningly when I name MG Road as my destination – they try to charge me twice what the meter would record, and are surprised when I point this out, or point them in the right direction when they try to take me via a longer route. When relatives ask me how life in America is, I have to bite my tongue to keep from offering the standard answer “good,” and remember to give them the detailed response they really want. When older relatives learn that I don’t live at home, it takes me a moment to figure out why they look surprised – in India, living alone before even getting a job is practically unheard of. Most live with their parents until they get married, or until they start work, at the very least. People are also impressed with my job at the library, and find it odd that is not only normal to work while in school, but also necessary. My dress sense is different now, my taste buds less accustomed to spicy Indian food, less eager for (to me) bland Italian or similar– the first time I came home from college over the summer and asked for dosa and chutney, my servants (yes I have servants, everyone in India does. Get over it) looked at me with incredulity, amazed that I wasn’t asking for an omelette or pancakes. All small things, really. But smooth a corrugated edge even a little, and it will no longer fit in its niche, will it? I’m different enough not to fit in here, but changed enough not to fit in there, either.

I’ve lived in America for two years now, and I am well trained to answer “How are you?” with “Good, how are you?” no matter how badly my day is going. I now not only know what a blt is, I am almost tempted to order one sometimes. I still haven’t learned how to say “thank you,” though – I might be American Born, but I’m still a Desi.

Untiltled

I know I’m not your type.

I know you are going to reel me in, because you are perfect on paper.

I know I’m going to fall for you and skin both my knees. Probably my elbows too, because I'm clumsy like that.

I know you will convince me to open up to you like I never have with anyone else, and I know you’re going to shut me down.

I know you are going to tell me that it isn’t that I’m not good enough; it’s that we have “irreconcilable differences.”

I know you are going to disappoint me in the worst way possible.

But fuck all that. Here, take my heart.

On Being Alone

Ever since I can remember, my relationships have been, for lack of a better term, collectively dysfunctional. My parents are divorced and while I don’t particularly blame them, I feel like this fact is partially responsible for my descent into… into god knows what this is. This refusal to be by myself.

It’s ridiculous, really. My childhood was brimming with people and love. I was surrounded by light and happiness for the most part, and while the occasional incongruous memory surfaces, time is the distance that helped me control them – with every passing year, although they remained just as potent, I learned to lock those painful remembrances down. I tell myself that this ability to control myself (or my inability to deal, whichever you want) is a talent I must hone.

I’m not a particularly daughterly daughter to my father. A few years ago there existed someone I might’ve been a better daughter to – but for reasons I don’t feel like going into now, that didn’t work out. Another relationship axed. Over the years my mother has become my clichéd “pillar of strength,” but I don’t like leaning on people (or I do, but I don’t trust myself not to lose them, so I don’t let myself lean). I cannot really distance myself from her, but I have moved away for college. With every visit, I feel like we have less in common, less that we agree on.

On the whole I prefer male company. Girls are unintelligible, because we are so varied – unless I can find some part of myself in a girl, I can’t bring myself to spend time with her. And it is rare that this happens. Boys, on the other hand, are more or less cut from the same cloth and stitched with the same color thread. If you can make a man laugh, are willing to show a little skin, and make him feel more capable than you are, you can bend almost any to your will. I know this from experience. This is why men are so easy to be with. They are easy to understand.

I like having a love interest. One you have found one, given my understanding of boys, it is not hard to be his love interest – it is finding one suitable for the position of yours that is the trouble. My love interests are the most stable men in my life – which is simultaneously why I always need one, and why losing them tends to be detrimental if I can’t find a replacement asap. In general, I can tell when it is over. Most of the time I will make the break myself. This allows me to be in control. This is also why it sucks that I was not the one to do it this time.

With no preparation to be alone, being alone is sucking more epicly then I have ever imagined being dumped would suck. Obviously my ex is an unsuitable love interest, and living with my mother the whole summer isn’t going to give me much opportunity to find another. Dilemma? I think yes.

The answer is simple, in theory. I need to learn to be alone. It should be easy. I can do alone everything I’ve done with someone else. Going to movies, or grabbing a coffee – these things don’t require a man. Pshaw. My problem is being alone when I’m alone – in my dorm room when my roommate is in class, or at night, in bed, knowing there is no one wanting to hold me. Knowing there is no one I want to be with who wants to be with me. This is what I need to learn to be okay with.

Marilyn Monroe

I steal things. Not in the shoplifting or criminal way, but little things, like the round blue magnet on your fridge or the handpainted chopsticks at my favorite Chinese restaurant. I especially like your grey sweatshirt, unless you didn’t know I have that. But I will always tell you what I’ve taken, even if I don’t give it back.

I know what I want. I don’t mean that I’m goal oriented or ambitious or even selfish, because I’m not. I mean that if I want to watch Hercules instead of Fight Club, or go to Taco Bell and not Jimmy John’s, I will tell you so, even if I want something kind of weird, like to draw on your knee with highlighters.

I don’t care what people think of me. I don’t believe in social standards. I won’t fashion my behavior to simulate some invisible social model you believe in. So don’t ask me to.

I won’t behave well, and I will embarrass you in public, especially if you are easily embarrassed. I will reach across the table to play with your hair at classy restaurants, and stop to kiss you in the middle of the street, even if people are watching.

I like it when people are watching me. I will be loud and inappropriate and I will enjoy every minute of it. I don’t intend to make you uncomfortable, but don’t expect me to stop what I’m doing if you are.

I expect a reply to every message I send you, and I will text you when you’re asleep. And I will get upset if I don’t get a text back, even if there isn’t anything reasonable to say in reply.

My greatest insecurity is that you won’t accept me this way. I know that I’m crazy and a lot to take in, and I’m very, very afraid that one day it will become too much for you to handle. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to change. Hell no. Because if you can’t deal with me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.

How Much is Enough? - Great Story I Read At Jimmy Johns

The American businessman was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellow-fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them. The Mexican replied only a little while. The American then asked why didn't he stay out longer and catch more fish? The Mexican said he had enough to support his family's immediate needs. The American then asked, but what do you do with the rest of your time?

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life, senor.”

The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds buy a bigger boat with the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise.” The Mexican fisherman asked, “But senor, how long will this all take?” To which the American replied, “15-20 years.”

“But what then, senor?”

The American laughed and said that’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.

“Millions, senor? Then what?”

The American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”

I just passed an old teacher. If asked to describe her, the first word that comes to mind is dowdy; she has a deeply interesting sense of style. The weird part is, she doesn't fit the dowdy old lady stereotype. She's petite, and probably around 25 - there's so much she could do with her appearance. But she dresses in old lady sweaters and mom jeans, pairs sneakers with long flared skirts. I don't know why she does this. I don't see how she can think this looks good. Most of all, I don't see how she has the confidence to leave her apartment looking like a bag lady every morning.
I am aware that this is a mean, mean thing to say and I just want to make it clear that I love her and don't judge her for her choice of garb. I just don't understand it.
Then it occurs to me that maybe she's comfortable. God knows I strive to be comfortable in my clothes, and even though I put a lot of thought into how I dress, I rarely am. And maybe she's so comfortable dressing like that because it isn't about the clothes to her. Maybe its about her skin. Maybe shes one of the few people who knows how to be comfortable in it.

I sometimes wonder about the quality of truth. I mean, I wonder about the quality of a lot of things. Cashmere scarves, love, the water I'm drinking. But truth has recently caught my eye. Because although there is a working definition of what truth is, there is no scale by which to measure how true something may be. There is no standard by which to know whether what I think is true is the same as what you think is true, or what he thinks is true. Which somewhat makes truth comparable to thought. You cannot have a false thought. I cannot think I like you when in fact I don't. Once a thought finds its way into expression it can lie as much as you want it to, but pure thought cannot purposely be false.
So in some ways I suppose one could say that as far truth goes, everything is as true or false as you think it is. But that seems confusing too, because we all think different things. For instance, a grad student came up to the circulation desk a few minutes ago and I thought he smelled like smoke. And even though I'm fairly certain that his wife or girlfriend will think so too, maybe he doesn't. Maybe he thinks the only thing he smells like is last night. I swear, you men have to start showering.

You know what I don't understand? Why people think I'm going to remember them when they come to the circ desk at the library. I mean, yeah, I remember faces as much as the next person. But there is only a certain number I'm going to register before they all start to run into each other. A couple minutes ago, a girl came up to me all smiley and familiar like and told me she "got the email." Now I ask, what does that mean to you? I'll tell you. It means nothing. There are any number of emails she could have gotten. I'm not a mind reader or a palmist. I'm a circ desk worker and they pay me minimum wage.

The other thing I don't understand is why people think that, by virtue of my job here, I am obligated to tell them whatever they want to know about me. Like the Chinese boy who asked me to help him find a periodical and then asked me about my life history and what my stance on Harry Potter books was. I don't prod you at your photography job and ask about your love life, do I? No. So stay out of mine. "Can you help me find this book?" is not a pick up line. And if you think it is, let me tell you it's not a very good one.

Of course I know one must make allowances. The man who came up to the bridge desk smelling very strongly of something that was not sobriety and who proceeded to make me write down the names and call numbers of all my favorite books was well within his rights. Call numbers are something of an FAQ. Just, you know, most people ask for them sober. But whatever floats your boat.