Imelda, Sushila, Scars, and Shoes
- sum_off
There was nothing remotely romantic about Sandip Sharma's conception, which took place on Wednesday, November 21, 1973. That evening, after a tedious day of work at 'Maalpot Kaaryalaya', Sandip's father, Jagdish Sharma, sat on his bed to read 'Gorkhapatra'. His wife, Kunti, walked into the room and sat next to him. Neither could tell what turned them on. But the couple, consensually bypassing foreplay, and still fully clothed above the waist, started copulating in missionary position. To avoid each other's 'Gyante Mulaa' breath from dinner earlier, their faces were turned 180 degrees apart, as their eyes stared at two opposite walls in the room. The act was un-erotic enough to be filmed as a PG rated documentary titled "The Vatican's Guide to Married Couple Sex."
Even those occasional "aiyaa" Kunti mildly moaned, bore no feel of thrills, but of pain. It was a pre-leg-shaving era. Every time Jagdish Sharma's hairy legs rubbed hard against kunti's even more hairy legs, their leg hair entangled, and Kunti felt a tearing pain that made her grumble a spontaneous "aiyaa." When the procedure, that was as mechanical as the greetings of an airline stewardess, ended four minutes later, the romantic Jagdish Sharma jumped out of the bed pulling up his trouser. "Almost missed the 7:30 news," he mumbled, before turning on his National Panasonic Transitor radio that was broadcasting: "Yo Radio Nepal ho. Aba Praveen Giri bata samaachaar sunnu hos."
On August 9, 1974, following a tricky Caesarian section that lasted over two hours, Dr. Sumitra Kunwar cut Sandip Sharma's umbilical cord at Prasuti Griha Maternity Hospital. In the aftermath of the worst presidential scandal in American history, Richard Nixon had resigned from the office the same day.
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The hairy Sandip Sharma spent the next 18 years only two miles away from that hospital in Kathmandu where he was born. He spent the next four years in India, getting his Bachelor's degree in the field of whatever scholarship was available to him at Indian embassy. The college major he did not choose also chose all of his courses as they came in a package. While Sandip struggled to comprehend the real life applicability of the courses he took, back in Nepal, his friends and family kept on parroting: "India's education is much better than America's."
Upon returning from India, a distant son in sonly loyalty, with a Judas-like sense of patriotism, Sandip marked his ballot to abandon his country, in quest of his undefined identity. Nobody had reported he was missing, yet he claimed he needed to find himself. Hence, to find himself in the land where Columbus had sailed away to find Indians, Sandip rode his motorbike to 'Photo Concern Studio' in 'New Road' and posed for a picture for his passport. Within months, Duke University in North Carolina sent an acceptance letter that could be paraphrased: Mr. Sharma, you are in, but you need to bring your own cash, dude. To help his only son discover himself, Jagdish Sharma sold his eight 'anaa' of land in Dhumbarahi.
Two hours before he flew away toward his sovereignty, Sandip, for the first time ever, thanked his father. His gratitude, rather strangely, seemed to stem from his excitement, not from candor persuaded by the anxiety of separation. The teary-eyed parents did not quite fathom, why the young man who was leaving everything behind him, was acting as if he was going to find everything, and more, at the other end of his journey. When the plane took off, Jagdish Sharma summed up his son's departure in one word: "Gayo." The father's wistful exhale conceded the permanency of their parting.
The flight was on schedule. So was Sandip's dream.
Sandip Sharma soon became one of the millions of immigrants in America. With a key distinction being, he works overtime to break away from the other millions. Often, a bizarrely delusional disorder irks Sandip why he was not born a Caucasian. Especially after reading the claims of anthropologist Johann Blumenbach, who held the Whites at first place, Sandip finds his lesser personification of brown-kind quite insufferable. He has done everything he can to rectify this massive racial-geographic error, which, besides the skin pigment, also denies him a long narrow face, high chin and a square jaw.
Since his arrival to US, Sandip has indulged in plentiful self-enhancing whitening efforts. These include hiking and biking, skiing, climbing rocks, driving racecars, and preparing for a marathon with a sponsored shirt from the FM station, 98.7 WMZQ. The remaining, that he can't realize through a trainer or a subskription, or a sponsored shirt, he tries to manage by persistent claims of being different.
Sandip claims he prefers pasta to rice, French cuisine over Indian food, seasoning over cumin powder and pizza over chicken kabob. When he thinks loud, Hockey, the whitest of all sports, is his favorite sport. He uses American phrases frequently without realizing he jumbles prepositions and articles all over the place. And he hates his telephone number because it contains five threes: 703-331-3939. In spite of laboring on his American accent for hundreds of hours, 'three' is one of the words he cannot pronounce. Unable to twist his inherited Baaglung tongue, it comes off as 'thee-ree'.
Mr. Sharma is obsessed with likes and dislikes of other immigrants, because he is terrified of being labeled one of them. He alertly nurtures that compelling urge to remain different. To achieve that goal, among other things, he has meticulously developed distaste for Toyota Camry and Honda Accord, Soccer and Cricket, Korean grocery stores and the practice of taking lunch to work, and Niagara Falls and 'Trump Taj Mahal' hotel in Atlantic City.
Once, obliged to show around his Indian boss's elderly parents from Chettipalayam, Tamil Nadu, Sandip took them to the opera: 'The Marriage of Figaro' by Mozart. By the time the Act 2 began, the mother of Sandip's boss was so confused she whispered to her husband, "When will they start dancing?" Her husband, who was no less confused, replied with a question of his own, "Is this in English?"
Irreversibly influenced by some of his MBA classmates, Sandip tries to stay away from anything mainstream. After seeing his college roommate, Bryan Chord's music collections, Sandip, a talented vocalist in his own right, only listens to vocal-less Spanish classical guitar these days. The day Bryan said, "Singing is so mainstream, anyone can enjoy it," Sandip stopped singing his songs that he passionately sang with his band 'Ye-Pathya' in his early 20s.
"You try so hard to be what you're not, I tell you man, you no longer have an identity. From what I see, you're a brown man who ridicules himself by acting like you've already been bleached." Those were Okoro's words. The pasta boy had offended his co-worker with an offhand comment about his Nigerian lunch-Kilishi and Egussi soup.
Before he walked away from Sandip in disgust, Okoro coined an oxymoronic phrase to describe Sandip: "You're the most informed ignorant I've ever met."
There is a perfectly logical explanation behind the scar above Sandip's right eye. That scar, in many ways, recaps Sandip Sharma's American story.
When Sandip came to America, he was not aware of the metaphorical subtext of the word 'space'. Only in his second week in the country, he came to learn about the 'space theory' when he heard the 14-year-old daughter of his host family tell her mother, "Mom, give me some space." The girl was on the phone with one of her classmates, a boy.
As soon as the host mother heard her daughter's directive, she created some space for her. In terms of Physics, the mother did not move from the space she was occupying. But she created 'space' by not eavesdropping on her daughter's conversation anymore. Sandip was instantly captivated by this idea of demanding an imaginary periphery called 'space' that mandated an obligatory action on the part of the alleged trespasser. Suddenly he realized why he had left his country. He did not have 'space' for himself in Kathmandu, because everyone cared about him.
Sandip heard the term 'space' for the second time on his 16th day in the country. He was standing in line at the Social Security office in Durham, North Carolina, when a cranky old man in his late 60s yelled at him, "God dammit, if you feel like sniffing, go sniff someone else. Gimme me some space here, will ya?"
Sandip quickly recognized he was standing too close to the old man. To his revelation, this time, 'space' was exercised to define a tangible boundary. At that very moment, he grasped the idiomatic nuance of the term in the predominantly 'I-me-myself-and-mine' American way of life. He had finally found an operative word he was searching for all his life. 'Space', it was.
Forty-seven minutes after the old man yelled at him, in the same facility, Sandip cautiously told a Hispanic man standing close to him, "Please give me some space." The magic worked. The Hispanic man gave him the claimed territory by moving two steps backward. That was it. Since then Sandip has used that phrase hundreds of times, mostly to strangers.
Sandip was celebrating his routine Friday evening in a crowded bar in Arlington, when Bill Forrenhater, a truck-driving plumber from Manassas came to the bar and stood close to him. The tired looking tool man was only trying to buy a bottle of Budweiser when Sandip interrupted, "Give me some space, will you?"
Mr. Forrenhater wanted to make sure he heard the mildly accented man correctly: "Run that by me again."
Sandip repeated, "What part of 'give me some space' did you not get?"
That's how Sandip got the scar above his right eye.
The scar has a great connotation to Sandip's cultural transformation. He prides the scar, because, even though he did not fight back, like some of his American friends, now he too can brag the tales of a bar fight. He passed one more litmus test that night. Bill Forrenhater certainly had expedited his migration process.
Okoro was right. Sandip has tried very hard to become what he is not. When sedated by his delusions of grandeur, in his new home, he feels adopted with boundless privileges. And he is confident that scuba diving lessons will only make him more American. But then there are times when he resents queries. He is most offended when people ask him, "Are you from Pakistan?"
Sometimes Sandip becomes bitter, for the reason that, all of his endeavors notwithstanding, he remains an exemption not the norm. Even after flossing his teeth five times a week, his luggage is scrutinized every month he flies to Detroit for his office work. And even after supporting the US government for every military invasion against every country that starts with a vowel, he cannot directly get involved with some companies because they require a level 'thee-ree' clearance.
But above all, he is bitter that even after buying a cat and naming it 'Tigger', the most popular cat name in America, he cannot find a Caucasian woman to date him. He puts that blame on his father. Sandip, who never credits his genes for his intellect, blames the same for his 5 feet 5 inches frame, his satellite like big ears, and the interference by his slightly purple gum whenever he smiles.
Sandip Sharma just does not want to be white, he wants to be tall, and he wants a brand new set of ears so that he can fulfill his lifelong dream of dating a Caucasian woman. He believes that will raise his social rank. In that imaginary white woman, he seeks his validity, so he can ridicule the world with rightful authority.
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In the early morning of Monday, July 26, 1976, an 8.2 Richter scale earthquake hit Tangshan, an industrial city in Northeast China. It was still Sunday, July 25 in Washington DC. A few hours after the earthquake, Linda Glad, only 21 then, walked into Casady club in Northwest DC with two of her friends. The club was fairly crowded for a Sunday night. Linda vividly remembers ordering the first three drinks as she flirted with a glib-talking short man on the next table. She also vaguely remembers dancing in the funk-ish disco song, "That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it," by 'KC and the Sunshine Band'.
Linda was too drunk to dance, but those were simpler times of early disco. Club dancing then consisted of three simple steps: 1) resting one hand on the hip, 2) pointing the index finger of the other hand to the ceiling, and 3) shaking the center of the body vertically as if to ease indigestion. The only tricky move involved switching hands from resting on the hip to pointing on the ceiling, and vice versa. However clumsily, everyone on the dance floor seemed to have figured out the moves. They were all pointing their right index finger to the ceiling during "That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh," and seemed to be switching to left finger during "I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh." The floor that was filled with genetically uncoordinated white people was so un-rhythmic; it resembled a Physical Education class for mentally challenged children. The only two black couples who were there fled the scene exactly 20 minutes after they walked inside.
Though Linda Glad does not remember much from that night, she remembers everything about that short man in his late 20s who wore a print-pattern colorful disco shirt and a yellowish polyester bell-bottom pants. He called himself 'Alec', but looked more like a 'Dustin'. Linda spent only three hours with him in the nearby 'Motel 6' and never met him again, but she could smell his Baron cologne for years.
That, in a nutshell, was how and when Catherine Glad was conceived.
On September 9, 1976, the same day Chairman Mao Zedong died, it was confirmed that Linda was pregnant. Upon finding out, Linda's mother, who was a devout Lutheran until then, said, "You and I are going to make this work the right way, the way god intended this to be."
The child was named Catherine, because neither Linda, nor her mother had the energy or the focus to come up with a unique or an interesting name. They were going by the alphabet; Catherine came before Jennifer, Lisa, Kimberly, Michelle, or Christine.
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Catherine Glad never had a seizure. But she once lied to a young boy and his concerned father that she had a seizure when she was nine. She also reassured them the episode never relapsed. Catherine had met them in the lobby of the hospital where she was waiting for her mother's recovery. The boy's father had mentioned his son's seizure in response to Catherine's "What brings you here?" The moment she sensed that the man's anxiety had alarmed the boy, Catherine felt the obligation to boost their spirits by lying. When she saw the boy's face light up, Catherine had an awakening-she felt like her healer-self being summoned by Africa-the continent that needed the most healing.
Catherine Glad is a Caucasian American. She is 5 feet 1 inch tall and weighs 15 pounds more than she should weigh for her height and build. She wears glasses that cover roughly 35 percent of her face. She has had those glasses for so long that occasionally when she wears her contact lenses, her eyes widen up oddly, as if wondering where those glasses are. Catherine has beautiful skin, which, to some extent, enhances her average face. She looks prettier when she smiles. Highlighting her beautiful set of teeth, she smiles like she is sponsored by the company that sells teeth whitening gel.
Catherine claims she has never wasted a second of her life wishing she were taller. "I feel great at five one," she often says, "It's a constant reminder that everything I want is way up there. Makes me not wanna aim high. Better yet, keeps me real."
Like her grandmother, she has a great self-deprecating sense of humor. Not a day goes by without her cracking a one-liner about her height or her distinctly large calves. During the therapy following a jogging mishap, when her chiropractor asked her to stretch her calf muscles, she replied, "I wouldn't call it my calf doctor; it's a continuation of my thigh. It just gets bigger below the knee."
Then there are exceptions to her often-predictable and genial temperament. When hurt or shocked, Catherine can be brutally honest and hurtful, even irrational.
"Why are you so stubborn sometimes?"
"I fear being fearful of what can be confronted."
"This thing about you going to Africa … is this you bailing out on me?" Tired of hearing Catherine's plan to go to Africa after her graduation, Linda finally asked her daughter.
"No mom, it's temporary. I said it, I wanna confront it."
"Why Africa?"
"Well, America tells me to worry about my own Alzheimer's that I might get 50 years from now. We've become such whiners we engineer tomorrow's fears, so we can pamper ourselves today. Mom, don't you tell me you don't find this downright narcissistic. Have you been paying attention to commercials during the 6:30 News? They run nothing but scary ads on 401K and these pills for depression and stress and what have you. Today is too comfortable here; everyone wants to be stressed about tomorrow. About stuff, we don't know yet. I find this profoundly wrong. I'll go to Africa and see worries that belong to today … real worries, like, a starved woman watch her three-year-old die of AIDS."
Catherine, who usually keeps her Auto-Corrections Option turned on, quickly added a footnote upon realizing she was being overly preachy, "Don't worry mom, I haven't ruled out Paris yet. I read somewhere they're desperately looking for 5-feet tall supermodels with calves as big as lampposts."
Catherine's memoirs remain incomplete without the story behind the long scar in her left hand. That scar bears the narrative of why she was still in College at 27.
Catherine never saw her biological father. She lived an adventurous childhood, even so she was raised without a male figure. Her mother was responsible for their livelihood, her grandmother for arrangements-and she herself for her gaiety. They could not afford to travel much, but through their friends who came from all lifestyles and in all color and ethnic traits, they experienced more than most who did.
When her journalism degree did not find her a stable pay-lancing job, Catherine's mother Linda got herself a license in 'Oral Health Care Practice'. The job was not charming enough to look forward to it every morning, but she made enough to live a manageable life. As time passed, like any funeral director, tollbooth collector, or data entry clerk, she slowly began to forget that she was not enjoying what she did.
"Mom it must be dull drilling and cleaning people's decayed teeth every day."
"Look at the upside of things, imagine doing this in England, to those English teeth."
Catherine was only 19 when Timothy Shining, the dentist Linda worked for, committed suicide. Since there was no dentist, there was no need for dentist's assistant. Even though there were plenty of jobs in her new vocation, Linda chose to stay home and drink. The dose increased weekly, then daily. She quickly lost interest in everything she enjoyed, including her daughter. Catherine was in her first semester in college. Three days after her first midterm, she had to quit college to help her mother pull through.
Linda's situation only worsened in the months that followed. She began to pander to her only two pursuits, crying and drinking-and often, both together. The mood did not change even when the ebullient grandmother visited them. Every time the old woman dropped by to cheer her daughter's mood, she ended up adjusting her mood to lower her expectations. Young Catherine did her best to rally round her mother, but in spite of being intelligent and mature, she herself was learning to play life under the rules of adulthood. Youthful and unsure, every time her rookie instincts confused her on what play to call, she chose to take the 'delay of game' penalty. When the play resumed, she had to start life from five yards behind. Then one evening, at her wit's end, Catherine functioned like any 20-year-old would:
"Mom, grandma and I've known your guilt for two years. There's nothing wrong with falling for someone. You just fell for the wrong man. He was married. If he couldn't help himself, you should have, if you couldn't, he should have. Now quit playing the victim and spare us our sanity. You're not the victim here. Neither was that coward who killed himself. The true victim is that woman, Mary-his wife, his two kids. Not only because they lost what they lost. But because they don't know the man they mourn. That man was not even honest in his suicide note. Seriously, cut me some slack mom; you're not the only one having a meltdown here." Hurt, Catherine can be hurtful.
Catherine's confrontation had a reverse influence on her mother. Linda became less apologetic. Even though Linda's relationship was unscrupulous, it was genuine, that grew over a long period, over many root canals, fillings, crowns, and deep cleanings. Every time they handed each other a mouth mirror, or a saliva ejector, or an anesthesia syringe, they also traded a healthy dose of zeal and affection.
Eleven days after Catherine confronted Linda, the mother attempted the predictable.
Catherine came home early that Thursday. She did not know how, but that morning she had seen an omen in her mother's drunken eyes. As soon as Catherine walked into the house, she said loudly, "I'm home." There was no response. She looked for her mother everywhere. She saw a bottle of whisky and an empty glass in Linda's bedroom. She rushed to the bathroom. The door was locked. She shouted, "Mother, are you there?" There was no reply. She asked the question eight more times before she broke the lock.
Three hours later, the ER doctor told Catherine, "You saved the life that doesn't know its worth. I don't know if that is deserving of celebration."
Catherine not only saved her mother that afternoon, while she waited for her mother's recovery at the Hospital lobby, she thought she psychologically helped a father and his 12-year-old boy who had a seizure. That was the day she became delusional about her own power. That was the first time she felt being summoned by Africa. "Heal me," she heard Africa sobbing.
Two days later, Catherine walked into a silent room where Linda and her mother were communicating without exchanging words. By then the family had mastered the art of muted talk. Catherine walked into the room and began to stare at her mother. When their eyes finally met, Catherine said in a soft unforgiving voice, "Mom you always want the easy way out. Anyone can do that. Watch me."
Catherine suddenly pulled out a kitchen knife from her pocket and slashed her forearm. She knew what she was doing. The knife carved her hand, missing the wrist vein by an inch. She had done a good deal of research that morning on how to scare her mother without seriously injuring herself. That was her first 'Africa-readiness' test. When Linda saw the blood, she screamed "PLEASE" so loudly even Catherine jolted. The grandmother rushed to Catherine shouting "CRIMINALS! You people are criminals."
When the grandmother, a nurse with 36 years of experience, saw Catherine's wound, she took a sigh of relief. Knowing her granddaughter, she quickly figured out why she had done so. After applying first aid on her bleeding hand, she ordered Linda, "You stay here," and grabbed Catherine by the other arm and shoved her to the next room.
"Listen to me you little drama queen, I know you're trying to prove a point, but this is lunacy." The grandmother took a deep breath, lowered her voice, and continued, "Sometimes there are no solutions Pumkin, just a lot of deep breathing, and praying, if you believe in it. Now you'll have to live with this ugly scar for the rest of your life."
"If this scar can't save that helpless woman in the other room, I don't know what will."
The grandmother wanted to say something in response but she choked. Four hysterical minutes of sobbing, weeping and bawling translated her message even more lucidly.
That is how Catherine Glad got that long scar on her left hand. The scar, which never healed, often reminds of her own healing power.
Though neither Catherine nor her grandmother ever told Linda the truth behind the scar, Linda learned her lesson: thou shall not slaughter thyself to repent thy illicit affair.
Linda was embarrassed outside the faculty of a normal human shame. However, in due course, the family returned to normalcy. Words once again became the apparatus of communication. Laughter revisited the house slowly but as loudly. Linda found a job with FOX 5-DC television station where she edited morning news. Her Journalism degree finally paid off. The grandmother too went to Florida. She found Ronald Loded, a retired real estate agent who had money to burn in Florida heat.
A teetotaler Linda suddenly found many reasons to live-in her daughter and mother, and in Steven Klaimet, a Computer Analyst Lead who worked for FOX 5 News weather team. Catherine was relieved to find out what Steven did for living. In DC area, she had never heard of a weatherman committing suicide because of erroneous weather prediction. Especially with their snow forecasts, they were more wrong than right.
But the whole debacle utterly changed Catherine's course of life. It was another four years before she went back to college.
Catherine Glad claims she does not want to be tall or thin. She says she does not want small calves to go with her small feet. She wants to travel. Irrationally optimistic, she wants to convince a sickly third world woman, that there was a time when her mother was no different. She believes she has seen grief from a griever's distance, so she is confident of her healing power, and of her endurance.
Every month when she opens her cell phone bill, Catherin tells her mother, "Sprint overcharged me again. This is not the fight I wanna fight. I so wanna go to Sudan."
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"I seem to be the only soul eating alone here. It's depressing. You mind if I join you?" Catherine Glad asked two well-dressed strangers dining across the table from hers.
"Sure, please." Sandip Sharma sounded insistent.
Pointing to the empty chair on his left, Sandip's friend Jeff added, "We can use some company. I have to warn you though, we're not very interesting."
Catherine smiled. "I hope I'm not imposing. I'd feel terrible."
"Too late now. You've already trespassed; you'll have to join us now."
That's how Sandip Sharma met Catherine Glad-at Denny's Restaurant in Fairfax, at 11:37 PM on Saturday April 2, 2005. The Pope John Paul II had died the same day.
Having spent the entire day on her last college project, Catherine looked tired. In spite of being a little tipsy the men looked watchful and in check-Sandip, more so than Jeff. A brief, first name basis prologue supplemented a warm handshake that conveyed Catherine's tacit "Thank you."
Three of them had a fluent conversation during dinner. Among other topical topics of interest, Jeff talked about his unpolished relatives of Polish roots. Catherine talked about how few relatives she has, counting them on her fingers. By the time she finished counting, she had three fingers to spare. Sandip talked about the Korean Dry-Cleaning store where he goes to dry clean his Armani suit.
Towards the end, when the conversation revealed they worked only a mile apart, Catherine and Sandip decided to meet the following Thursday at a coffee shop near Catherine's work. It was her suggestion -seconded by Sandip, within a fraction of a second. Though the time and place were decided, they did not exchange their telephone numbers. Jeff departed feeling sorry for his desperate friend-and even sorrier for the affable woman who exhibited no traceable flaws.
When Thursday arrived, Sandip acted quite elegantly, just as did the weather, allowing them to take their first evening walk of that spring. As the day began to run out of its warmness, Sandip began to run out of euphemisms. Catherine, who was not used to being treated that way, felt flattered and special. Giving Sandip her telephone number was the least she could do to pay him back.
Catherine's phone rang the next Tuesday evening. She was relieved to see Sandip's name on the caller ID. He proposed a dinner for Saturday evening.
They met for their first official date near DuPont Circle in Washington DC. The woman who wanted to travel the third world was curious. The man who owned an Armani suit was nervous. The city that drooled for a nice April day was lucky again.
"Good evening madam, good evening gentleman. My name is Gerard. I'm going to be your waiter this evening. In Le Tastevin, we recommend an apéritif, which consists of coupe de champagne, Kir. It's a traditional French cocktail that contains dry white wine and blackcurrant liquor. We also have domestic and imported beers and wines. Can I interest you in any of these beverages?"
Catherine could not hold back but chuckle at the waiter's ostentatious mannerism. He was trying his best to sound French, which prompted Catherine to muse aloud, "That's Boston accent, isn't it?"
"I can't pay my Georgetown bills without sounding pompous. To be honest I don't believe I'm Gerard," the waiter laughed, completely getting rid of his French drawl.
For their first official date, the high and mighty immigrant had made a reservation at one of the most expensive French restaurants in DC. Even after two meetings and one telephone conversation, he had not figured out that the woman was interested in him because he belonged to a Darfur-like genus, not a Paris-like. Catherine was not even properly dressed for the background. She was not aware that her suitor was taking her to such a fancy restaurant that was filled with congressmen, businessmen, and recently baptized White republicans in their early 40s.
His eyes scrutinizing every letter, while Sandip's face was buried in the menu, Catherine deadpanned, "I'll take number three with a medium diet coke."
The waiter laughed with Catherine. The immigrant, who bragged of being The New Yorker's one-liner addict, got the joke, but did not get the message.
Sandip ordered Asparagus for appetizer that cost 46 dollars. For the entrée, he ordered an item with multiple diphthongs in the name. "How can you go wrong with something that you can't pronounce?" Catherine encouraged him.
When Catherine could not decide on what to eat, she summoned the man faking to be 'Gerard'. Like 'Simon and Garfunkel' duo, and Gerard playing the role of Paul Simon, the two worked on what Catherine's options. Thus, she ended up eating the cheaper, better, and easier to pronounce food.
After the dinner, the two walked around for a while. Catherine talked about Sandip's scuba diving lessons. She wanted to know more. Sandip talked about his scuba diving lessons. He wanted to tell more. Once again, he made Catherine feel very special. Before they said bye to each other, the man who was already 330 dollars poorer, suggested, "We should do it again."
"Certainly. But we'll do it moderately. I'll be in charge next time."
The next commitment was indeed a moderate one that included three games of bowling, followed by some cheap but good Italian food. Catherine did not let Sandip pay for either. They talked about topics that were mega in scale, like races and cultures. Their opinion about the world was poles apart. Most of the times, even though she was more logical of the two, Catherine found herself losing the argument. He knew enough to bias his claims. She lacked data to challenge him. As much as she found his unsympathetic views objectionable, she could not help but admire his knowledge. It turned out to be an engaging night. Sandip enjoyed the most when Catherine smiled. Catherine enjoyed the most when Sandip did not have an opinion.
Soon after that, Catherine became busy with her finals. They did not see each other as much as they wanted. Even when they did, she could not spend much time with him. When they did not see each other, they also did not see each other's evident flaws. But with the increasing frequency of telephone calls and emails, they were able to open to each other-closing the gap inflicted by their upbringing, culture, nationality, views, and unfamiliarity with each other.
Seven weeks later, to celebrate her graduation, Sandip took Catherine to a 4-day trip to the West Coast. Every now and then he would taint the trip with a tactless joke, or a condescending remark that made Catherine crave for her grandmother's company. She was awfully embarrassed and baffled to hear his views on the poor and unprivileged. Every time he felt his insensitivity rubbing her the wrong way, he would contrive a romantic gesture to patch up her feelings. But even when he played 'Dr. Jekyll' to her, like he always did, his 'Mr. Hyde' persona sometimes haunted her.
A week after they returned from their trip, Sandip took Catherine to his office party. He wanted to show her how important he was at work. She was impressed how highly his bosses thought of him. But the night ended rather awkwardly for Catherine when a drunken Okoro pointed at Sandip in the other corner of the hall and told her, "I can tell from your smile you can do better. What are you doing with that man?"
Okoro's husky voice and his Nigerian English made his comments sound more authentic. Catherine did not sense malice in his voice; but concern. A stranger's concern. That ascertained her fear. She had always feared if anyone else had noticed what she had noticed about Sandip. Okoro certainly had.
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The issue of intimacy was not an issue until one day Sandip counted the days and realized three months had passed since their first official date. However, had he rationalized his romance calendar, he would have realized, timing and circumstances, and nothing else, precluded them from being up-close-and-inside-each-other.
The timeline breakdown was straightforward. The first two weeks, they were just getting to know each other. The next five weeks that followed, Catherine was swamped with her schoolwork, so they hardly met. Three days after her graduation, Catherine went to Florida to see her grandmother and spent 11 days there. Then there were those four days they spent together in the West Coast, in the same hotel room. As luck had it, at that time, Catherine was suffering from the monthly episode of a womanly kind.
She was planning to spend the night at Sandip's place after his office party, but then Okoro happened. She made an excuse and headed home instead.
The more Sandip counted the missed days, inferior he felt. His yearning made him miserable. Rather than working on the schedule and the situation, he sent an impulsive email to Catherine, asking, "Are you even attracted to me?"
That did not work at all. Hurt, Catherine can be hurtful. Her reply was short, blunt, snappy and graphic: "How dare you ask me that question after pouring gallons of your saliva into my mouth?"
The moment he read Catherine's email, Sandip opened the 'Microsoft Word' application on his computer and composed a two-paragraph long email. When he finished typing, he selected 'Thesaurus' from the 'Tools' menu and substituted 'forgiveness' with 'clemency'; 'genuinely' with 'earnestly'; and 'insensitive' with 'tactless'.
When Catherine read his reply to her reply, she dialed Sandip's number and said, "Let's start all over again. We need to get to know each other."
When they met again, Catherine treated him as though they were starting all over again. She would not let him take anything for granted; neither would she take a thing about him for granted. Sandip was taken by surprise but he played along. He thought she was trying to make a point. However, after a couple of more meetings, he realized he had failed to recognize the literal implication of her "Let's start all over again." She had meant it.
Sandip was confused. Then he became angry, that she had unilaterally liquidated his emotional investment of three months worth. He started arguing with her, sometimes insulting her. Catherine, not sure, whether she was testing him or herself, took it all like a good sport. She knew how much she wanted it to work. Only she knew how much she wanted him to be considerate to what was not of use to him.
One Wednesday evening, Catherine called him for a post-work dinner together. They were silently waiting for their food in a quiet restaurant in Northwest DC when Sandip suddenly looked enlivened. "Look who's here," he whispered.
Catherine looked at the direction. She saw the man that Sandip was signaling to, but showed no expression whatsoever. "So?"
Sandip, who was looking for a reason to argue with her, whispered somewhat angrily, "That's Tim Russert from 'Meet the Press'."
"So?"
"He's a celebrity."
"Says who?"
"He runs the most respected political show, not 'Access Hollywood'. Why would you be interested?"
Well, that was the last straw. Catherine stormed out of the restaurant. Nina Totenberg of National Public Radio, who was with Tim Russert, probably discussing her July 24, 2005 'Meet the Press' appearance four days later, looked at Sandip and said, "I'd not worry about the bill. Chase her down."
******************************************************************
Two days later, someone knocked on Catherine's door. "I'm sorry," said the man who was carrying a Nordstrom bag with a pair of costly shoes inside it. Catherine opened the door and screened the invalid man depleted by his hunger for acceptance. She felt sorry for that moral transvestite, who needed her merely for his own hormonal therapy-so that he looked more of what he aspired to be. When she saw the Nordstrom bag, it became clear to her that even if he were the only potent mammal left on the face of the planet, she would not be able to receive him. She felt proud that he had not been inside her.
When the man came in and sat on her dining chair, Catherine walked to her room and came back with another Nordstrom bag. The box inside the bag was not opened. "Sit down, we need to talk." Catherine told Sandip solemnly. "What I'm going to tell you is more important to you than it is to me …
"I'm not your Imelda Marcos. Did you ever see me wear the shoes you bought for me? I know these are expensive shoes, but you don't even pay attention that I'm not into shoes.
"You know why I went out with you in the first place? Because I'm tired of my people. We're so homogeneous. We buy homes when everyone buys a home. We invest on stocks when everyone else does. We get worried collectively, because CNN thinks we should be worried. And we all cheer on bully-ism because Nine Eleven happened to us. When I met you, I thought I found a generic version I was looking for, a smart outsider who seemed to know us … But then you took me to that hollow French restaurant. That menu made me sad. I didn't get it why you paid 50 dollars for Asparagus. If it wasn't for that waiter's understanding how uncomfortable I was there, it might as well have been the worst two hours of my life.
"Sandip, you're not real. You're worse than us. There's nothing genuine about you. Why are you so obsessed with English language? It's not 'the bird in hand is worth two in a bush', it is 'bird in the hand is worth two in the bush'. By the way, you don't sound American when you constantly use idioms and proverbs. You sound annoying. You're who you are; not your alter ego. I bet you Okoro doesn't have a dictionary of American Idioms with him. He's comfortable being Okoro."
Sandip was astonished to hear Okoro's name. "What is this about Okoro?" He asked.
"You don't get it, do you? Okoro's not important here ... It's beyond me why you made such a big deal about spotting Tim Russert that evening. He's a TV journalist, like you are a business analyst or whatever you are. The only difference being, we see him on TV, doing his job. That's all there's to it. You know my mother works for FOX. I get to meet these DC based journalists all the time. I've met Tim Russert many times. Knowing his memory, I bet he knows me by my name … 'Access Hollywood'? Really? Is that what you thought of me all this time?"
*******************************************************************
Ninety-three people attended Sandip Sharma's wedding reception at Sheraton DC. He had invited all of his colleagues-even Okoro. The evening that lacked in spirit was quite lavish in appearance.
Like every reception, the room echoed of clichéd pleasantries and humdrum wishes. In terms of frequency, "Congratulations" ranked first, distantly followed by "Thank you." Quite uniquely, though not a cliché, "But I prefer Armani," came third.
******************************************************************
"You were a wrong venture; I shoulda known better. I'm not going to be my mom, I won't engage in what's not right. You need to leave." Those were the last words exchanged between Sandip Sharma and Catherine Glad.
When he reached home that evening, having felt betrayed by the entire English-speaking White world, Sandip got an urge to mingle with his own kind-where he could speak his own language. He was so belittled and wrongfully humbled he dialed his cousin's number without even muttering "paakhe" under the breath.
An hour later, his cousin Manish drove him to a gathering in Falls Church where 34 people were celebrating the birthday of a toddler in a two-bedroom apartment. With the exception of the birthday cake and some gift packages on the floor, there was not single evidence that suggested the event was triggered by a two-year-old's birthday.
"Nepali eestyal birthday," Manish sounded apologetic to his Duke-educated cousin.
"Unlike American style, at least there is plenty of food here and doesn't have the feel of a memorial service." Neither Sandip nor Manish believed the words that came out of Sandip's mouth.
The mostly adult crowd, celebrating a child's birthday, seemed to be having the time of their Saturday night. In his nine years in the US, Sandip had not seen people embrace an ordinary Saturday night that enthusiastically. He had a hard time fitting in until three quick shots of Bacardi loosened him up.
Ninety minutes later, Sandip was so drunk he grabbed the guitar that looked abandoned at one corner of the room, and started singing a popular Nepali song. When he began singing, the rest muted themselves-as if they were all simultaneously struck by a Costanza-nic 'Serenity Now'. Sandip deserved every breath that everyone held in awe, he was much better than the original singer.
Sheela Pradhan, who was in the crowd almost cried when she heard Sandip take her favorite song to a whole new level. She was always fascinated by the depth of that song's breathtaking lyrics:
Timro Mutu Timle Malaai Dee Ee Sakeu Hoina Ra
[You already gave me your beating heart. No?]
Janam Janam Ko Haamro Saath Timi Bhantheu Hoina Ra
[You promised your company thru multiple reincarnations. No?]
Pheri Aaja Malaai Chhodi Eklo Banaai Bilaai Gayau
[Then today, you left me by myself, and you gasified]
Maya Meri Maya Haamro Milan Kahile Hunchha
[Love my love, what's the schedule of our union?]
By the time Sandip Sharma hit the last note, Sheela Pradhan, who had never seen him until that night was ready to marry him. Sandip through his singing had made her realize what it meant to unionize with an already gasified lover from an earlier incarnation.
Hers was quite an applauding entrance to Sandip's life.
********************************************************************
When it comes to a womanly physical trait, Sheela Pradhan defines 'above average' at its absolute average. If a poll were taken that ranked every 27-year-old girl in the world, assuming Africans and Oriental will hardly vote for each other-a tastefully portrayed Sheela's front profile would fall in the 67th percentile.
If a similar poll were to be conducted to test social aptitude, she would fall in the bottom 20 percent. Sheela usually does not get the world. When a racist elderly woman at the Border's Bookstore told her, "We don't chew gum loud in this country," Sheela thanked her, moved closer and started talking to her. That prompted the woman to ask, "Are you here legally?"
Then, nobody knows how the daughter of a pilot and a homemaker is so brilliant in Math and parallel courses like Applied Physics. "I wish she only talked in equations," her father used to quip.
The inherent imbalance between her social ineptness and her scholastic gift makes Sheela complex-and very simple-but by no means, predictable. After she finished defending her Master's thesis, her advisor said, "Why don't you spend six more hours and make this your PhD thesis?"
Then two days later, while babysitting her sister's three-month-old, Sheela moved the infant to her sister's bed and climbed on top of the crib. The purpose: she wanted to test the crib's 50-pound weight limit. Upon hearing the crackling sound of the crib crashing into the floor, when the baby woke up crying, she called her sister and asked, "Where do you keep the spare crib?"
Such are the facts that label Sandip Sharma's unevenly split bride, Sheela Pradhan.
There is a perfectly logical explanation behind the scar on Sheela's right arm. Since her persona is quite atypical, the scar does not sum up Sheela's character, it only illuminates how her right brain functions.
During Sheela's first year in graduate school, her friend Nicole Phrivolos convinced her that a tattoo in the arm will be a statement-that she can embody more than one culture. Promptly sold on the argument, one overcast Saturday afternoon Sheela followed Nicole to a tattoo parlor in College Park, Maryland. The tattoo artist had already begun drawing on her arm when Sheela suddenly remembered the discount coupon in her car. She asked her sculptor to wait and ran to her car. In the parking lot, she bumped into her advisor's wife who convinced her, what she was doing to her body was plainly stupid.
Though she never returned to the tattoo parlor, the tattoo guy had already carved two rings on Sheela's arm when she ran to her car. Like an Olympic symbol with only two continents participating, the two rings permanently inhabit Sheela's arm. To the un-artistic eyes, it looks nothing more than a scar.
*******************************************************************
"At least my friends can read a book and understand," Sandip snapped at Sheela during their first fight nearing the third month of their relationship.
Sheela hung up the phone screaming, "You're a moron."
The first fight followed a déjà vu trip. That night Sandip found himself knocking at Sheela's door carrying a Nordstrom bag with a pair of expensive shoes inside it.
The new woman was ecstatic when she saw the bag and the tag attached to it. The apologies fit, so did the shoes. The woman who wrote her Master's thesis on 'Boolean Factor Congruences in Orthogonal Matrices' had found the man of her dream-a generic man, who bought shoes at a specific store called Nordstrom.
Imelda Pradhan had found her Ferdinand Sharma.
That night, when Ferdinand left, Imelda called her mother in Nepal. She told her mother about the shoes, and then about the man who bought those shoes.
Sheela's mother told her husband. A week later, the husband called his friend who happened to be 'Baahun'. The 'Baahun' friend called his family priest. The 'Baahun' friend's family priest knew another priest who knew Sandip's family priest.
Sandip's family priest was enraged upon hearing the out-of-caste proposal. However, his son, also a priest, but more modern than his father, declared, "So what? I hear they don't even speak Newari."
When Jagdish Sharma and Kunti Sharma found out Sheela's family didn't speak Newari, they were somewhat relieved. And the two families decided to meet.
"So nobody in your family speaks Newari?" When they met, that was the fourth question Kunti Sharma asked her prospective 'Samdhini Jyu'.
Sheela's mother replied proudly, "No. We're originally from Pokhara."
Though the bride and the groom did not care much, everything was approved 7,711 miles away in a suburb named Baasbaari. Sheela's mother called her the next day to make it clear: "You know this is an arranged marriage, right?"
"But he is 'Baahun'."
"Time has changed."
Sheela and Sandip celebrated their engagement by agreeing to get rid of Tigger, Sandip's cat. Sheela never liked that cat. "It smells like an animal," she always complained.
Three days before Sandip's wedding, a 69-year-old woman, who had never seen Tigger before, flew from Florida just to get the cat. She told Sandip, "Cathy loved this cat. This will be her surprise. I'm glad I called to say hello."
Sandip did not want to get married in Nepal because he "can't stand" Hindu traditions anymore. Therefore, Sheela's entire family flew to DC so they could get married according to Hindu traditions. Sandip's parents could not make it because of his father's recent heart condition. Only Sandip's youngest uncle came to represent the family. The US embassy denied the visa to his younger sister.
Although Sandip's uncle was the only member representing his family, he only attended the traditional ceremony at Durga Mandir in Virginia. Sandip did not think his uncle, a modest Health Assistant by profession, was appropriate for the Sheraton reception. "You'll be bored there," he said to his uncle, "Why don't you go visit New York with Manish?" That's how Sandip got rid of Manish as well.
The cost of renting a tuxedo for his uncle would have been far less than sending him to New York, but Sandip could not risk introducing his "Paakhe" uncle to his friends and colleagues.
The reception turned out to be quite lucrative for the married couple. Sandip's Human Resources manager hinted without elaborating, "Congratulations, only good things are happening to you."
Sheela's part-time professor and a full-time CEO of an upstart company came with an offer to which Sheela responded very loudly, "PLUS A BONUS?" Everyone heard that. That is the reason why 93 guests ended up uttering 124 'Congratulations'.
Sheela usually answers 'Congratulations' with "I know," so, "Thank you" came a distant second.
As the evening was dying, Sandip did not know, nor did he care whether he felt good being a host. For him, life was all about looking good. It was indeed a good-looking evening complemented by Spanish music and French cuisine. The only thing Sandip regretted was not wearing an Armani Tuxedo. Every compliment on his attire was met by Sandip's own doubt. That is how "But I prefer Armani," finished third.
At 11:47 PM Eastern Standard Time, while the recently married couple were still laughing and toasting with their guests, in a far away living room, the groom's 63-year-old father said to his wife, "Aba ta bihaa pani garyo, aauchha ki ekchoti bhetna?"
******************************************************************
"Did you find the place alright?" Linda Glad returned Sandip a receipt to his "How are you doing?"
"This GPS thing works like magic," Sandip replied, vigilantly scrutinizing the woman as if he were standing there to write an article on 'Linda Glad in a Glance'. Until that moment, he had only heard of and heard from that 50-year-old woman. He never imagined she would be so much taller and prettier than her 28-year-old daughter.
Upon Linda's insistence, also to cater to his own curiosity, though he had planned to leave right away, Sandip ended up resigning on the sofa in Linda's family room. Not sure how to confront the inevitable awkwardness, he started looking around the walls, scanning for a painting that could potentially function as a conversation conduit. Before he could spot Gogh's 'Starry Night' or Picasso's 'Blue Nude', the only 2 paintings he could identify, Linda's casual tone moderated the setting. "You and Cathy, you dated for a while, did you not?"
"No we just used to hang out."
Linda did not pretend to believe him, yet she passed over on a follow up question-as though she lacked energy for a counterpoint. She ran her fingers and felt the beautiful invitation card that Sandip had handed her. "Cathy's not around," she said, making a direct eye contact with him.
"I know. You said so, on the phone."
"I mean Cathy's really not around. She doesn't live here anymore. I could've told you so over the phone, but I spent the whole weekend by myself, I was dying to talk to someone. Even a stranger."
"Where did she go?" Sandip asked when he finally understood what Linda had meant.
When Linda told him where Catherine was, Sandip was quite surprised-'shocked' would be even more accurate. In the next 10 minutes, Linda and Sandip spent six paragraphs worth of a typical 19th century novel words, talking about Catherine. By the time Sandip ran out of 'are you kidding me', 'seriously', 'when', 'how', 'for what', 'with whom', 'where exactly', 'for how long'-Linda had already shifted to auto-answer mode: "Your guess is as good as mine," or "Who knows?"
Sandip changed the topic when he realized Linda had already checked in, to migrate from 'Regarding-Catherine' subject matter. "You look occupied," he said, pretending to be worried about the woman he had met just 15 minutes earlier.
"When I said I was looking to talk to someone, I didn't have a shrink in mind." Linda forced a smile to suggest she was joking. When Sandip reciprocated with a bountiful grin of his own, Linda added, "I always have issues."
"Who doesn't?"
"Can I offer you something to drink?"
"I wouldn't mind a beer."
"I'm sorry. This house is alcohol-free." Linda replied courteously, and then paused to add, "Unless you don't mind getting some. Giant is just around the corner."
"I saw it while coming. I'll go get some." Like an overpaid hit man who was just handed the photograph and the address of his mark, Sandip quickly stood up from the sofa.
"Get some wines as well." Linda offered him two 20-dollar bills as he rushed to leave.
"I got it." He refused to take her money.
Three hours and 27 minutes later, the naked body of Sandip lay on top of the naked body of the woman who was 19 years older than him. He was so drunk, happy, confused and animated; he whispered to himself "finally," as he vehemently swung his body back and forth. Linda, in an attempt to curb Sandip's excitement, gently tapped him on his back twice, and said, "You're not in yet."
Following Linda's directions, when he was finally in, he felt sober and thrilled-triumphant and accomplished-accepted and welcomed. His face glowed with contentment, matching that of a golfer who had holed a Par 3 in one-even though Sandip himself had holed a Par 1 in three; that too with Linda's help. Having never been allowed to play in the course, Sandip treated his double bogey like an eagle.
As they continued their escapade, Linda periodically wondered, "You're squeezing them too hard, you need a blender?" or, "Why are you mopping my ear?" Sandip was too overjoyed to notice what she was saying. While she talked in full sentences, he moaned using no more than two vowels at a time. But just before he climaxed, unable to contain his ultra-passionately spinning mind, the euphoric Sandip uttered yet another random word: "MILF."
The green card holder had finally Americanized his organ. There was no test. No fees. No interviews. And the only oath Linda made him take involved withdrawing his petition just before the completion.
January 16, 2006, a federal holiday that celebrated the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr., thus became historical for another man, Mr. Sandip Sharma. That evening, Mr. Sharma fulfilled his own 'I have a dream'.
When it was all said and done, mostly done, sloppily nevertheless, the two sat down quietly without sparing a single word to each other. When it became unbearably silent, the host finally asked her intimate partner, "How do you say your name? Shyandip?"
Before Sandip could correct her, the phone rang. Both Sandip and Linda glanced at the caller ID that displayed 'Steven Klaimet.' Linda let it ring for five rings before she grabbed the phone and screamed, "WHAT?" When the man on the other line started talking, she cut him off screaming, "YOU MISERABLE PIECE OF LYING SH!T. LEAVE ME ALONE."
********************************************************
Dear Sandip,
Sorry I couldn't respond to your RSVP on time. My apologies. It's been an eon since I last checked my email. First and foremost, congratulations. I wish you and Sheela the lifetime of happiness. Hope your parents are enjoying their stay in Virginia (I'm guessing they're there for the wedding).
I talked to mom a couple of days ago. She tells me you were kinda startled to hear I'm in Nepal. Believe me after seeing those pictures of Nepal I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. I gotta tell you I love your country, though it's more mine now than yours (hehe). When I first arrived here, I had to talk myself into believing life can be this hard, but it seems as though much of it is all expectations and adjustments. I sure wouldn't mind trading these squat toilets, apart from that I've no more than a few petty complaints.
I'm in a teaching post in Kusma, which in case you don't know, is a part of Parwat district. I wanted to experience a rural life so badly I've been living with this small family of three. There is Sushila, her mother-in-law, and her 8-year-old son Krishna. Sushila's husband Bikash works in New Delhi. I didn't quite get the joke, but when I asked him what he does in India, he called himself a "Gurkha" and started cracking up.
This woman Sushila does it all. She wakes up before the dawn breaks. She totally takes care of her mother-in-law, her son and the cattle, and someway manages to cook three times a day. God knows how but she's always cheerful. I've not seen her in a bad mood for five minutes. She checks on me constantly to make sure I'm at ease. Thanks to her, I'm totally into Nepali food now. Lowkal chicken's the best. I'm yet to develop the taste for Goondrok and Tyama, but I love Masyora and Tityora. By the way, Sushila cooks great asparagus with red potatoes that tastes quite yummy with plain rice. Besides paying her what amounts to no more than 40 dollars a month, I try to reimburse the goodwill by teaching English to village kids. Some like Krishna are picking up on quickly.
You must be wondering why I'm telling you about Sushila. My excuse, I'm freakin high right now. When I first got here, I met this Canadian freak in Thamel who did nothing but smoke pot. I didn't know anyone except a few squares who came with me, so I tagged along with him. Once you know someone who does it, you're a part of the network. I come to Katmandu every so often just to get high. Relax now, I'm not addicted. I can't be addicted to anything other than my conviction that I'm insusceptible. When you're smugly unrealistic, sometimes it works for you. Who knows that better than you ? Ouch.
Going back to Sushila, Bikash was here a month ago. On the day he was to arrive, she looked out the window, a thousand times. When Bikash finally arrived, they didn't hug, they didn't kiss, didn't even whisper a hello to each other. It wasn't necessary. I could tell. When he noticed scars and calluses on Sushila's feet from running around barefoot, the next morning he went to the city and bought her a big jar of Vaseline and a pair of Nike shoes. Every time Sushila puts on those shoes, I spot a big grin on her face. It's hard to tell what makes her so happy, those shoes or the man who bought those shoes. I can't imagine Imelda Marcos ever owning a pair to that value.
This is the longest email I've ever written and I'm not done yet. Frankly Sandip, I don't have a clue why I'm telling this to an insensitive pig like you (oops, this confirms I'm high, how say you?). But you're the only one I know who knows both worlds very well. And though you're an insensitive pig, you're a smart pig, quite smart for your own good sometimes. Mom aside, you're the only person I've been brutally honest with. So now I've to ask you this: What is it you find so appalling about this place? I always felt you were embarrassed to be what you are. What is it you disliked so much here? We too have asparagus here.
O Sandip, I think I've lost it. I saw a happy woman whose scars healed when her husband bought her a pair of shoes and I'm going bananas. I envy this illiterate woman. Perhaps this ignorant woman doesn't know how tough it is to be happy, and maybe that's why she's always happy. I don't find her cheerfulness infectious. Sometimes I'm miserable when I see her happy (here, I said it). A self-righteous bitch that I am, I wanted to go to Africa and heal a suffering woman. Well well, who knew I was just trying to cure myself? I was the one who needed healing. Now, of all the people in the world, I'm sharing this with the most insensitive pig I ever met. You see the irony?
Before I forget, mom told me about the hanky-panky between you and her. Don't worry it's not a big deal. I'm not simply saying that because I'm high. It's just not a big deal to me. I swear I found myself laughing when mom so remorsefully confessed. You wanna know how funny I thought it was? I asked mom the details. Mom has eyes for what often gets overlooked by mainstream (short men fall in the category). You're her kind. Hey, don't blame her for 'being attracted to you'. She thinks Tim Russert is cute too. I know, I know, of all the things I've tried to communicate with you in this email, I know this paragraph grabbed your attention the most. Poor Sandip, I'll tell you what, you and I are no different. We both think happiness is where we don't belong. And we like different style of cooking when it comes to asparagus. À bientôt, monsieur Sharma.
Catherine
PS
It's beyond me, but I promise I'd never try to understand your need to invite me to your wedding reception. I also promise I'd never try to understand your need to sleep with my mother, just days before your wedding. Sheela is one lucky girl.
THE END
Last edited: 21-Aug-08 03:20 PM
yatika din parkhieko ramailo bhayo.
. i don't know, not that i want to know, what developed between the time when you posted your new story (tears of resemblances) and when you deleted it (seems like a while back) but i, like some of the others i am sure, hadn't had chance to read it before you decided to take it back to your closet for what seems like forever. ;(