This past week was dedicated to a family wedding. My sisterfriend Ruch got hitched and I was there to drink all the free alcohol. As a bride she was flawless, she had every base covered as far as style went thus reminding me of my own wedding several years before – and how I managed to make one bad decision after another when it came to figuring out my ‘look’. Here now is the story of the biggest fashion fuck up committed by me on my wedding day:
In 2004 I was successfully able to manipulate a man in to marrying me. Now all I had to worry about was what I was going to wear for the actual wedding ceremony. This was a major decision, not just because I wanted to look my best on my wedding day, but because I had no clue where to begin. I am Goan Christian on my dad’s side, although the last time I saw the inside of a church was in New York at Limelight which happens to be an old church converted in to a night club, and on my mothers side I am part Coorg and part Andhra Pradeshi. Having been raised minus a cultural affinity to any part of my heritage I was going to have to come up with a bridal outfit all on my own.
Because I was marrying a Jaat, and because they were hosting the actual wedding ceremony, I figured I would go ethnic, it would be more I in keeping with their sensibilities than a dress, plus not being all that virginal I thought a white gown would be a little much. From past experience I knew it would have to be a sari because many trials and several errors have shown me that with my body type a salwaar/chudidar kameez makes me look like a dude and a ghagra-choli makes me look like a cross-dressing dude . As far as color was concerned I wanted red, that being the color of passion and all, plus it’s the one color that doesn’t bring out the yellow in my skin tone. With these elements in place all I had to do was decide on the overall look of my ensemble.
What did I want to be on my wedding day? Traditional or contemporary? Sexy or conservative? Flashy or low-key? This was important to consider because hair, make-up and jewelry would be dictated entirely by this choice. After much consideration I went with tradition, and having none of my own I went the whole hog, I would wear a South Indian Temple sari. My mother was given this brief via email and dispatched to do her worst.
In preparation for the sari I began to grow out my AnnieLenox style do, my plan was to attach a whole heap of false hair to it so I could have a bun. My blouse was to be a tasteful, bright red, half-sleeved affair, with a plunging back that did not permit the use of a brassiere; it was the only bit of sex appeal I would allow myself that day. To round it all off I had arranged to borrow my friend Anuli’s wedding jewelry because it was beautiful, traditional, and free.
The week before the wedding I was introduced to the groom’s family. My mother-in-law, who had only ever seen me in my regular clothes, was a little concerned, with good reason, about what it is I would wear. I explained my south-Indian themed costume and assured her that the sari in question was ‘very heavy’ which seemed to put her mind at ease. I then proceeded to inform her that south-Indian brides did not cover their heads and hence I would be following suite. I won’t lie, I thought my decision was rather feminist and brave, especially given that telling this to a Jaat mother-in-law was like telling Jesus that you didn’t believe in God.
On the day of the wedding my mother and I rose early and made our way to a ‘beauty parlor’ called Madonna where I was to have my false hair attached. Waiting for me at Madonna was Rajkumar (name changed because I don’t recall what it really was). Rajkumar was a middle-aged, rotund, and slightly effeminate South-Indian man. I was a little afraid of having a man do my hair but his borderline homosexuality made me feel a little better. I stopped feeling better and started feeling worse when his assistant Dorai (name changed because I don’t recall what it really was) marched in with a basket of rather dead looking jasmine flowers and a truck-load of really dead looking false hair. After I made a fuss about the flowers Dorai was dispatched to find more alive looking ones while Rajkumar surveyed me and my stringy hair. I could tell he wasn’t pleased with what he had to work with.
“How you want it?”
“I want a bun”, I answered nervously, “keep it low, on the nape of my neck and then attach the flowers in a circle.” I was hoping that my explanation would suffice, and was kicking myself for not having carried the picture of Feroze Gujral in a jewelry advertisement, which was what I was modeling my hairstyle on.
Rajkumar then went to work. He used what must have been 400 pins to secure what must have been 400 pounds of hair to my head. He weaved, braided, and gelled every lock of hair in to submission. I could not see what was going on behind me but I could feel my head getting heavier. An hour later he was done when in waltzed Dorai with his less dead flowers that were promptly attached to my head. He then stood back, presented me with a hand mirror, and with a flourish swiveled me around to admire his handiwork.
It was a disaster. Attached to the back of my skull was not a graceful little bun as I had envisioned but a gigantic French loaf wreathed in what can only be described as a garland of less dead jasmines.
“It’s very big.” I stammered.
“Actually it looks very nice, very traditional.” This was my mother. Here was a woman who knew that she had one hour to get me back to the hotel and that undoing Rajkumar’s creation was not an option.
With Rajkumar, Dorai and my mother silently pressuring me to let it go I reluctantly gave up the fight, and balancing my head that now weighed several pounds more than usual, stalked out of Madonna. Never to return.
Waiting for us in our room was Anandi and Ruch, my two friends who were in-charge of my make-up and over all state of mind, and my dad.
“Doesn’t her hair look great?” trilled my mother in an effort to pre-empt any sort of cock-up in the form of an honest opinion.
While my dad sat there trying to rearrange his facial features to read neutral rather than horror, my girlfriends, the professional liars that they are, went on and on about how fantastic I looked, and that yes it was a little big but so what, and no it was not utterly ridiculous.
At this point I excused myself and went to the toilet to have a good look at the thing. On the up-side it was so heavy that it had pulled my face back thus acting like a facelift, on the downside however, it wasn’t big, it was enormous – the damn thing was practically the size of my own head. I was devastated, sure I had lived through an 1980’s mullet/AnilKapoorStyle and a plethora of really crappy hair days but did I have to endure one today! But the show had to go on and so I flushed the toilet after my pretend pee and went back outside hoping that Anandi would transform me, and my two heads in to a vision of beauty and glamour.
It is a fact that good foundation and red lipstick will brighten the worst day, and my sari was fantastic. The overall effect made me forget about the calamity on my scalp so when I heard my to-be-husband talking loudly to some friends in the corridor I foolishly decided to get his opinion on how lovely I looked. I rushed out to find him standing there dressed in his wedding finery, turban, sword and all.
“What do you think?”
With the look of someone searching for the least awful thing to say he responded, “You look like a Bharatnatayam dancer.”
I fled back to my room and yelled at my mother, father and both friends. I dared not cry because Anandi had done a rather artistic job of my eyes. Once I was done ranting and raving I calmed down and thought – screw it, at least it’s traditional, now all I have to make sure of is that the photographer doesn’t get any pictures of me in profile.
I needn’t have worried my now over-sized head about that.
When the ceremony began I made my way to the mandap. As I seated myself in front of the ancient pujari, who looked in dire need of a nap, or a drink, or both, my mother-in-law swooped down and threw a spectacular, bejeweled chunni over my head. As far as she was concerned I could take my feminist ideas and shove them where the sun didn’t shine. Or maybe, just maybe she was trying to cover up Rajkumar’s ruin.
This weekend my husband and I received an invitation to spend Thanks Giving Day dinner at the home of our friends Arjun and Monika Talwalkar. Thanks Giving is a huge American holiday that is traditionally celebrated by shoveling vast quantities of food into one’s system while in the company of close family members. As a foreigner I have no family in America and so I suppose most people might think that I am very lucky to have friends who love me enough to invite me over. And usually I would agree, but there is one big problem – Arjun and Monika live in Frrriking Morristown.
Morristown is a suburban settlement in the state of New Jersey. I refer to it as Frrriking Morristown because getting there is a frrriking pain in the arse. As a city dweller (New York City) I try to avoid travelling to the ‘burbs at all costs. In the past my husband and I have pulled every stunt to get out of the Talwalkar Thanks Giving or Christmas Eve feasts. We have been ‘sick’, away on ‘vacation’, had ‘other plans’ or simply avoided their phone calls. It’s not that we don’t love our suburban friends it’s that we want to love them within City limits.
You see travelling to the ‘burbs usually involves the use of one or two modes of public transportation, a taxi-ride and a short walk. Sometimes it involves renting a car. In Arjun’s case, because we have made him feel like we’ve done him a huge favor by coming all the way out to visit, it involves him having to drive all the way to the Newark train station to fetch us and then drop us back. Anyone else would have stopped being friends with us but Arjun is Canadian and so no amount of being rude about his surroundings will push him to telling us to go fuck ourselves.
Even though it is clear as day that Arjun and Monika could care less what we think of Frrriking Morristown my husband and I continue to try and get them to move closer to the city, hence every visit begins and ends with this exact conversation.
Arjun why do you guys live out here?
It’s so nice Radhika – look at all the trees.
But this commute is insane!
No it’s not – I do it every day.
Because a suburbanite has chosen to torture himself/herself with a mind numbing commute to and from work they assume that everyone else would enjoy doing the same.
I don’t understand how you do it – it takes fucking forever.
No it does not – it takes me 37 minutes to get in to the City.
Please note that anyone who lives in Suburbia is always real specific about time. My brother-in-law used to live in Dallas and on our first (and last) visit he told us that it took him 9 minutes to get to work, 12 minutes to get to his daughter’s school and 16 minutes to get to the gym. City dwellers tend to round things off – 10, 15, or 20 minute time intervals, but not the folks from the ‘burbs.
Are you certain it’s just 37 minutes? It feels a lot longer.
It’s 37 minutes once I’m on the train – but the drive is extra – obviously.
Another suburbanite trick. There is nothing ‘obvious’ about the drive being extra. As a city dweller when someone asks me how long it’s going to take to get from my apartment to mid-town I include walk time AND wait time for the subway/bus. I don’t willy-nilly exclude time consuming activities like a 40 minute drive!
OK forget the commute – why are you living here??!
Space for Milu.
Milu, a.k.a Milind, is their 3 year old, trouble-maker of a son who looks exactly like Calvin from ‘Calvin and Hobbes’. He is another story all-together. The boy has a mind of his own – a trait I deplore in children. He rarely listens to either one of his parents which would normally be a major impediment to my remaining friends with the family but I have managed to scare the living crap out of him on more than one occasion so he is fairly well-behaved around me. But I digress. The point is Milind is about 20 inches tall, 6” wide and 4” deep – I can’t imagine he needs that much space but this is the other thing with folks from the ‘burbs – they cite ‘space’ for their children as their primary reason for moving from civilization out to the boonies.
And we have Costco.
Costco is every suburbanite’s wet dream. It is where every product is family-size, half-price, two-for-one, or some variation thereof and possibly the only thing that I am slightly jealous of. Arjun and Monika are proud, card-carrying members. Costco and suburbia go together like tea and biscuits because you need plenty of space to store 60 rolls of toilet paper and 20 gallon crates of washing detergent.
All I want is for Arjun and Monika to admit defeat, tell me I have made a better lifestyle choice and immediately stop having dinner parties in their home. But that will never happen. So until then – if I wish to remain in Milind’s life as his cranky Kaki* – we will mostly lie about our availability but once a year drag ourselves out to Frrriking Morristown.
Those of you who know me (and those of you who have read blog #7) know what I think of parents who boast about their children. They must be exterminated. My own parents refused to indulge in this type of thing and I always thought that it was because, like me, they saw it as shameful behavior. But looking back I must admit it was probably because I gave them very little cause to celebrate.
When bragging about their off-spring most parents tend to focus on two areas. The first: their child’s physical appearance. Those of you who know what I looked like ages 4 to 18 will also know that my parents definitely got the short end of the stick on this one. My mother wasn’t one of those mums who got to say things like, ‘People stop us in the street constantly to tell me how pretty she is’. And even as a joke I never heard my father say, ‘Well I better buy myself a shot gun to scare away all the boys.’ My dad seemed unconcerned about the possibility that his daughter may at some stage in her life cause young boys to behave in a less than gentlemanly fashion. My dad was a realist and he did not believe in candy-coating anything. He described my buck-teeth as coconut scrappers and when I was older I once complained to him that a friend of mine had hit on all the girls in our group except for me to which his response was ‘Perhaps he thinks you’re a bit on the butch side.’
The other subject of parental pride is the child’s intellectual acumen. Despite my coconut-scrappers, one eyebrow, flat chest and knock knees my physical attributes were far superior to my academic achievements. I went to a boarding school at the tender age of nine and spent most of my time there getting yelled at by Mr.Bhatnagar (head master), Mrs. Balakrishnan (head mistress) and Miss Y.G. Sharada (house mistress) for my total and complete lack of interest in school work. I was constantly doing all sorts of things that warranted their disapproval but the thing that they obviously did not get was that I thought it was hilarious. As soon as I got my arse kicked I would rush back to my dorm and describe to my friends, in intricate detail, exactly how much trouble I got in, how it happened, and how freaked out Mr.B, Mrs. B or Miss YGS were. To me this was sport.
Eventually this sporting activity, that I had managed to hone to perfection by the time I got to class ten, got me jettisoned from school entirely. I was refused readmission after my tenth class board exams on the grounds that I was a trouble-maker with no respect for the law, a boy-crazy nut-job (I had managed to have a very high-profile relationship with a younger man – he was in class nine) and last but not least I was academically weak.
With considerable difficulty my parents managed to get me in to a local school so I could complete high school and hopefully move on to college. The embarrassment of being pitched out from the place that I had spent my entire childhood in had one positive side-effect. I began to study. For the first time in my life I actually tried to listen to my professors. I even made some effort to commit to memory certain facts and figures that could help me score well in tests and I decided that I would not get thrown out of class on a daily basis for being a smart mouth.
Seeing all of these changes through required one major adjustment. I could no longer do as I pleased when it came to my social life. My parents and their friends would have parties almost every weekend and unless they were being thrown in our house I had to RSVP regretting I would be unavailable. A few months in to my newly found hermit-like existence my mother’s friend had a huge blow-out for her birthday. All my parents’ friends and their kids (aka my friends) were going to be there. I had a sociology mid-term exam coming up so I made one of the few mature decisions of my life and opted to stay home and cram. My parents told me that I would not regret this and left without a backward glance.
The next day I joined my hung-over, sleep deprived father and my painfully cheerful mother for breakfast.
‘Everyone missed you last night’. My mother informed me.
‘Like who?’ I asked expecting her to rattle of a long list of my fans and well-wishers.
‘Well just Zac’s daughter actually – what’s her name Bertie?’
‘Mona’ my dad belched.
‘Yes – Mona – she asked about you.’
Mona was my age and so obviously her mid-term exams were in full swing too. My mother went on to tell me that on hearing of my responsible decision to stay home and study Mona’s mother Naaz turned on her daughter.
‘I told you Radhika wouldn’t be here. So sensible she is – not like you.’ Then she said to my mother, ‘This one also has exams but insisted on coming out.’
I was pleased to hear this – apparently the stain of my prior expulsion was beginning to fade and people were not only taking note of my new and improved avatar but I was finally being held up as an example to lesser mortals. My parents were right – I would not regret the sacrifices I had to make.
‘I felt so bad for Mona – you know how Naaz can be’, my mother prattled on as she stuffed a piece of toast in to her face, ‘So I told Naaz that the only reason you were staying home was because you had done so miserably in your class ten exams that you were trying to make up for it now.’
I was stunned. How dare my mother be self-deprecating on my behalf! We had a huge scrap of course but it was painfully clear that neither parent could understand what the big deal was.
Two years later I went away to college in Bombay where I reverted to my old ways. I was a daily source of grief to Sister Rodricks (Head Mistress), Sister Bertha (dorm warden) and Sister Fleurette (whose job description fails me). If my parents refused to say anything nice about me behind my back then clearly they did not deserve any better. And maybe that is why parents say nice things about their kids – in the hope that it will encourage the little creeps to shine.
In my early 20’s my ‘look’, such as it was, could best be described as either non-existent or lesbian-grunge depending on how charitable one was feeling. I wore jeans that were too big for me, wife-beaters that I purchased in the Jockey store that at the time only supplied men’s under-garments, and my feet were always encased in my beloved Doc Martens. To complement my get-up I wore my hair super short and no make-up. This was my idea of fashion and I would foist it upon the city of Bangalore every weekend when I went out to party.
At the time I lived with my parents. My mother – a patient and generally polite person – would cringe every time she saw me get ready to go out.
So this is the latest style is it? She would inquire.
Mistaking her sarcasm for ignorance I would feel embarrassed for her. Why couldn’t she just be cool and not use words like ‘style’?
It’s a look. I would huff, rolling my eyes.
It’s rather manly don’t you think?
Oh my God! She didn’t know anything. I was too cool to be pretty and feminine.
No it’s not – a lot of women dress like this.
I have never ever seen a woman dressed in a man’s undershirt. She responded primly.
That is because you never go anywhere. I snapped.
That is true – but must you wear those shoes?
These shoes are Doc Martens. Everyone in London is wearing them. Surely this would shut her up,who can argue with London fashion? Apparently my mother could.
They look like orthopedic shoes is all. You wore something like them when you were a toddler and we thought you couldn’t walk.
She knew nothing! And where the hell was my ride? I should be drinking Bacardi and Coke, not listening to her go on about my choice of clothing.
So nowadays you girls don’t wear make-up is it?
‘Nowadays’. Anyone who used that word was a fossil.
Not everyone needs to wear make-up. I replied sanctimoniously.
Hmmm. Maybe you should? Just a little bit – a little lipstick perhaps? You can have some of mine.
No thanks! I would have rather died than wear her lipstick.
Eye-liner? Maybe some eye-liner – it will brighten you up.
By this time her voice would take on a pleading tone.
I don’t need brightening up. I said haughtily.
Why wouldn’t she leave me alone? And then I found out.
So boys like this type of thing is it?
Brilliant. My own mother thought I would be unable to land a boyfriend clad as I was with no make-up on. Of course she had no clue about all the action I was able to pull even without her helpful suggestions – granted the quality was shaky but it was enough to make me believe I still didn’t ‘need’ make-up.
Over the years I have seen the light and acquired lipstick, eye-liner, mascara, foundation (liquid and powder), blush, concealer, gloss, lip-liner, eye pencils, eyelash curlers, and a host of other items to improve my face. It does help brighten me up.
I was 17 when the all-important decision of where I would go to college was being made. In my case the final verdict would be driven primarily by which college would accept me in to an academic program and in to the on-campus housing. On-campus housing was critical because my parents did not believe I was sensible enough to live on my own in the big, bad city without killing myself. It finally came down to Sophia College, an all-women’s college in Bombay that was run by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Yep – I would spend three long years under the watchful eye of catholic nuns.
I didn’t care – I was excited to be moving from Bangalore to Bombay and it was while on holiday in Bombay with my dad’s family that we gratefully received the good news of my acceptance in to Sophia’s. Unlike most extended families ours usually tended to keep their opinions to themselves, but on the issue of my higher education they were surprisingly vocal.
Cousin X (referred to as such because I don’t want any trouble) was beside himself with worry. As far as he was concerned we were just small town folk who knew nothing about Bombay.
Aunty Surya let me just tell you one thing. Just one thing – Sophia College chicks have the worst reputation! They are all fast chicks and let me tell you one other thing – the ones in the hostel are even faster! And if she goes there she will become one as well.
‘Fast chicks’ were basically slutty girls who were willing to put out for anyone and everyone and who required very little (if any) encouragement to do so. At 21 he knew everything, especially about women and it was his duty as my older cousin to warn my mother.
His view point did not surprise anyone – certain women’s colleges in India enjoy a less than saintly reputation amongst the male populous. And while it is entirely possible that the behavior of some students may have compromised the standing of these venerable institutions I was pretty damn sure that more men had been turned down than turned on by these very girls. Yet my cousin was afraid that mere contact with these women would immediately turn me in to a slut. How? Was sluttery contagious? And were all the sluts being quarantined in Women’s only colleges? Are you telling me there were absolutely no sluts trolling the co-ed college class-rooms? What a stupid, old-fashioned idea.
As I rolled my eyes I caught my uncles. My Uncle Z (once again because I don’t want any trouble) sat there with a look on his face that said he too thought my cousin was talking out of his rear-end. It turned out that while he was far less concerned about the college turning me in to a slut he suspected something far more diabolical that that.
You know Surya if you send her to that place they’ll turn her in to a nun. That is exactly what they do.
Even at 17 I knew I was related to a collection of crazies. As far as they were concerned my options were limited. Slut or nun – I had no hope of becoming an economist or a psychologist or a statistician or anything like that. Nope – my only options were to become a woman of loose morals or a woman trying to enforce stricter ones. I went to college wondering which group of women would win the war over my mind (and body).
It is a matter of fact that I did not become a nun. All else is a matter of opinion.
This past week a friend proposed to his lady love. He proposed in Central Park with a ring and a poem that he wrote himself. After she said yes he took her back to his place where he busted out the champagne and cup-cakes (from Magnolia Bakery because she loved those). Instead of being happy for them I was green with envy. I have been married five years, I have no romantic interest at all in this friend of mine and I will go on record here to say I like his fiancé – BUT I was jealous. I was jealous because I was forced to recollect how I was proposed to.
My husband and I already lived together at the time and happened to be in the middle of a major fight. We had spent two days ignoring each other – a pretty considerable feat given the size of our living quarters. On the third day of the stand-off he suggested to me (in his usual condescending tone that always makes it sound like I am the crazy one) that we should perhaps talk about what the problem was. We could not do this at home because we had a close friend of his staying with us and so he suggested we leave the apartment. We live by Battery Park (good view of Lady Liberty) and so that is where we went to settle the score. Better to create a scene in front of complete strangers than in front of people you know.
‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘What seems to be the problem is you are a condescending prick and I am sick of it.’
‘Listen Radhika, this type of abuse is not helpful.’
‘Well it’s helpful to me.’
‘Calm down.’
There are few words in the English language that get a bigger reaction out of me than ‘calm down’, ‘chill out’ and ‘relax’.
‘You calm down, you shit head! – And by the way the next time one of your stupid friends has a question about when it is that we plan to get married, make sure they direct that to you because I am sick of telling them that I am living with a man who has no interest in marrying me.’
Long pause.
‘Well – that was something I had been thinking about. But I didn’t know exactly how to bring it up.’
I could not believe it was happening. I was being proposed to by someone who had no idea how to and so now it was up to me to drag a proposal out of him. I felt like a tug-boat bringing the cruise ship in to the Hudson.
‘Are you asking me to marry you?’
‘Yes.’
Being the desperate, needy female that I am I said ‘Yes please’ and then called all my parents, his parents and my girl-friends before he could change his mind. This was my proposal. No ring, no poem, no champagne and no bloody cup-cakes.
Can you imagine? I had to show up at work the next day – in a New York advertising agency that was full to the brim with girls whose boy-friends had really put in the work to become fiancés – with this!
In the retelling of the tale I had no choice but to embellish it with elements of romance that I imagined would make an appearance at the most average of proposals. Plus, being a girl who always looked for a silver lining when it came to the dark clouds of my relationship, I thought that at the very least it was unique. Until Seal proposed to Heidi Klum in a motherfucking igloo.
Women like having a story. We want our girl-friends to think that you really thought about marrying us. That you obsessed about it, that all your friends were part of helping you plan, that for once you stopped trying to be cool and instead finally turned in to a pussy with a ring, a poem and cup-cakes (sorry Sanju!).
If you want us to love you forever then make the proposal special or your wife will write a blog about it.
Good luck Sanju and Monika. I love you guys – it’s just my husband I’m fighting with.
In the last two months I have attended three weddings. I love weddings they bring out the depravity in us. I think it has to do with the holier-than-thou air of the ceremony. The purity of true love being blessed by a Rabbi, Pundit, or Priest that makes abusing alcohol and/or hooking up with the grooms horny pals from high school seem more like a part of the proceedings and less like a crime that you might normally hide from your uptight girl friends.
Outside of illegal drug use and surreptitious sexual liaisons I also derive great enjoyment from wedding conversations. These revolve around three main areas of interest: (1) Illegal drug use and surreptitious sexual liaisons, (2) how the bride and groom met and honestly what do we think their chances are, and when we finally run out of gossip and theories (3) what the secret to a successful, long-term relationship is. Numbers two and three are areas where married people have something to offer and we take full advantage of it. Especially three. We have plenty of advice on how to keep a relationship going (sometimes against all odds) and the point that gets the most mileage is ‘compromise’.
Having been married 5 years I have discovered there is no such thing. Marriage is not a negotiation, it’s a turf-war where one or the other party must resign themselves to their fate. If you are looking at a relationship for longevity then look for signs of resignation.
If your man-friend sits there holding his head in both hands while you rant, rave and drill on about his mother, his friends, his clothes, his face, his hair, his ex-girlfriends, and anyone he ever spoke to and he doesn’t rise up and smack you – that is resignation. If you can nag, nag, nag at him for crap he stepped in ages ago and if he just sits there barely breathing, wishing he were somewhere else, doing something more fun – like getting a blow job – like in the old days when you thought he was soooo cute, but instead he just stays put without talking back, without moving a muscle, mainly because he knows any movement or sound will kill any chance of him getting lucky in the near future – that is resignation.
When you have loaded enough guilt on to your loved one that he sits there ignoring your high-pitched whinging while envisioning a future with a quieter, nicer person but does not have the physical strength to go anywhere and he knows that you are going nowhere in a hurry either. That is resignation.
Compromise would be if you gave him a blow job after you made your point.
Indian men have a very special relationship with their mothers. These women yell, scream and beat their male off-spring. They repeatedly tell their sons how useless and stupid they are. They hold their heads in their hands and beg their God of choice to explain what it is they did in a past life to deserve such a disrespectful child. But no sooner have these diamonds in the rough been ‘married off’ then suddenly the Indian mother can’t find enough time in the day to sing her son’s praises. And sing them she will – loud and clear without fatigue. The lyrics are different but the message is always the same: You are not good enough for my baby.
My own Mother-in-law (MIL) is the same. She is a tough broad who raised 4 unruly cretins. She has four daughters-in-law (DIL) and like all the other MILs out there deep down she believes that all four boys could have done just a little better for themselves in the wife department. But she puts up with us for the same reason all Indian MILs tolerate their DILs. After having raised her boys like special needs children, she knows that for their sake she has to suffer the care giver who has taken over.
She hails from the great state of Haryana. Which is like being from Texas – everyone from there is extremely proud of it and everyone who isn’t can’t understand why. Like all Haryanvi mothers, feeding her children is her raison d’être. She ferrets out people traveling to New York and forces them to carry things for us. And she always calls me before the courier leaves to make sure she has sent all that we need.
Hello Radhika – Arjun is leaving next week and he has nothing to carry so I am sending 10 kilos rice, 5 kilos ghee, 2 kilos cashew nuts, 2 kilos almonds, 2 kilos pistas, 2 kilos raisins, 5 kilos assorted sweets and 2 one-liter bottles of Maggie hot and sweet tomato sauce. Is that enough?
Yes Mom.
Are you sure?
No Mom – maybe we should get some more rice.
That‘s what I thought. I’ll send 15kilos.
She hovers over you as you eat, dumping food on your plate and sometimes stuffing it directly in to your mouth if it happened to be ajar. I would eat pretty much anything that was put in front of me because I wanted her to like me, and I could tell that eating continuously would be a major means to this end. Things were going swimmingly. Then we hit a roadblock.
My MIL believes that food is what keeps all illnesses at bay and she is partial to milk as a cure-all. Milk is practically the staple food of the people of Haryana – children are breast-fed until they can recite their mathematical tables and gallons of it are consumed daily in every home.
My back hurts.
Drink some milk – your bones are weak.
My throat feels itchy.
Hot milk, honey and turmeric at once.
I just threw up.
You must be hungry. Have a glass of milk.
And here in lay the problem – I am lactose intolerant. The first time I explained this to my MIL she nodded her head like she understood but I could see in her eyes that she thought I was full of bakwaas*. To her, lactose intolerance is a made up disease that we weak minded, wimpy, ‘modern-day’ girls use to avoid dealing with life – like post partum depression, anxiety attacks, and dyslexia. It all exists in our minds.
Until she met me she had never heard of such a thing. How the hell could anyone be allergic to milk! While I prattled on about the problems we lactose intolerant people have to deal with she just sat there thinking ‘Oh God if this was my child I would have clubbed her one – why won’t she just shut up and eat the damn paneer tikka instead of inconveniencing everyone?’
As I explained in unnecessary detail the effects various milk products had on my digestive system she smiled painfully as her eyes searched for answers: What is wrong with this imbecile? Where did my stupid son even find her? Who in God’s name can’t drink one single solitary cup of milk? If he were this desperate why he didn’t just come to me and ask me to find him a girl? I would have found him a nice girl with big breasts who could drink milk without whining about it.
And I know she is now trying to get rid of me because every time I visit the first thing she sweetly asks is if I want a mango shake. My MILs mango shake is designed to kill a lactose intolerant person immediately. It is chunks of mango, milk and cream all whipped up in to one big glass of pain. Every year I am asked if I would like some. Every year I say, no thanks. And every year I see disappointment in her eyes.
Then to make this all much worse my own mother came to stay with my MIL for three days. The very first thing my mother did was to decline a cup of warm, milky tea because like me, she too is lactose intolerant. My MIL couldn’t even react. While everyone discussed how this was most likely hereditary she was thinking to herself ‘OMG – no wonder this girl is a bewakoof**. Her mother is the same and she has passed on this self-centered, paranoid behavior to her one and only off-spring. Why do these people have only one child? They should have many so that they can dilute the foolishness instead of concentrating it all up in to one big, lactarded baby. I wonder when they are all leaving.’
So no matter how far I think I may have got in the fight to prove that there is no way her son could have done any better than I, when it comes to a showdown between her, me, and a glass of milk, I will retreat, whinging like a little bitch.
*Bakwaas – Hindi word for bullshit.
**Bewakoof – Hindi word for fool/ idiot/moron/dim-wit/half-wit/nit-wit/nincompoop.
