tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91044401594569945452024-02-20T04:56:45.584-08:00Dirty Pretty ThingsWriting and Poetry | R. L. ChauhanDirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-57793850971016903692021-09-01T13:34:00.001-07:002021-09-01T13:36:49.958-07:00BEING MULTIDIMENSIONAL<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="2omur-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2omur-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">moving</span><span data-offset-key="2omur-1-0" style="font-family: inherit;"> forward</span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="2v4bo-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2v4bo-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="2v4bo-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">constantly moving forward</span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="a9vgg-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a9vgg-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="a9vgg-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">thinking about the point of it all</span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="6ghml-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6ghml-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="6ghml-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">are we doing the right thing? am I? </span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="4mrgr-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4mrgr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="4mrgr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="3hdu0-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3hdu0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3hdu0-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">sometimes </span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="30skv-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="30skv-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="30skv-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">sitting in the now has its rewards</span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="rbub-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="rbub-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="rbub-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">breathing</span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="23oju-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="23oju-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="23oju-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">but you need to get up some time </span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="bd6ae-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bd6ae-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="bd6ae-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">or you'll be sitting in your own filth</span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="86tih-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="86tih-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="86tih-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="3ui0b" data-offset-key="fiqmj-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 11.25px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fiqmj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="fiqmj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">if only I were one- maybe two-dimensional</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fiqmj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">and had a different set of concerns</span><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></div></div>Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-24266291791154195892021-08-13T12:46:00.002-07:002021-08-13T12:46:15.018-07:00The Monsoon<div><i>The day was gray, warm and dust dry in anticipation. The monsoon rains were late this year. He looked up at the pregnant clouds in the sky from the flat stone rooftop – the lowering sun cast a red glow behind the grayness. The water would soon pour down, as if a bucket had been tipped over. Children would appear on rooftops – playing and dancing. The steamy rain would come down so fast there would be no time for run off. The dust would churn into mud. The drains and gutters would be flooded within moments. The streets would pool to waist level within minutes. And, just as suddenly as it had started, it would be over. The water would eventually drain away… leaving a mess behind. He had loved the monsoon rains since he was a child himself, and wanted to live to see more.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">****</div><div><br /></div><div>He slipped into the first room of the house. He sat down in his mother’s old chair. <i>God. This is where she wanted me to live out my life? Sitting on the floor all day until my back and knees ached, rubber cementing leather soles to uppers, painting designs and stitching toe loops for women’s sandals. God, the monotony. It makes me sick.</i></div><div>The room was almost empty now. There was only a chair, a cot and two carefully tended picture frames above the opposite doorway – one of his dead father with a rotting garland of jasmine draped across it, and one of a painting of the God Shiva, the destroyer, with fresh sandalwood paste rubbed on the glass over the forehead. At times, Nitin did feel guilty for not caring more about his father who died when he was a baby. </div><div>Nitin unwrapped a triangle of silver foil he pulled from his shirt pocket. He loved the taste of paan; the pungent leaf wrapping equally pungent spices. He slipped it into his mouth to chew – a meditative ritual like taking tea; it must be enjoyed at a leisurely pace. The red juice spread its stain in his mouth. </div><div>He looked around the room. The workstations were gone. The shoe materials were gone. The calendars were gone. Every inch of peeling sky blue paint, and beneath the ragged gaps, peeling old pasted flyers and movie posters were visible. No need to track distribution now. He had sold the business piece by piece, as he needed the money for gambling, for cigarettes and for treating his friends to paan at the nearby stand. All he had left was the house, his wife, and his life. </div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>“Nitin?” Sushma was calling from the kitchen. He smiled just hearing her voice but wanted to relax a while longer.</div><div>“Nitin? Are you coming? Food is ready.”</div><div>“Nitin!” Sushma called with annoyance.</div></blockquote><div>A fire blazed in his eyes as he stood up. He walked across the stone floor, through the doorway, under the picture of his father and Lord Shiva – his left hand deftly taking the belt hanging from a nail just inside the next room. He looped the leather end around his fist as he strode through the bedroom in the middle, and into the last room of the house in a straight line. Sushma was squatting on her haunches on the floor in front of the propane stove, her simple printed cotton sari gathered between her legs. He entered, still chewing, arm rising back, just as the last chapatti finished cooking. She had a stainless steel platter with food already set out for him. She had just switched off the gas and put the last chapatti, still warm, on his plate when the buckle end of the belt caught the back of her head. </div><div>He was whipping her with the buckle on her back, on her waist, on her legs. Sushma stood up trying to avoid the blows by instinct. He toppled over his plate and his food and lashed at her a few more times.</div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>“YOU…”</div><div>“Mother is coming! Mother is coming soon! Please…”</div><div>“SHOULD NEVER…” </div><div>“You need to eat early…”</div><div>“TAKE THAT TONE…” </div><div>“You’ll eat again when mother comes, with mother!…” </div><div>“WITH ME” </div><div>“Please…”</div><div>“WHEN? </div><div>“Please…”</div><div>“WHEN IS SHE COMING?”</div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">Still he continued to hit her, and still she pleaded, “Mother is coming… Nitin… It’s okay. She will help.”</div></blockquote><div>He stopped for a moment, chewing his paan as his rage ebbed. When the red faded from his sight, he knew she was right. Still, she needed to learn it was never acceptable for her to use such a tone with him, her husband. He stood and waited, dropped the belt wrapped around his fist, chewing, as she bent down to clean the splattered food. </div><div>Eventually she wiped out his plate and pulled out the covered vessels of food from under the stone shelter to serve his food again. He sat down, finishing his paan and began to eat. He leaned over to caress her tear-streaked face. </div><div>“Mother is coming soon. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.” She moved closer to him and held his head to her chest as he cried. </div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">****</div></div><div><br /></div><div>It was 2:15am when the rickshaw motor sputtered in the courtyard. Sushma was up first. She went to unlock the door and help bring her mother-in-law’s suitcases into the house. Nitin came in as she dragged the last one into the empty room next to the cot and chair. His eyes were still burning with hot, dry sleep. He sat on the cot and waited for his mother to pay the rickshaw. He watched her in the light as she approached the door wondering what changes America had made on her in the past year. </div><div>At 83, she still wore the white cotton sari of a widow. Her white hair was pulled severely into a bun at the back of her head – not tight enough to pull the folds of sagging and wrinkled skin smooth. She looked as she always had, as if she was melting back into the earth; the skin and fat on the underside of her arm, her face, the fold of her stomach showing from the drape of the sari – all dripping toward the ground. Her eyes that used to be brown were now grey blue with the weariness and heaviness of the trials of her life, magnified many times by her glasses. Looking into them, he questioned her right to be head of the household and family when his father died. If his father had lived longer, maybe his life would have been different. </div><div>Nitin doubted very much that she ever stopped chewing her toothless gums, her mouth constantly working at nothing in it. As she stepped over the threshold, Sushma rushed to touch her feet for a blessing and to show respect, then went into the kitchen to heat some food and to make some chai for her mother-in-law and Nitin. In uncomfortable silence they sat together on the floor and ate, mother and son. He was losing patience. </div><div>Later, they came into the sitting room again. She arranged herself on the cot directly, pulling one knee up to her chest, her foot on the cushion, holding her ankle… her mouth still working. Sushma stood in the doorway below the pictures of her dead father in law and Shiva as Nitin sat down across from his mother in the low easy chair. He couldn’t wait anymore.</div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>“Did you bring the money?” </div><div>She chewed a couple of times, paused and lisped, “No. I told them, no. They work hard for their money and they need it. What have you done?”</div></blockquote><div>He felt the burning fear rising in his body. His heart was beating in his ears. </div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div>“Ma, you don’t underst-”</div><div>“I do understand…” She glanced over at her daughter-in-law who was cradling the side of her head and trying to wipe away traces of blood as she left the room. </div><div>“It’s enough.” She declared. </div></blockquote><div>Nitin saw the bulge of her keys tucked into her blouse. She no longer lived here yet she still held the keys to her trunks on the loft. They should have been given to Sushma. He sensed she had some business with the trunks. Whatever it was, he decided right then, he would have it. </div><div>He let the burning fear, shame and guilt guide him across the room. She looked up into his face as he came closer. That she had no fear further angered him. </div><div>Nitin grabbed at her blouse and ripped the keys out. She followed him, pleading into the bedroom. He vaguely heard her through the rush in his ears. Sushma hearing the commotion entered the room to see Nitin climbing up the ladder to the loft. In his determination, he shook his mother’s grasp, inadvertently shoving her and making her tumble. </div><div>The trunks were coated in dust. His mother’s trunk with the steel bands was kept separate from the others, so he knew exactly where to go. Nitin fumbled with the key in the lock and finally heard it click open. </div><div>The contents were wrapped in pieces of bed sheet. Nitin tossed the ends of the sheet aside and saw bank deeds and a largish framed picture of a strange man. He put these aside and rifled through the rest, finding his mother’s gold wedding jewelry – heirlooms passed down to her by both her own mother and mother-in-law. He found ancient, heavy brocade silks embroidered with 22k gold, enough to cover his debts once sold. He found the papers of ownership for the mansion and land in Pakistan, abandoned in the 1947 Partition. He had only heard stories of the respect and wealth his family had had before they left it behind. They had been respected; they had been WEALTHY. Yet, these papers were worthless to him now; the land was forever lost to him and the family now. As the rushing noise in his ears ebbed, he could hear his mother gasping for breath below. </div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">“Bring me the papers… Nitin… the papers.” Still, his mother’s raspy voice didn’t register. </div></blockquote><div>His mother had collapsed on the floor and was trying to breathe. Sushma stood by, scared to move. Nitin sat beside his mother and cradled her fragile head in his lap, the papers on the floor beside him. He tenderly removed her glasses. He motioned to his wife to bring him his pen as he stroked his mother's forehead. Methodically, he broke the pen. He rubbed and smeared the blue ink on his mother's thumb before he pressed it to the paper–her signature. </div><div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">"You have taken what I came to give you," she whispered.</div></blockquote></div><div style="text-align: left;">Thunder and lightning cracked the dark sky as a tear slowly stained a wet path from the corner of her eye, across her temple and into her hair. She exhaled–her son's hand covering her mouth and nose to be sure it was her last breath. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">****</div><div><br /></div><div><i>The clouds spilled the monsoon rain but there was no joy this time. The dust churned into mud. The drains and gutters flooded. The streets pooled to waist level within minutes. And, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The water would eventually drain away… leaving a mess behind. He had loved the monsoon rains since he was a child… </i></div><div><br /></div>Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-79730895883020589722020-07-29T22:28:00.000-07:002020-07-29T22:28:29.070-07:00Love Song<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Display"; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Your voice resonates </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">compelling me </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">to leap into your arms</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">to wrap my legs around your waist, and grasp your shoulders, </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">to deeply and thoroughly taste your kiss</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">When you see me, if you don’t love me, don’t say my name, don’t hold me in your gaze, and don’t come after me</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Animal fights in trees and on fences</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Sounds like one got away, but it also sounded bloody and wound inflicting</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Display"; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I so wish I could find and help the wounded one(s)</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Display"; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">At least I can allow my own heart to heal</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I am not afraid</span></div>
Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-87296412083057218352019-04-27T22:47:00.002-07:002019-04-27T22:49:51.048-07:00Adventures after Nightfall<style type="text/css">
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<span class="s1" style="font-size: large;">Night. I have to turn my back on the sidewalk to load my bags in the passenger seat of my car. A perhaps emotionally disturbed man who might be homeless, who might be mentally impaired, or who might be on drugs tries approaching me from behind. I tell him, “I’m busy, have a good night.” He gets up close behind me. I don’t know what he’s capable of, but my hands, arms, elbows, and body are not in position to fight in any way. I am alarmed and frightened so I raise my voice over my shoulder, “BACK OFF, NOW!” He moves away, which is promising, but he hovers close saying something I can’t make out because he’s mumbling and because my ears are ringing with adrenaline and I’m about to disassociate in fear + anger. Time has slowed down and I’m taking in every piece of information and analyzing it. There’s good lighting, I’m near the front of a grocery store, there’s likely a camera, but the goal is to stop whatever this is from going down in the first place because I don’t want to deal with police reports or hospital bills, and I would have to muster the energy to do all that and heal by myself all while I hear criticisms about being a single female because that (and the bad behaviors, inabilities, and fragilities of former and would-be partners) is something I’m blamed for too. He comes back close and reaches past me and drops something on the hood of my car—a notebook that I might in another situation be curious about, but yes, he’s close enough and tall enough to stand behind me, trapping me and reaching past me and over the open door of my car to drop this notebook on the hood and I’m trying to avoid smelling him because I’m afraid of what I might learn from that. I turn around to face him using some sort of move I know from salsa and garba dancing. I’m still trapped by the open passenger side door, but am prepared to defend myself in whatever way I might. Mental inventory: slightly impaired still-healing right ankle, somewhat stable block heel sandals, and a skirt limiting my range of motion that unfortunately won’t rip but that I can hike up to mid-thigh so I can kick after a throat punch—lucky that I parked close enough that I’m loading the car while standing on the curb instead of standing in the gutter. I don’t want to escalate to physical yet, so I use the other effective tools I have, my voice, volume, tone, and alarming/aggressive word choice. I look him in the eye and pronounce, “BACK OFF, I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU EAT YOUR OWN EFFIN EYEBALLS!!!” This works. Shocked, he shuffles away. </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-size: large;">As I close the door, toss the notebook off my hood, and deliberate my steps to the driver side, aware that I can’t discreetly lock my passenger door yet and he’s not far away enough, I’m livid that this happened. I would have preferred to be kind, but he scared the S out of me. THIS is not the way to approach a female at night and it’s not my job to teach this. </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-size: large;">Side note: color doesn’t matter in this and similar situations. Yes, he was white. Yes, I’m flippin curious about that notebook.</span></div>
<br />Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-38636222784142907332019-03-31T01:11:00.001-07:002019-03-31T01:13:15.309-07:00Saudade
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Saudade<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I chose the pink cotton dress, woven cotton with cream lace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the party, he didn’t want to help me clean, he didn’t
want me to clean in the morning, and there was no one else coming to help. So,
I stayed up until 4:30am clearing, washing, and putting away the impromptu
dinner party—he had decided to bring eight people home for dinner at the last
minute. I cooked and hosted. No one spoke to me. I was a servant. But the
townhouse was clean and when the light streamed through the high windows, I
picked the pink cotton dress to bed. That clean home was the last moment of
peace I remembered before I left.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I chose the three quarters length, white satin slip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mouthy staircase wound into the living room and I
slipped from the living room into the sunlight on the vine garden patio. Just
back from swimming with seals and colorful fish, the night impossibly sultry…
romantic… the night sky beautiful beyond anything I could have ever dreamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I chose the flower-purple chemise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A peacock was resting in my window when I woke. The lavender
rooftops and the gardens, the mist on the ground that gave the townspeople
magical properties so that they would float past the mango tree. This was after
diving among the coral reefs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I chose the flowy blue cotton and silk with little flowers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whitewashed walls and a small flower mural. Mexican tiles
and warm air. Sipping tea and looking over my garden. Fruit, cheese, nuts, and
bread. This was after ATV-riding to the lighthouse where I could see the
Pacific blending into the sea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt like I was glowing from within. I felt loved by the
world, by the earth, purely loved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every beach, every stroll down a foreign street, every
encounter with nature and animals, every bit of happiness and life and joy
seemed like stolen moments. These were moments that I should not have had, that
I was never given, and no one expected me to have, certainly not my mother, my
grandmother, or my great grandmother, and beyond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe I recognized then as I know now that no one wanted me
to have these moments. I’d stroll with… not quite a sense of ownership and
belonging, but one of confidence and discovery. Maybe a person needs to be
naïve to experience novelty in the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve had my share, but like an addict I couldn’t stop
craving more… more life. Then I discovered that sometimes life changes… the
light becomes not as bright, the water not as sweet. I was left wondering
whether I’d feel it course through me again. I don’t know how to stop wanting
and wanting and wanting more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Saudade<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time when I wasn’t able to sleep for three or
four nights. One played the guitar ever so softly and gently until I fell
asleep. A personal lullaby that I would recognize if I ever heard it again. If
I ever heard it again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time when I was pulled to the inside and away
from the curb, to be protected by another. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A time when I was shivering in the cold. I was held to keep
warm and kissed on the forehead by yet another. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was held once while I cried, until I finished crying about
life. It was 25 years later than it should have been, but it finally was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A jacket offered, a motorcycle ride while wearing a dress,
photo shoots, songs and poetry composed about me, fiction written with me in
mind… yet… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, who will remember me when I’m gone? My second death
will be the same as my first. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Saudade<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to want more first kisses. Now, I want one last first
kiss. Maybe I already know his initials, maybe it’s wishful thinking. I used to
want to keep traveling and bouncing from place to place. Now, I want to build a
home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Saudade<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-47571709242868171622017-08-18T21:53:00.000-07:002017-08-18T21:53:18.264-07:00To My Ex Husband on Hitler, Slavery/White Supremacy, and Misogyny
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
To My Ex Husband on Hitler, Slavery/White Supremacy, and Misogyny: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember that time when we went to your [Indian] coworker’s
house for dinner and he started talking about the virtues of Hitler and what a
great leader he was and he kept on and on about the guy and I looked around the
room wondering who was going to speak up first and realized the other 7 people
were not born and raised here so I started glancing at the corners of the
ceilings the lines the walls made where they met each other and the ceiling and
realized no one was going to say anything at all because what they didn’t get
it or because they didn’t care or because they were tolerant of intolerance so I
said “I’m born and raised here and it is deeply disturbing to hear what you’re
saying” and he told me I was welcome to leave and I said that there’s this
thing I understand about Indian culture that guests are supposed to be treated
well and I merely wanted a subject change thank-you-very-much and the subject
changed and when we left you told me that everyone has a right to their opinion
that he was a poor farm guy who made it all the way to California and I didn’t
say anything to you about that but I didn’t give a crap what his background is
or was because I had a right to my point of view also then you began to
chastise me on the ride home in the car and then to ignore me for two weeks when
I KNOW I HAD to say something AND <br />
<br />
Remember that time when you took me to Stone Mountain and couldn’t quite fathom
why I felt like I was shrinking inside my skin when it slowly dawned on me that
the place was a monument to slavery and we were THE ONLY BROWN PEOPLE THERE and
no one would talk to us much less look at us and I wanted to get out as soon as
possible and tried to explain to you that this was not a good place for us to
be and I don’t care about the craftsmanship nor that the guy who did it did it
because he was fired from the making of Mt. Rushmore I just wanted to get out
and you expressed your deep resentment toward me because you didn’t understand
that the little museum shop was glorifying the days of slavery and “whitewashing”
the experience of slaves and you were a complete dick to me? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah. I do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
F You </div>
Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-40509037069698707002015-11-08T20:44:00.000-08:002015-11-10T02:11:44.684-08:00On Desire<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I desire </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> every
inch</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
of you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Your breath on my lips,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
the taste of <i> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">your</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> sweet sweat on my tongue,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">your voice</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> whispering
in my hair</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">your fingertips </span><br />
tracing the lines of my face</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">your smile above me</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the
smell of our sex</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">you
</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">pulsing in my
blood</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> through
every vein.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You’ve made me religious, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">for it
is now that I understand:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">cursed </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">is the
flesh;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">damned </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">is the
heart</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">that desires what might be
given, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">but what can-not be taken. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-68950631600188547642015-10-23T18:25:00.002-07:002015-10-24T19:45:48.980-07:00About my Grandmother<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When I was in high
school, there was this dark, rainy, downright-ugly day. It was pouring rain. The kind that if
you were caught in it for a few seconds, you were soaked. I came home from school
and plopped in front of the TV. After about fifteen minutes, my grandmother
came up behind me, she was always right there, and asked, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to pick up your brother?” of course, she said it in Gujarati. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Oh crap, she’s
right! I looked at the time and realized that my brother would be half way home
by now, so I decided I was going to walk out to meet him and walk the rest of
the way back with him. I left the house without an umbrella and without a
jacket, and started on the path. Sure enough, about halfway, I saw my brother
trudging along, miserable as can be. He had this green jacket, so if you zipped
it up all the way, there would be this tiny hole at his forehead, so I have to
say, he had it zipped up to about his chin. With every forward trudge, his whole
body collapsed into what I can only describe as slog. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I came up to him
and said, “Hey, let’s get as wet as we possibly can!” and we did. We jumped in
every puddle. We shook every tree for the extra rain. We walked in the swollen
gutters. We were drenched through, and through by the time we got to the front
door where our grandmother was waiting for us. She looked at us, scoffed and
turned away. She was a woman frugal with her words and economical with her
emotions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When someone
leaves this world, we have a tendency to reflect on whether they have left us
too soon, or whether they have been released from suffering. To most of us
suffering and happiness are negatively correlated. But, if you ask different
generations, “What is happiness?” you’ll get fundamentally different
responses. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Some of you may
know that on both sides of my family, I’m the first born outside of India, and
the first one born here in the U.S. My generation asks questions. What did Ba’s
tattoos mean? Was she happy? At another time, I asked Himat Mama if he thought
Nani was happy and at best it was an upsetting question. She was married; she
had children; she was taken care of—of course she was happy. But that’s not
what I mean. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I’ve tried asking
others, but I’ve never received a real response. I’ve learned to stop asking
older generations. Yet, here I am wondering, was she happy? Ever? In my
definition of happiness? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
This is what I
know:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
—She exercised
every day. EVERY DAY. Until she couldn’t any more. Think about this. How many
Indian women older than our generation really exercise? Sure, you see the men
walking about, but not the women. And, she exercised every day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
—She loved
animals. As Samir noted already, in 1999 when Nikki was hit by a truck, she
vowed never to get close to any animal again because it was too painful when
they died. Truth. She retreated into herself even further.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I tried to get to
know her in various ways in the past, but never could get very far. It wasn’t
until she was submerged in dementia that I learned more. Once, she
was like a nine-year-old girl, talking about her polished nails, and how she
wanted to style her hair. I asked her about her tattoos. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
—She had tattoos on
her hands, arms, chest, neck and face. She said, jare who nani chaukri hathi
thyara theej mane shawk hatha (ever since I was a young girl, I had a passion
for tattoo art). I learned she was more than a grandmother, more than the woman
who kept her children safe during the trek from Pakistan to India during the
Partition, she was a girl, a woman. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
—And, boy did she
have a sharp tongue! She would cut through the ish around us and tell it
straight and hard, no chaser. I enjoyed that about her! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
There are
fundamental differences between people. Here it is October 2015, and what I
learned from my grandmother is—Always Do You. </div>
Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-59172275306525551772015-10-17T13:54:00.003-07:002015-11-07T16:20:54.125-08:00Too Good for Arranged Marriage?<style>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">You’re not going to college; you’re getting married. Your husband
can decide whether you go to college. When are you going to get married, so
your husband can take you to the hospital instead of us? Are you too good for
an arranged marriage? </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Fifteen
years of my life were consumed with talks of arranged marriage while my parents
tried to prevent me from dating. Of course, I found my way around these things…
I dated their employees. I stole their car and ran away to college. They’re
typical, “don’t!” and I “did” kind of things. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">On
both sides of my family, I am the first to be born outside of India, the first
to be born in the U.S., and I suffered through judgment for the wicked act of
expecting more from potential life partners. Yeah, I gave it a shot. And, yeah,
it has worked out for other people. This is the story of the best candidate
arranged marriage had to offer me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I
was 26. He was 30. I was in the Bay Area, home from Santa Barbara for a
wedding, and he was visiting from San Diego going to the same wedding. I was
told to talk to and consider, let’s call him Bharat, because that’s his name—B
for short. Of course, being ordered to talk to this guy meant avoiding him at
all costs, just as he was avoiding me. We were circling the room in opposite
directions and kept running into each other in the same two spots, and each
time, quickly brushing past each other. I don’t think we spoke once that
evening. And, I felt bad. I mean, I had known him since we were little kids. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The
last time we hung out I was 10 and he was 14. We were at someone’s house for a
dinner party, the kind where all the little kids would sneak away to watch TV
or play cards or whatever. At this dinner party, there were four boys and my
sister, all around the same age 14-16 years old, and there was 10 year old me.
They were your typical mischievous, rock-and-roll- listening, guitar-playing,
skateboarding, brown boys. And, we watched porn. To be fair, I’m assuming it
was porn, but it very well could have been something on Cinemax or HBO late
night. There was this chauffer who kept driving this same woman around and they
kept banging on hay in this barn. At one point, she was banging someone else in
the barn, and he came in with a different girl to bang her, and they were
trying to hide their banging activities from one another, and it was hilarious!
At one point, I remember laughing and pointing at the TV, but the boys turned
on me and singled me out, “What are you laughing about?,” “She’s probably
freaking out over all the sex.” No. It was funny the way the scene was set up
and that particular… plot… point. Anyway, they shut me down, and that was the
last time I hung out with this guy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The
day after the wedding, I felt bad that I was so rude to him. I mean, come on.
It’s not like we HAVE to get married. We knew each other, so it really doesn’t
have to be awkward. What did I do? I tracked down his number, gave him a call
and apologized for being rude. He then invited me to meet up at the Durant
Hotel in Berkeley. I did. We reminisced about the porn watching, and laughed,
and went for a walk on campus—like my dad, he had graduated from Cal, and had a
soft spot for anything Berkeley. It was all together, not so bad. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He
invited me down to visit him in San Diego, his turf. He lived in Pacific Beach,
and I got to see Jewel, before she was famous, playing in the coffee shop down
the street. That’s the highlight. So, I get there, and he has 6 female
housemates, and they all proceed to tell me at various times, how they’ve each
gotten together with him in the past year. Ew?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Later
that night, we went for a walk in La Jolla and one of the pretty housemates
came along. We were walking and talking, and he kept trying to hold her hand.
In front of me. As if I couldn’t see. She saw that I saw, and at one point,
when I turned my back but could still see from the corner of my eye she was
flailing her hands at him telling him to stop being an idiot. Serious. That
night, he asks me to make out with him because he has insomnia. Uh. Let me
think… No. To be fair though, from what I’ve experienced in the dating scene
the past few years, guys still don’t have game—not much has changed. So
instead, we talked about our childhoods and our dreams of the future. We both
loved Spanish Mediterranean homes. He still played the guitar, and he loved
horse races. He spent quite a bit of time at Del Mar tracks. I love dancing,
and singing, and music, and writing, and reading, and bike riding, and
rollerblading, and hiking, and being on stage, having an audience. We drifted
off to sleep. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day, we drove up to LA for another
of his friend’s weddings. During the drive, he pointed out Del Mar racetrack as
we passed it, and we continued our talks about what each of us wanted. At some
point, he brought up some money troubles, and asked to borrow $750 for a car
payment while he waited for his next paycheck. I pulled out my checkbook and
wrote it out to him. I mean, family friend and all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">We
arrive at this fancy pants house where I meet gorgeous Armenian women close to
my age. Gorgeous, but rude. I’m Indian from Santa Barbara, and they’re Armenian
from LA. Plastic Beach Town vs. Plastic City. They were all wearing different
color handkerchief dresses. Remember those? It wasn’t a planned thing; they weren’t
bridesmaids, just all wearing the same thing. They were all very stylish, and
totally and completely snubbed me, the outsider. I tried saying Hi; I tried
small talk; I tried complimenting. It became clear that this bunch needed me to
be cruel and crafty. And, that’s just not me. So, I hung around B’s guy
friends. They were all very nice. One of them, Azim, actually treated me like a
human being and asked me about my life and my thoughts, and we had a real
conversation until his bitchy girlfriend came over to shut it down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">We
arrive at the reception hall as one big overdressed young group. It was
beautiful. A dim-lit dining room in a posh LA hotel with rich mahogany woods.
The long tables set up on either side of the dance floor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">B
and I sat at a table with the mean girls. After some small talk, at one point,
B turns to me and puts me on the spot. Out of the blue he’s pointing at the
girl in front me and asks,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you
think of her hair?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Me?
“I think your hair is gorgeous! It’s a great cut, and has great movement.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">B
turns to me, his demeanor and person physically intimidating, and spits in my
face, “She’s wearing a wig and she has cancer!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Whaaat?
Did I space out? I wasn’t exactly sure what I was supposed to do anymore, but
being screamed at, hearing this news, and I’m not even sure if I blundered. The
weekend has not been great, and I’ve been a pretty good sport up until then.
Everything that was not working welled up inside me. I excused myself and found
my way to the bathroom. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I
went into a stall and finally let out tears of frustration and sadness and
humiliation and anger and disappointment. I was trying to think of what to do
and where to go. I wanted to get out of there. This is before there were cell
phones, and I wished for my car. Even if I could get a car, where was I going
to go? I wasn’t really sure where I was. Am I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>going to drive back to Santa Barbara at that time of night? The rest of
my things and plane ticket were all in San Diego. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Then
Azim. Wordless…. Entered the ladies lounge. Found me in the stall. Led me to
the couch. Held me until I cried it all out. Wiped away my tears. Fixed me up.
Kissed me on the forehead, and told me I’m beautiful. We stayed there in the
bathroom until we started laughing and cracking jokes. The kindness of a gentle
man with a good heart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He
led me out and back into the dining room. He and his friends took turns dancing
with me, and twirling me about, making me smile, keeping me occupied, keeping
me away from their women, and from B, all of whom were still shooting daggers
at me. The last time I saw Azim, his girl was yelling at him near one of the
tables, and B and I were heading out to the car. We locked eyes for a second.
That was our goodbye. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It
was a miserable drive back with B. I was thrilled when I got on that plane to
go home. If I could have gotten out of San Diego faster, I would have. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">But
then, remember that $750 dollars he borrowed? After a few lies, and a couple of
months, of still not seeing that check, I finally had to call my dad. $750 is a
lot. I told my dad everything: the other girls, flat out asking me to make out
for nothing, screaming at me in front of everyone, crying in the bathroom, Azim.
The only thing my dad had to say, “Wait. You mean, that mother-fucker borrowed
money? From YOU? Jeez. You need to call his mom now, and tell her. I’m not
getting involved with this guy.” So, here I now have to call his sweet, kind,
mother. I said something like, “Hi auntie. How are you? I’m so sorry… $750…
something about horse races…” Three days later, I get an angry scrawled check
in the mail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I’m
not perfect. I also wouldn’t say I have impossible standards. Am I too good for
an arranged marriage? Well, considering B was the best of the lot I had met.
That may be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></div>
</div>
Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-60631946474540877522015-10-16T20:08:00.000-07:002015-10-17T14:18:56.757-07:00The Music is Gone...<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes driving me crazy
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">… stuck in my head over and over</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">… </span></span>hands brushing, drawn together like magnets</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes in my dreams</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">… travels and futures and creation and souls finding each
other</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes in my heart</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">… fragrance and color of rose lingers though there were none</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes haunting</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">… your hands on my waist and body pressed against mine, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">but I open my eyes and you aren’t there.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pulling the sun from the sky</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">For one more delicious stolen kiss from your mouth.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joy has vanished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Though music plays, I can't hear it, can't feel it. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Numb spreads from my heart like disease. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The music is gone. </span></span></div>
Dirty Pretty Thingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09333276303510466614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-28048055557811536812014-10-18T23:16:00.000-07:002015-02-02T19:36:41.438-08:00My First Black Eye (Fictionalized Memoir of an Indian American)<br><br>
“You’re up first sweetheart. Go ahead and drop your dress.”<br>
“What?”<br>
“Drop your dress or you’re out.” <br>
-----------------<br>
Ah Vegas. I was there with my good friend Steve, and his friend Chris. A day earlier we were walking around Treasure Island and stumbled upon a country bar with a mechanical bull. <br>
The three of us stepped into the bar. It was still early and unusually empty, so the familiar smells of wood, veneer, stale, spilt alcohol and mildew were the first things I noticed. Steve and Chris went straight for the bar to order drinks. I, not being a drinker, bee-lined for the mechanical bull. <br>
I’d always wanted to ride a mechanical bull. There were so many things I always wanted to do, but never did. Things were different though. There I was in my 40s, divorced, in Vegas with friends. And, right in front of me, a mechanical bull! <br>
I just wanted to ride. So while Steve and Chris were ordering their drinks, I was talking the guy at the controls into letting me give it a go. <br>
I took off my slippers and stepped onto the air mattress barefoot, making my way– first sinking in, then stepping up, slowly getting over to the bull. <br>
Steve walked over to the edge of the rink, “What’re ya doin?”<br>
“I’m gonna ride the bull,” I replied holding onto the pommel.<br>
Looking skeptical, “You don’t really want to do that, come on.”<br>
“Yeah. I do.”<br>
I put a foot in the stirrup and easily heaved myself up almost like I was getting onto a motorcycle. <br>
“Are you ready?” the guy at the control asked.<br>
“Yep.”<br>
“Ok, so one hand up in the air at all times. Don’t be afraid to fall. The air mattress is all around you. It’s impossible to get hurt.” <br>
I tried to keep my eyes from having that deer in headlights look, tried to be cool. It was my first time, but I wanted to seem relaxed and not so stiff. I raised my left arm, my hand in a fist, my elbow slightly bent, vaguely aware I was a brown person in a white bar making a Black Power salute. <br>
A signal buzzed, and the bull started out slow and rhythmic. I relaxed into the motion as the bull started to pick up pace. <br>
I could ride into the faster bucks, and really had to work to relax my arms and neck. It got faster. And faster again. Just when I thought that was it, it got even faster still. There was no rhythm anymore, my nylon pants had some grip, but I really wished for my jeans. I was at the bull’s mercy now. There was no keeping pace or following pace. There was only keeping my bones together while I was thrown about like a rag doll. <br>
Finally, I let go. I let go and went flying, back first, eyes closed, and I sank. I was unsteady and disheveled making my way through the sinking air mattress to the exit. I heard applause, from somewhere. The guy at the controls took my hand to help me down. As I was putting my slippers back on, he produced a clipboard and told me, “Hey, sign up for the competition tomorrow night! It’s ladies only and you’re a natural. There’s a $1000 prize if you win, and you totally could.” <br>
As I was signing the paper, because, man, I could really use that money, I was trying to get a sense of my surroundings. Had he been extra gentle with the controls? Is this for real? I finished signing in, my name first on the list, and the three of us left the bar. <br>
“Come back tomorrow at 8pm sharp!” the controller guy called after me. <br>
-----------------<br>
The next day, we came back early. I handed my camera to Chris to take pictures, and Steve and Chris went back to the bar again. I checked in and went to go stand in line with the 3 other women. Who by the way, were gor-geous! 24-26 years old, one blond, one brown-haired, and one black woman. Chatting with them, I realized I was the only one who had ever been on a mechanical bull before–this very one in fact! <br>
A crowd of men and a few women were in the bar now, and it was hard to see their faces then much less remember them now. I remember big bellies, button down shirts, work pants, glasses, bad hair, and name tags. There must have been a convention. <br>
I was ushered to the front—having signed up the day before. Then, the same controller guy looked up from his controls. <br>
“You’re up first sweetheart. Go ahead and drop your dress,” he said.<br>
“What?”<br>
“Drop your dress or you’re out.” <br>
“I heard you. What do you mean?”<br>
He gestured to the banner that I was seeing for the first time. It said, “Bikini Bull Riding.” <br>
“Bikini? I don’t have a bikini on. I didn’t know.” <br>
“Well, make a decision. Drop your dress or you’re out.”<br><br>
These are the thoughts that fired in my brain:<br><br>
<u>My parents</u>. Them telling me, “Do things that will make your family proud.” But they weren’t there… and, I am an adult. It was no longer about them anymore. <br>
<u>Tank tops</u>. The fact that I wore one for the first time when I was 26 years old. Not really wearing skirts and dresses that showed my calves and knees until I was in my mid 30s. <br>
<u>Being controlled</u>. My ex husband not allowing me to talk on the phone in my house. Making and finishing up my calls, even to my mother, brother and best friend, in the car. Getting yelled at for talking to people at dinner parties. <br>
Nope, it was time I lived. I get to choose. <br>
I was aware of the gaze upon me. They did not know me; they did not care about me. I represented all women to them. I would be on stage. It was their gaze. I knew the scars, I knew the accidents, the achy knees, the plantar fasciitis, where the bruises were when my soon to be ex husband wouldn't stop throwing things at me, the extra work it now took for my muscles to remember their shape. It was my body, and I knew EXACTLY how old it was and is. <br><br>
All these thoughts fired through my head one after another in a split-second before… Before I reached behind my neck and released my halter dress. It dropped onto the floor in a puddle at my bare feet. There I was in my underwear. <br>
I stepped onto the air mattress. There was a rushing sound in my ears, and I felt myself disassociate from my body. I glanced at the crowd and saw all the men cheering. I saw Chris with my camera, stunned, and next to him, my good friend, Steve… who looked like he was about to throw up. I pointed straight at him and then pointed at the door and mouthed, “YOU! GET OUT!” He moved fast, without question. Satisfied, I gave Chris a nod to take pictures, reached up for the pommel and swung my leg over the bull. <br>
I vaguely remember little things… I hadn’t noticed how soft the covering of the bull was through my pants the day before. I noticed there was no way to grip the bull with bare skin, not at all. I squeezed my knees and thighs tight against the sides, lifted my arm and gave the controller the signal to start. <br>
He started out at the gentle setting. But what was kind of cool the night before was not at all right in my underwear. I couldn’t think about the jiggling, whether I had stretch marks or varicose veins. The crowd got loud, and cheered as the controller spun the bull around for them to see the only two things they cared to see jiggle.<br> As the bull got faster, I got more angry. Angry at the crowd, angry at the controller, angry at Steve… Slowly, I realized I wasn’t being forced to do any of this. I didn’t HAVE to do this. But, I HAD to do this. <br>
The bull started moving faster and my knees kept slipping on the sides. Before it got ridiculous, I let go and let myself fly off the bull backward. The crowd was a blur, my arms were stretched out, my back and neck hit the air mattress… and then, my legs kept going, and going… until my knees came up and over, and I kneed myself in the eye! <br>
Someone brought me ice in a bag for my eye. The rounds continued, then finished, many of the details a blur. I came in second. At the end of it, I sent all the people in the women’s restroom out and pulled Chris in so he could block the door. I put my clothes back on like an assemblage of useless armor. My arms and legs felt like rubber, my eye was throbbing. I retied the halter behind my neck and slipped my shoes back on. I turned to Chris and we walked back to the room and I felt numb. <br>
-----------------<br>
Steve was moody and upset sitting in the room when we got there. I took ibuprofen, and put my ice on the table to get a better look at the beginning traces of my first black eye—it was swelling and red. <br>
My first black eye—self-inflicted. <br>
My first black eye—blossoming like the flaw in my argument for dropping my dress in the first place.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-70485719279642621052014-09-27T23:18:00.003-07:002014-09-27T23:18:42.807-07:00Not Tonight...Even though it's raining and the parched earth is sipping only enough to whet its thirst, I will not write poetry tonight.
<br><br>
Even though a friend who annoys the shit out of me is leaving and I discovered I'll still miss him, I will not write poetry tonight.
<br><br>
Even though I feel the disparity in my bones while those around me scoff at displacement, I will not write poetry tonight.
<br><br>
I won't do it.
<br><br>
My curls are wet from being in a cloud
<br><br>
My eyes are stinging from <i>not</i> tears
<br><br>
My arms are wrapped around my self to soothe my heart after seeing a piece of beauty in the city die
<br><br>
But I will not write poetry tonight.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-572521433516332632014-09-07T16:17:00.000-07:002015-04-04T21:06:03.538-07:00The Thinness of a Once Thick and Muscled Arm<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>[Typically, I write fiction. This is a rare personal experience piece.]</i></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Running late. On foot and approaching
the BART station near my home, I saw a 20-something lady</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> of the Silicon Valley tech bus riding variety</span> wearing bright colored
skinny jeans of some bright hue (pink? blue? purple? bright), a brightly
colored sweater contrasting her jeans, a gray scarf circled loosely around her
neck several times, cat-eye sunglasses, and her blonde in an asymmetrical razor
cut bob. I saw the back
side of a 30-something young man, wearing a gray over-sized sweatshirt, jeans,
dirty sneaks and tan baseball cap, who watched the scene in front of him. I saw
a man lying on the ground at the top of the stairs, beseeching the brightly
clad young lady. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I approached, and took in the scene,
the lady was torn between hurrying on her way or trying to help the man on the
ground. The young man watched, at some points obscuring my view of the young
lady as she waffled back and forth in her steps unsure how to or whether to
respond to the man on the ground. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I approached, I was able to see more
of the man lying on the ground. He wasn't a regular I had seen around in the
past four years. He was older, maybe over 60, homeless, mentally ill, or a
combination of both. He had a metal cane with a gray rubber covered handle–-the
kind we see in medical supply stores or hospital emergency rooms. He was
crying. He was pleading with the young woman to help him. It appeared as if he
had tripped at the top of the stairs. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I approached, I recalled what it is
like to regret. And, here it was. Life presenting. I did what I learned from
firemen who helped me when I panicked from an injury in my past–-a particularly
bloody, seeing your own bone, altering your mind about the fragility of the
human structure kind of injury from which, yes, I did recover rather well. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He didn't seem injured in any other
way, there was no blood and he wasn't clutching at anything or focused on a
particular area of his body. He didn't seem imminently dangerous. He didn't
seem unpredictable. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
I summoned gentle authority, crouched next to him, and asked, "What do you
need?"<br />
He gasped through his tears, "I just wanted ice cream."<br />
I said, "Ok. The first step is getting you up."<br />
He replied with a broken, "m-m" that indicated uncertainty.<br />
I said, "I'm right here. Let's get you up. Ready?" </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I reached out my left arm so he could
balance on me, and gently put my right hand under his tricep in an effort to
prop him up without squeezing. His thick tan and black plaid coat belied the
thinness of a once thick and muscled arm.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I noticed his fingernails were
overgrown and dirty, his skin rough and peeling, and his hand shook. He
clutched several neatly folded bills, among them a $10 bill visible, thick enough
to hold several more bills inside. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He hesitated to rest his hand on my
left arm, but eventually stopped crying, decided I would not rob him, and began
to focus. He braced himself, and tentatively hopped the foot closest to me
underneath himself. Success on one side! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On his other side, he could not get his
balance. The brightly colored young lady rushed there and copied my stance and
hand positioning. <br />
<br />
- "You're almost there," said the bright young woman.<br />
- "You're almost there. You can do it. Take your time," I encouraged.<br />
- The younger man in the gray sweater watched on, but couldn't, wouldn't,
didn't move. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The man hesitated for his balance,
gathering the tremendous effort it took to heave himself up, like a novice
fallen skier straightening out skies and poles and legs akimbo. And, up he
finally came. Success! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The three of us, younger man, tech lady,
and myself, side by side<span style="font-family: inherit;">, </span>facing the same direction, watched him. Hobbling away with
his cane and what looked like severe plantar fasciitis, or some other thing
that kept him on tip toe on one foot, he pulled out a handkerchief from the
pocket of his black and tan plaid coat to wipe his face, and glanced a
determined smile upward from under his cap. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A man renewed, a man empowered... </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">somewhat renewed... </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">maybe not very empowered...</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-78882843492927753992014-06-20T02:26:00.002-07:002014-09-01T23:40:41.751-07:00Whispers"You're a dirrty girrl," the delicious purr of a ginger brogue in her hair.<br><br>"I'm a good girl," she manages to gasp.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-72258585112893246342014-04-10T00:41:00.000-07:002014-04-10T00:41:46.794-07:00Longing by Jennifer Williams-Fields"It’s been 12 hours and I still have his smell upon me.
<br>
<br>
I close my eyes now and I can feel his kisses on my belly. My body responds now as it did then. That touch, his touch, I ache for him now. I want his body. I need him.
<br>
<br>
Kiss me, I say.
<br>
<br>
Say please, he says.
<br>
<br>
Please, oh dear God please, kiss me."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-12854088528711112902014-03-18T11:31:00.001-07:002014-03-18T11:31:26.294-07:00that sound summer makesWarm days have a sound, a buzzing, a hum. Over the years I thought it might be swimming pools or air conditioners. But the summer hum is still there on warm San Francisco days, and there aren't any pools or air conditioners nearby.
<br /><br />
My animal, still in his youth, hums when he runs too fast. I'd like to imagine the Earth is humming as the warmer days slip by, a call to be outdoors and revel in nature... before it's too late... before I miss it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-9976394443512954912013-11-26T00:24:00.001-08:002013-11-26T14:01:11.429-08:00line of drums<b><i>"Drum sound rises on the air, its throb, my heart. A voice inside the beat says, I know you're tired, but come. This is the way."--Mevlana Rumi (1207 - 1273)</b></i>
<br /><br />
I want to dance and dance and dance!
<br /><br />
I want to explore gemology… more, crystals and stones. I want to learn to work with metals... I want to be able to make all the designs I have.
<br /><br />
I want to write a screenplay and finish my novel.
<br /><br />
I want to run various businesses; I want to invest in businesses; I want to help strategize businesses... With integrity and vision and reach.
<br /><br />
I want to play more music. Drums and guitar are next. Rumi autocorrects to funk. Go figure
<br /><br />
I want to travel and travel and travel and surf and explore and discover and breathe different air.
<br /><br />
I want to help children and animals both domesticated and wild--the ones who can't speak for themselves.
<br /><br />
I want the ancient stories for the lies we tell ourselves because we forget what was learned in the past and alter the stories for the present.
<br /><br />
It is not regret. It’s the weight of talent and desire, the weight of knowing but not having opportunity.
<br /><br />
I want the opportunity.
<br /><br />
I want it all. Now. Today. All of it.
<br /><br />
I want so much to have my heart sing like that.
<br /><br />
Simply there is not enough time
<br /><br />
And it saddens me that I must whittle and compromise. It breaks my heart
<br /><br />
And so I bare my soul to you
<br /><br />
Eyes wet
<br /><br />
Because I saw a line of drums
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-17197973362216369522013-04-21T15:21:00.001-07:002013-04-21T15:30:57.213-07:00Why are they eating our food? <i>A work of fiction prompted by discussions with immigrant friends of other cultures. </i>
<br /><br />
When I was little, growing up in the 70s and 80s, sometimes we’d pick up tacos or swing through the drive thru for burgers. In our little suburban town, it was all about Burger King. Always the same. We’d order our burgers and fries; mom would order her onion rings. Then, mom would turn around and ask, “Who wants a strawberry shake?... Anybody?” We’d shake our heads. Immediately, even now too bright pink bubbly frothy mess comes to mind. When I looked at my brother, I could tell he was just as repulsed as I still am.
<br /><br />
Later, I got my drivers license and drove some friends through the Burger King drive thru. Jamey ordered herself, “I’ll have a Whopper, large fries and a chocolate shake.” Kiran ordered, “Can I have a Whopper Junior, medium fries and a vanilla shake.” I was speechless. I turned to the girls and asked, “Since when do they have chocolate and vanilla shakes?”
<br /><br />
The funny thing is a couple of decades later, my brother and I were talking and after he got his license, he had the exact same experience with his friends with milkshake flavors at the Burger King drive thru.
<br /><br />
Cultural differences.
<br /><br />
This is just one example of things my mom did that we never really noticed growing up. There were other things too. Hospitality. I saw how happily other moms would receive me in their home – they were kind and inquisitive and fed me meals and snacks. On the other hand, we rarely had our friends over to our house. If a friend happened to stay close to dinner time, my mom would ask in Gujarati, “Are they staying for dinner? Why?” Unless our friends were also Indian... because that meant reciprocation was ensured. If she fed their children, they would do something for her. It was very strange, the difference between the way I was treated in other people’s homes and the way she treated people we brought home. I spoke with some other of my immigrant and second generation friends, and usually it was the same. Their moms had a similar attitude, “Why are they eating our food? Tell them to go home.” If you consider the economic conditions our mothers experienced in their home country and then immigrating here from North India in the 60s, having very little, trying to scrape by, it was understandable. So here, I grew up with the idea of generosity and a different take on hospitality.
<br /><br />
My home is open, my kitchen free for all, and my guest room available. When I had a larger home, mine was the Thanksgiving and Christmas-making place for those who had nowhere else to go. Now, in a smaller apartment, it’s pretty much the same except I only have a couch and sleeping bags to offer guests. Still hospitality is something different for an older single woman. The only male guests who I’ve had in my home who have not tried to kiss me, or tried to take advantage of my hospitality in other ways, are my gay male friends. Let that sink in.
<br /><br />
EVERY MALE guest I have had in my home, to whom I have offered hospitality, has hit on me.
<br /><br />
Here’s an example. One summer Sunday evening, coming home from a massage, I felt an unusual urge to be out among people. I ended up at my local bar on game night – board games. I played a couple of rounds of Kerplunk with three young men – do you know what that is? It’s this game where you stick all these little sticks into holes through the plastic canister; then, pour marbles on top that can’t get through; you take turns taking out the sticks one by one trying not to let the marbles fall – I played Kerplunk with these three young men, 25 years old each at the most who were visiting San Francisco from the Midwest. They had known each other since Freshman year of college when they became best friends, and it was their farewell get together. One of them was going to the Dominican Republic for med school and they wouldn’t see each other for several years. I can’t remember their names, but there was one guy I call Hot guy because he was hot; then there was Innocent guy, and Staple head. They were out the night before and ended up in the emergency room because the one going off to med school had fallen off of a stage and cracked his really big head open; as a result, he had several fresh staples put into his scalp - Staple head. All were hardy Midwestern stock – tall and sturdy.
<br /><br />
After we were all bored of Kerplunk, I was ready to head home. After all, I was scrubbin’ it in sweats, clogs and hoodie and was still kind of oily from the massage. The boys convinced me to help them find places open that Sunday night. By this point in a conversation, I usually know if there is any danger involved. I hadn’t any indication of misogyny, racism, dark sides, or bad boys. They were a trio of Luke Skywalkers at heart. Technically, they were men, but they were still 80% young pup trying to play the adult. Ya’ know? Teen pups.
<br /><br />
Someone the night before had mentioned Mist Ultra Club on 11th and Folsom, and so these teen pups hailed a cab, treated me like a lady despite my scrubby attire, and off we went to explore 11th and Folsom… on a Sunday night.
<br /><br />
We, uh, never went into Mist. They were more than a little intimidated by the zebra print dress and big 80s hair one girl had, and the purple zoot suit another guy was wearing. So, we went to Holy Cow around the corner instead. It was their first time to gay night at a club. The Midwestern teen pups were scared. By this time each one needed to go to the bathroom but they didn’t want to go together - they needed me to escort them one by one across the dance floor to the restroom and back to the corner of the near empty bar. I was their protector. Each one had a conversation with me that went something like, “It’s my first time in a gay bar. These dudes aren’t going to hit on me, are they? Did you see the guy at the door?” The 20-something kid at the door had on white deliciously tight hot pants, and was topless except for the white angel wings on his back. I was witnessing their first exposure to such normal things. For god’s sake, what if they had come during Love Fest, Bay to Breakers or Pride Week? I was their guide through the Star Wars Cantina scene now. One by one, each had their alone-conversation with me to send a message out to the other men in the bar that they had eyes only for girls.
<br /><br />
I could see their discomfort growing, but they insisted they wanted this experience. They got drunk. They started horsing around. I was standing at the bar with Innocent guy when Hot guy and Staple head very quickly went from horsing around to seriously angry. Hot guy had forgotten about the staples and had lightly hit Staple head’s stapled head. Now Staple head was in some serious pain, and all three of them were drunk. Staple head did have pain medication with him, but now that he had been drinking, he didn’t want to mix the meds with the alcohol. Staple head’s head was bleeding, Innocent guy was trying to keep everyone cheerful, and Hot guy now felt guilty so he was feigning anger. This is when it’s time to call it a night.
<br /><br />
So, what would you do? These three teen pups you had been protecting and looking after, even if they could remember where they had parked their car, are too drunk to drive anywhere, like to San Mateo where they’re supposed to crash at someone’s house.
<br /><br />
I assessed: Hot guy and Staple head are angry at each other. Staple head is bleeding. If I left, Innocent guy would be left holding it all together. Sure they were friends. Sure they were boys. Men? Maybe. Sure I could have left these Midwestern Luke Skywalkers on Folsom Street. Would they have survived? Sure they would have. Still, some benevolent instinct had been triggered by these adorable boys, just a few years older than my nephew. I mean, technically, I could be their mother. I remembered crashing at people’s houses when I was in my 20s. I imagined my younger brother or nephew in their position, and rather than leaving them on the street, I invited these young pups to my home where I had sleeping bags and an air mattress sofa bed.
<br /><br />
We get to my home, a one-bedroom in a quiet hood. Hot guy is the drunkest of the three, goes straight into my room, strips down naked and climbs into my bed, having every intention of trying to bang me. The hotness factor doesn’t matter one bit when you know that now you’re going to have to wash your sheets tomorrow because there’s some hot drunk naked dumbass in it. Innocent guy got pissed at Hot guy because, he tells me, “I’m invisible.” Translation: he never gets the girl, and wants me to want him and not Hot guy. And, after helping me set up the sleeping bag and pump up and set the air mattress sofa bed, Innocent guy tries to leave. I go after him like he wanted, and convince him to come back, assuring him I’m not banging anybody, much less the Hot naked drunk guy in my bed who I just couldn’t be bothered to throw out. I honestly didn’t know where the hell Innocent guy thought he was going to go. He didn’t even know where he was, and cabs don’t come out to my hood regularly. Plus, I just didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of having only two of them in my place in the morning. They worked well together.
<br /><br />
So I get Innocent guy to come back. We decide that Staple head should definitely sleep on the sofa bed because his head is bleeding and is still hurting a lot. Innocent guy doesn’t want me to sleep on the floor in the sleeping bag in my own house, so he sleeps in the sleeping bag and lets me sleep next to Staple head on the sofa bed. Innocent guy sets up the sleeping bag next to me and tries grabbing my hand, tries kissing me, tries and tries, and I tell him in my babysitter voice reserved for bedtime when the books and toys need to go away that, “it’s time to go to sleep now.” He followed these directions quite well.
<br /><br />
Now, the one I’m most concerned with is Staple head. Is he in pain still? Can he sleep? Does he need anything? Is his head bleeding on my sheets? Staple head turns to me and begins to pull me close. Of the three, if I were their age, this is the one I’d want to kiss. And, here he is about to kiss me, and I pull away saying, “If you do this right now, you’re going to hurt someone’s feelings – your friend on the floor.” He turns onto his back, takes my hand and arm, and we both fall asleep holding hands, arms linked as if we could be walking down the street together.
<br /><br />
It’s interesting to note here that I can’t sleep easily when there’s any man I’m not related to in my home. Here are these young pups, Hot guy, Innocent guy and Staple head. Each one made some kind of advance after I had offered them hospitality. I determined enough about their natures that I knew without a doubt I was safe. And, I actually slept. I slept well with Staple head holding my hand all night.
<br /><br />
I have had women stay over. But again, there hasn’t been a single man in my home who hasn’t hit on me – even the married ones. These boys were very easy to manage in comparison to the others.
<br /><br />
There’s the guy who, when I went into the kitchen to make some tea, chatting the whole time, I came out to discover he had is pants and shorts off, erection in hand – put your pants back on and get the F**K out. Is that what your mother taught you?
<br /><br />
There’s the guy who, we had mutual friends in common, he missed the last BART to Oakland and was stranded in SF. He slept on my couch… not before trying to grab me in the kitchen and trying to follow me into my room.
<br /><br />
Again, I do gauge the safety and whether I can take ‘em out if they get out of line. It takes quite a bit of safety awareness for me, an older women, an Indian auntie by age, to open up my home to men – a lot really does go into it. Many people might be questioning why I do this, why I let some people use my couch. My question back is, shouldn’t these young men be ashamed of themselves? This is how they treat someone who is trying to show them hospitality?
<br /><br />
And, in the end, my mom’s words, the words of other immigrant moms, come to mind. “Why are they eating our food? Tell them to go home.”
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-76339873089759593142012-04-13T00:52:00.001-07:002012-04-13T00:57:41.919-07:00Clarity of PassionGive to me the clarity of passion<br />
For it is when you come near me that<br />
I am most my true self,<br />
In essence <br />
the girl<br />
Who belongs to others,<br />
Who comes home,<br />
Always a part of something else that defines her<br />
As easily as breathing<br />
Purity<br />
Unburdened by the tethers because it’s a time before I knew tethers existed. <br />
Come near me.<br />
Let me forget for a moment, the world and all I must do.<br />
<br />
Give to me the clarity of passion.<br />
Make me angry until there’s no hope <br />
Until I’m<br />
Mentally<br />
Emotionally<br />
Physically <br />
Beat<br />
Until I have had enough<br />
Until you think that spark is done.<br />
You are wrong. <br />
It will change; it will transform<br />
It will ignite again from the tinder, from what you think you’ve weakened<br />
Anger me.<br />
I will set straight what I unwittingly let you change.<br />
<br />
Give me the clarity of passion.<br />
It is then I most easily find my true self. <br />
Resilient and clear. <br />
Cold as the rolling waves.<br />
Burning at the core.<br />
I can come to you<br />
Or I can choose to go.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-52993573198800777442012-03-24T06:14:00.000-07:002012-03-24T06:14:25.215-07:00On SpiritRunning by the ocean before the rain, before the sunset. Breath and muscle fueled by will. Fast asleep yet awake too soon. Too soon? If too soon means before the pieces of a heart have mended, then yes. Too soon. For, even the ocean is no match for a will that can run away from it. It's when you trust it, when you're not looking that its waves will finally conquer you, who most resisted. It's a thing that works when you close your golden eyes, when you give in or give up, when you cease to try. Don't you see? It's not your work yet... So I go again.<br />
In the rain /<br />
A dance in the rain /<br />
A dance in the rain.<br />
To heal the spirit first. It is the spirit that will forge the makeshift seams of a heart broken long ago.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-15263784383446496122012-02-26T17:12:00.000-08:002012-02-26T17:12:38.116-08:00Don't look.She coughed, sat there for a few seconds; then, grabbed her napkin, took out the glob of gunk in her mouth, and looked at it. And you? Sandwich in your mouth, looked over her shoulder and saw it all. I held your hair and rubbed your back as you wretched because some things can't be unseen. You have to learn not to look, I said. I shook my head, Don't look.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-72957123803099550172012-02-26T09:45:00.002-08:002012-02-26T21:52:33.045-08:00Dog EuthanizerConsider the person who euthanizes healthy dogs because they care. Doesn't he/she end up attached to one? Then will the euthanizer of healthy dogs still euthanize that one? Yes. Frankly, Yes. For, just as the dog has its nature, so too does the euthanizer have his/her nature and further, his/her profession.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-49368789156278952082011-10-30T19:43:00.000-07:002011-10-30T20:13:07.698-07:00Every Beautiful Day<i>Lyrics by Awolnation, "Sail". Original poem by Rajshree"</i><br />
<br />
Every beautiful day will be tempered with crap <br />
It doesn’t make the day any less beautiful. <br />
<br />
The sun kissed her chest and face as she drove <br />
(the song with its bass, the antithesis of lilting, “This is how an an-gel cries”) <br />
Still, the fear of how she would get through another day when the days weren’t so beautiful burned. <br />
(The song broke through, “I made it in my mind because”)<br />
<br />
Winter is coming and the cold. Will I get out of bed? <br />
Winter wasn’t always bad. <br />
<br />
She told him, at one point you must have liked costumes or trick-or-treating. <br />
She imagined him as a little boy freezing in the cold, but excited with his pillow case, going out with other hood boys walking from doorbell to doorbell laughing in stride then the way he does now as a man walking from bar to bar. <br />
She imagined the crisp air stinging his little boy cheeks red, and what it felt like when he finally came home – surprisingly hot inside – divvying up his candy with his brother. <br />
<br />
Wait. That was <i>her</i> Halloween. <br />
Those memories were hers and she gave them away to a boy who wasn’t little <br />
(“Blame it on my A.D.D. baby”) <br />
<br />
The edge of winter scared her.<br />
She did used to love Halloween, and taking walks in the night with her dad on Thanksgiving and Christmas<br />
- listening to her dad's antithesis of lilting breath <br />
- smelling the jasmine blooming and the clean so-cold air that would nest in her hair<br />
- at peace because then he wanted her there<br />
(“This is how I show my love.”) <br />
<br />
Winter did used to have beauty in it. <br />
Somewhere in time something went wrong. <br />
<br />
Winter was now cut with bleeding depths of salt tears. <br />
(“Maybe I should kill myself”)<br />
How did this come to be? <br />
(“Maybe I should cry for help”) <br />
<br />
And still in the truth of it, her heart danced <br />
The crap doesn’t make the day any less beautiful. <br />
(“Maybe I'm not listening”)<br />
<br />
To behold her was to see a woman’s heart open and laughing and beautiful<br />
As she cries and laughs, laughs and cries <br />
(“Maybe I'm a different breed”)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-43215045028765538202011-10-14T10:03:00.001-07:002011-10-22T23:03:32.222-07:00Child of an Immigrant...Being a child of an immigrant, people don’t quite understand a few things. For me, <br />
<br />
It means tomorrow, when I launch my own small press, a press that promotes “integrated diversity” in the face of this weird political climate and increased racism, classism, ageism, the only family who is going to show up is my younger brother and my nephew.<br />
<br />
It means I had to fight to get into college, and fight for everything I’ve done and everything I have… on the plus side, everything I have is unquestionably mine, and everything I’ve done is to my own credit.<br />
<br />
It means growing up with expectations, not being given any clear idea of how to get there (fine), but further, actually being hindered from getting there. <br />
<br />
It means, when I left a mentally abusive marriage, I was told by my mother that I’m an embarrassment. Eventually, I was told by my father that I am no longer welcome in their house. They couldn’t take the pressure of my pain. <br />
<br />
It means that I understand. I don’t hate or begrudge my family… Instead, I help other people who need help… I’m a mentor, a teacher, a confidante… I’m helping to pave the way for young men and women who come after me. <br />
<br />
It means I am tired of being marginalized by my home culture AND marginalized by American society, and through my small press, I want to help other people’s voices be heard. <br />
<br />
It means I will fight for others the way no one ever fought for me.<br />
<br />
<3Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9104440159456994545.post-65750428714281403772011-09-28T22:40:00.000-07:002011-10-20T23:23:41.445-07:00Smoking...- drifting in my open windows alternates, the smell of night blooming jasmine, stargazer lilies, cigarette smoke, burning car oil. Much different from Santa Barbara (salt, ocean, flowers), Danville (flowers, water, cut grass), India (sweat, smoke, petrol, flowers, spices, dust, evaporated water or stagnant water - together better than you think - triggers memories).<br />
- I really hate cigarettes<br />
- there was a fire in the Haight yesterday. I just read a woman's first hand account blog about it<br />
- I'm glad I have renter's insurance. Good for her she can rely on family. I can't.<br />
- 2 of my dumb neighbors smoke. It's a non smoking building. We all got notices that the smoking must cease because they drop their ashes everywhere. they still smoke. the stairwell still stinks.<br />
- a friend of mine's upstairs neighbor whose partner died last year, died himself... while smoking... burned his place and my friend's place was a slush of smoke, water, and sludge.<br />
- What should I grab? if there's a fire...<br />
- maybe I should stop wearing this lace nightie to bed because you can see everything. but I like that it keeps me cool and warm at the same time. not too cool, not too warm. I finally found the perfect thing. and I should stop wearing it because if there's a fire, I'll be out in the night in it standing among strangers.<br />
- my dad's voice comes to mind. when I was eight, "you're a passenger in a car. the car is in an accident and is submerged in water. how are you going to get out?" what do you mean? that could happen? is my silent question. <br />
- dad again. when I was nine. "there's a fire in the house in THIS room [that room, every room], how are you going to get out." great. I have to worry about this now too?? <br />
- what am I going to take if there's a fire?<br />
- these fucking smokers better not fall asleep while smoking. fuckers<br />
- why do smokers who smoke in their cars roll their windows down? if they like smoking so much, they should keep all that smoke to themselves rather than letting it out on the freeway where it comes into my vents and my lungs. 2nd hand.<br />
- what about the pictures? my documents? my irreplaceable Indian clothes and jewelry that should be in a safe deposit box except that I'm still in transition?<br />
- again, these fucking smokers better not fall asleep while smoking.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0