Life Reconstituted
Alternative Blog Titles:
The Days Are Poli Poli, But The Years Are Fatafat
But Where Are You Really From?
Love, Loss, And Other Drugs
And then there was me
“You have to let it boil twice,” they informed me excitedly. And as if they were teaching me something new. I make chai on an almost daily basis. I wanted to give them (give him) a knowing look. I want to give him a “no duh” look. An “if you were really Indian, you would know” kind of look. I can make chai in my sleep. And in fact, I do – at 5AM while half asleep. Making chai is a meditative process, perhaps by design. You must pay close attention to your movements as there is very little time waiting and watching. The hands stay busy crushing cardamom pods, preparing the milk, peeling and shredding the ginger. You grab a pot, preferably one with a spout to pour from. Add a mugful of water (using measuring cups and such are not permitted). Heat said pot while adding ingredients: a tablespoon of loose chai (preferably one from Patel Bros like Red label), and sugar or sugar substitute. Grind up 2-3 cardamom pods in a mortar and pestle or better yet, crush them using a sansi (an Indian metal device sort of like tongs used to pick up pots without handles). Then add a quarter tablespoon of masala chai -preferably using the same spoon as the chai to prevent waste. Finally, the hardest bit, peeling and shredding ginger into the pot before it all boils. Once it boils, you add milk and let it boil again. And finally, strain it in your mug and sip while piping hot. Add biscuit or cookie on an as need basis, but mainly only if you have company around. What I didn’t realize is that making chai is as plural as India. Just like there isn’t one Hinduism or one way to wrap a saree, there isn’t one way of making chai. It took decades for me to internalize this notion. I know India. It’s the inside of my mama/mami’s flat in Surat. It’s the way my masi makes chundo from mango and serves it with hot perfectly round rotli. It’s Ganesh and Srinagi. Vegetarian food like dal, bhaat, rotli, shaak. It’s becoming a doctor, engineer, or accountant…or pharmacist. I know what Indian is. When they shared their newfound knowledge of boiling chai twice, I felt pride to inform them that this is a very well-known fact. And that I am Indian while they are not. 2005
Texas comfort versus New York quality. Yes, “quality” is highly subjective. But there is a reason people sacrifice space, comfort, and money to live in this town. It’s this very discomfort of New York that drew me here. There’s something very alive and engaging about living in the midst of a political labor battle. Life shouldn’t just be a New York Times article I read on my computer while eating a hummus and cucumber sandwich (like I have been doing for the entire war in Iraq). This translates to quality for me. Enrichment of experience. Empowerment of voting. Community organizing. People buzzing around me with opinions. This is New York.
2006
Who knew that fashion magazines would fall into realm of personal-social-political dilemma? That is, besides anyone who knows me. Certainly my closest friends have been exposed (subjugated) to my incessant banter for years about whether reading fashion magazines were allowable in the framework of feminism. I’m still not sure of how to answer the question of how to wear lipstick and simultaneously speak intelligently about the male-dominated construction of beauty standards and sexual objectification. See what I mean? My friends have suffered.
2018
I held Caju’s leash extra tightly as I made my way through the check-out line one early morning while making an emergency hazelnut-flavored-coffee grounds purchase from our local grocery store. We just finished our morning walk through Riverside Park, which we do daily. An older man, possibly undomiciled, was sitting close to the register on a make-shift bench he made from the windowsill. I was trying to keep the dog on the down-low, but the man started making whistling noise to lure him. Caju, a sucker for any attention, responded promptly. The man petted Caju while looking at me and said, “Dogs know good people. And they know when people are bad. Just like kids. They’re good judges of who is trustworthy and who is bad news.” I nodded and smiled, but wasn’t so sure.
2017
But perhaps more unsettling is not just that I’m here without my parents, but rather that I’m here without the possibility of my parents – because they no longer exist in the physical form that I have known for over four decades – a fact that I’m still grappling with. It’s difficult to not have the regret that I didn’t travel this country with them, pull them away from family pani puree parties and explore nooks and crannies that they didn’t know in spite of being Indian. But I’m just now figuring all this out and it’s too late. While in Musoorie, B and I walked wandered through a Tibetan Buddhist refugee community today called Happy Valley, which was the first home to the Dalai Lama in India.