Explicit Relationship, Implicit Rules!

It almost started out like a fairy tale. I was awestruck by her paintings and she fell for my cheesy jokes. Her unusual quantitative reasoning, my mundane qualitative potential; her short but short-lived temper, my perennial but even-tempered mood; her penchant for peeling potatoes, my eagerness to be a couch potato – we complemented each other!

More importantly, she was comfortable with my flaws, and I was comfortable with her living distance: driving distance! Then Cupid got jealous.

Initially, I felt like a fortunate victim of being laid off. I took this as a break from unsatisfying work, as “ a time to reinvent myself”. I planned to room with my old buddies, do some soul-searching about career, read books, drink beers, and just take it easy for a while. She opposed sternly and within a week, I moved to her place.

People say you learn a lot about your spouse when you begin to live together. They don’t tell you necessarily that you actually learn a lot more about yourself. I realized that the daily sightings of dustless floors, spotless sinks, and creaseless sheets left me nauseated. I began to notice how her achievements, paintings, cards and even her childhood dolls are displayed ostentatiously all over the apartment. While my not so glitzy collection of beer mugs, sports and rock posters, and favorite DVDs and CDs are either neatly put away in the drawers and shelves, hidden under the table, or buried in the basement. She had deemed this to be "OUR" apartment. I’m not complaining!

It is also funny how her mood swings coincides exactly with the most important NBA playoff game in the evening and how her school projects conclude just before the Sunday night football. And this is the only time she feels we ought to be doing something together. What about my friends? Sooner than latter, they become distant memories of the past, because I am told that I have supposedly also found a best friend. So have my friends!

I remember my seniors in their drunken stupor often saying with both regret and arrogance “Son this is relationship. You need to sacrifice a lot.”

So, one weekend morning I woke up before her and surprised her by making her favorite  tea. Unfortunately, I forgot to minimize the window before I realized that she sat down and got to browsing. Her short fuse blew up and motioned in one breath “TEST CRICKET OF ALL THINGS IN THE MORNING? WHAT ABOUT A JOB?” (What can I say? I am a purist when it comes to sports).

I calmed her down like always and explained that I was still soul-searching for an ideal career and test cricket helped me to meditate in the morning. I began to turn red. You see, I am a really bad liar. She woke up, marched to her room, and slammed the door shut managing to blurt out “Perhaps your cricket can also give you a job and make you a lunch for today. I have tons of work to do.”

This did not bode well. A haunting silence ensued for the next few hours until my grumbling stomach broke the accord. I wandered restlessly trying to come up with the words to appease her and my empty stomach. As soon as I made out that she’d gone to the bathroom, I went to her room and began to rehearse the stellar apology I had written in my mind.  Then I caught a muffled sound of laughter coming from her Macbook. I double clicked on the minimized window. When she returned, I cranked up the volume and blurted out with a pretentious authority “COFFEE WITH KARAN OF ALL THINGS?  THAT MUST BE TONS OF WORK!”

She turned pale at first, and then progressively red and finally we both ended the fiasco with a boisterous laughter. We may not complement each other at all as we had perceived, but we had a very important thing in common: We are both bad liars and bad liars keep relationship honest. Soon, she asked what I wanted to eat for lunch and asked me to go finish my cricket. This was like a wife begging her husband to go to a strip club. But there was a catch. There always is.

She proposed that we could go to a mall after lunch and stop by borders later, which was just enough to ruin my Sunday Afternoon Football plans. As they say a man has his will and a woman has her way. This perhaps is the only rule in any given relationship to go by. In retrospect, it almost did end like a fairytale! 

[originally published in sajha.com 01-22-12]

Dashain (non) Celebrations!

Like all previous years, I discover the advent of Dashain in the most annoying of ways - -  a chain-email that has spiraled out of control from a certain-somebody, whom I barely know,  yet who genuinely wishes me prosperity and good health. Attached to the email is also a crappy, low-resolution photo of Jamara, Red Tika, and goat curry (And I thought all Nepalis have a  DSLR now!) and what sounds like a pirated version of Mangal Dhun that should supposedly cheer me at work. Thank you - it must be my Dashain bonus this year!

Historically speaking, I have not been a big fan of Dashain. Maybe it was because as a boy, I was psychologically scarred when the elders that put monstrous "Tika & Jamara" on my forehead limited themselves to mere Tika and Jamara while the money was reserved for my female siblings and cousins. Yet each time they blessed me with their perennial "Maun le chitayeko kura pugos!", I would instantly wish they would spare some of the cash at hand but to no avail.

 But the worse was to follow. My parents would then drag me along with my siblings and cousins to get Tika from every elder we knew or barely knew, to every corner and gullis of our village and the city alike that always included a visit to my dad's-great aunt's-cousin-brother. This great uncle, who considered bathing a sin, wouldn't take anything from me except a thorough bowing down to his stinky feet for a full-few seconds in exchange for the same set of blessings that never came true but was sufficient to give me nausea that lasted a few days. If you want to know what those precious few seconds felt like, you'll have to ask Einstein to explain his theory of relativity again. I would have protested, but my mom would secretly make a pro-Bono deal with me to match the money my sisters made during the festival. And that's that.
  
Dashain became less and less exciting during my college years in the US. It is one thing to be studying in middle of nowhere, but those midterms nearly always coincided with Dashain. So, Dashain instead of being joyous, became synonymous with my exams. After college, I finally moved to the city where there was a massive Nepali community and I was looking forward to a first real Dashain party in US ---or so I thought. On my way to work one day near Queensborough Blvd, I saw a big sign that read "Pre-Dashain Dance Party - $20 entrance fee!" Excited and humbled by Nepalis that have done so much to preserve our great festival, I even bought an advanced ticket only to realize later that the party was about everything but celebrating Dashain. At the end of it all, it seemed like an excuse to drink, be rowdy, and show how big an asshole you can make of yourself in front of other Nepalis. Of course, there's nothing wrong in being drunk and rowdy, but I was well-over my college 101 days. And boy did I make a fool out of myself then. Memories! Anyways, that was when I officially called it quits. No no! not to alcohol (god forbid), but going to Dashain parties. 


As I scroll down the chain email, pictures of flying kites, playing cards, and high-flying swings that people have subsequently attached begin to reveal themselves --the kind of images that provide warmth from your childhood. I grow nostalgic about the facets of Dashain that were actually wonderful. I hear the voices from the past that echo freedom and joy unfathomable in a foreign land. At the end of the chain letter, I stop abruptly at the email address that I find very familiar, the email that started it all - the entire chain reaction.Well of course, it is my girlfriend's email address who has meticulously managed to send Dashain greetings to all her friends and family and TO MY HORROR, TO ALL MY FRIENDS & FAMILY AS WELL.  Surely, all the email addresses seem familiar now and the attached photo is the one I took last year at my cousin's: the crappy picture of Tika/Jamara/GoatCurry.

For what its worth: Happy Dashain ya'll!

[originally published in sajha.com 10-23-12]

Being Sick in USA!

Sometime around midnight, I woke up with a sharp pain in my lower abdomen. Like most hypochondriac Nepalis, I feared for the obvious and whispered aloud in that darkness : "APPENDICITIS!" Subconsciously aware of my looming death in a few hours but acutely aware of the immediate wallet-denting  9-1-1 call, I made an intelligent choice - Google! 

The very first search computed the result I did not want to read: "Symptoms of Appendicitis: Sharp Pain in the lower right Abdomen." Hold on! Why am I holding unto my left abdomen then?" Feeling slightly better, I spent the next few hours scouring the WebMD site, empathizing with hundreds of old folks who had similar pain but diagnosed with a wide range of severe gastro-intestinal problems. It was like reading a horoscope - The more I read the symptoms of a particular disease, the more I felt convinced that I had it too, including rare diseases like ulcer,  IBD, and even Cancer. 

The very next morning, I contacted one of my physician friends, currently practicing in some remote Pennsylvanian town. Without much ado, he immediately implied "Gastric hola yaar!" The irony of life - I know it was a free consultation, but this was the same  guy in high school we vowed never to visit if God-forbid he ever became a doctor. And mind you, I am very familiar with bouts of Gastrititis. It flares up when I try to go healthy incorporating organic milk and anti-oxidant rich raspberries and blueberries in my diet.

Unconvinced and still laden with pain, I tried to find a GI specialist through my insurance network and called in to set up an appointment. 

"Who is your Primary Care Physician (PCP) Sir?" the secretary inquired.

 Apparently, you have to have a regular physician that can refer you to a specialist. In other words - you have to spend twice as much before your problem can be professionally assessed. I gave it some thought and answered:

"His name is Dr. Baral. Dr. Jagadish Baral." I blurted out the name of the only doctor I ever remember going to.

"Well, you need to get a reference from him" I surely would, but its been more than 15 years since I last saw him in Nepal. Besides, he's probably retired and I'm not sure he ever kept record of any of his patients. Obviously, I didn't explain this to her, but after several pandering back-n-forth calls with a cool physician I had befriended in my college, I worked it out."Sir, your appointment will be 3 weeks from today." Seriously? 3 weeks? What if my pain gets worse or maybe I just die? 

"In that event, you'll just have to call 9-1-1 and go to the emergency room. Is there anything else I can do for you today?" (Yes, you may kiss.............but I refrained).

The next 3 weeks were grueling to say the least. The pain flared, changed positions, temporarily vanished and resurfaced without any notice. I knew there was a reason why people say "The gut has a mind of its own!" Surprisingly, a few days leading to the doctor's appointment, my pain subsided and on the day of the visit, the pain was gone - completely! I was frustrated, but thankfully my specialist was a willing listener. He attributed my ease of pain to "placebo effect" before he professed his proposal:

 "Well, I don't want to touch you before I do a bunch of tests. Then you can make an appointment to see me again. And we'll go from there." 

Oh sure. Just great. I am now the official cash-cow. So for another three weeks, I took appointments to do  blood, stool, and ultrasound tests supposedly at a subsidized rate often having to beg to find an earlier slot and made an appointment with the specialist again hoping he'd have a better insight.

As climax reached its threshold, just like in the movies, he read out his verdict: "The good news is all the tests came back negative. The bad news is I have no idea what you have" So, what next? "I propose you also see a urologist. I can work to see that you get an appointment within a MONTH." 

I was clearly downtrodden. That evening, I lay restless in bed. I began to reflect on all the possible things I might have taken that contributed to this predicament. Perhaps, it was Dr. Baral. I remember how my Mom would request for anti-biotics for every little problem I had. I have read that taking in too much of that shit can affect your real shit and cause a lot of shitty things in your gut.

Or is it really due to years of taking in processed food in the US? 

As I felt the pain once more, I noticed that the elasticity of my trunks felt tighter than usual causing a strain. Since I am real uncomfortable about "going commando" , I quickly changed to a more comfortable boxer and felt that my pain was gone almost instantly.

Wait A Minute...........................!!!

[originally published in sajha.com 03-20-2013]

One-Smart-Nepali-Fella!

"So Smart Guy! do you not watch American Football on Sundays?" She had asked on our very first date.

"No. I don't really watch." I had replied truthfully then. She breathed a sigh of relief. Little did she know I had basketball, European soccer, tennis, formula 1 etc to keep me very occupied. It was only after this date I decided to find out what this American Football hoopla was all about . Needless to say, I found something to cheer me up on gloomy Sundays as well. But that is besides the point. The real point is I passed off as a smart guy on the very first date. 

Once upon a time, I too was deemed a smart-fella. No kidding!  Like all children of immigrants, I have my nursery and LKG report cards to prove that. Check in with your friends. They were all top 3 students in their kindergarten(s). The real question is what has happened to me (or a person like me) now?

Nothing much. I was just going with the flow you know-  finishing school and all. Getting the job. Yes, the dreaded 9-5 job (more like 8 to 7). Day after day. I guess the American dream (my ass). Suddenly I feel entrapped. Completely! I don't know why I didn't use my "smartness" to do something else along the way. Something innovative. Something creative - the kind of cliches you hear from all those entrepreneurs and billionaires.

 Well, creativity is not in my genes. But it is not entirely my fault. My primary school teachers, mentors, and my dearest parents preached about everything but creativity. In fact, the reason I did so well in primary school was my ability to memorize the hell out of anything. Be it a multiplication table, a prayer, a poem or even the whole god darn story from My English textbook. I knew "By Heart." And boy, did I write what I memorized. To the every last of the prepositions and conjunctions.  Writing that was original, something that came from your heart, and inspirational was considered a heresy. I remember my classmate who had once written an essay about a possible vacation in Mars and encounter with aliens in English class and was humiliated for not being practical. But I was considered the "smart" fella who would succeed in life. 

"And what happened to your friend?" you might ask? Well, I quickly google him and find out he has his own company now. Something he built from scratch. No I am not bitter (Ok maybe just a little)! More so,  when I found out this morning that my department is cutting the budget for coffee and donuts. Darn it! there goes my last bit of motivation! 

In these dark period(s), I languish in my cubicle often romancing about my "smart days" in school. I draw some inspiration. I decide to have a staring contest with my monitor. It is a no brainer. The monitor switches to screensaver almost immediately. A psychological victory. YaY!

My girlfriend calls me up. Oh no! A grocery list. I tell her to email me. I can't memorize all of that. After the end of it all, I ask her hesitantly "Hey! Do you still think I am smart?"

"Of course! Remember when we're spending evenings together? You pretend to listen to my musings, watch sports on television, sip your malt-whiskey, and check out my female- friends in FB almost instantaneously. Only a smart-fella can multitask like that." 

[originally published in sajha.com 09-26-12]

Flirting with my Nepali Identity!

I swear I’ll never be offended if someone labels me an Indian ever again, but Chinese?

I really didn't want to go to that potluck dinner. For starters, I find potlucks extremely pretentious. I reckon the person who hosts these gatherings is either a virtuous cook, who wants to show off or an evil genius, who has planned out a clever scheme to score food for a week. Amid all this, you have to bear the people yapping about the quality of eclectic food only to see them indulging on your favorite grilled meat that is fast disappearing.

Sounds familiar? If you live in the vicinity of several schools like I do, chances are you've been invited to more than one of these. Potluck is a poor students’ poolside party!

You’re here not only to indulge in exotic delicacies but supposedly, you also make new friends, connections, network or if you’re extremely lucky, a hippy date for yourself –sans expensive alcohol. Most of my potluck however have comprised of lousy food dominated by Chinese Dumplings and Indian curry, ugly people, and few nerds whose idea of a social gathering is playing an obscure board game from the 80’s while dimwits like me, have to sit around and compliment them. If you’re trying to assimilate with the white and black folks, you also have to let out a few catch phrases like “We should hang out sometime!” (Which really means, “I don’t want to see you again because we have nothing in common”!). And then finally, Karma comes around to bite your ass off. As you’re leaving, you realize in horror that no one has touched your food and nobody wants it for the road. Do you know what that does to our inflated ego when you return to your girlfriend with the very untouched food you boasted about?

Unfortunately, Madam had a meeting that evening and she insisted that I should work on my social skills. Fair enough! Grabbing the next best thing after food known to man since the dawn of civilization: good-old-6-pack, I went to the potluck dinner. As soon as I saw Ye Zhang, I knew this was the one I should’ve avoided: full of ex-workers and ex-classmates. Now, I also have to listen to what everyone has accomplished in the last six months. Just great!

Trying to remain inconspicuous as possible, I tried to make way to the kitchen following that scent of the grill. Ye Zhang, popularly known as Anthony, (don’t ask me why! The rumor is he embraced Christ as his savior because they gave him free pizza on a Sunday!), stopped me dead in my track with a plate of food resembling the Tibetan Plateau. Don’t get me wrong! I used to like Anthony. Like all Chinese folks, he’s extremely hardworking and has an insatiable appetite. Slowly I hated him, because like all Chinese co-workers, he worked and sweated twice as much as I did making me look like the laziest worker in the team. These  people can really work their butt off. I was at a late dinner in Chinatown in SF few years ago, and I had asked the owner of “something dragon restaurant” if he ever slept. He said “At most 3 hours!” Yes three freaking hours. I sleep three hours in the morning alone. Sometimes my naps in the afternoon are longer than 3 hours!

Anyways, back to Anthony! I had taken him under my wing, not because I was brighter, because he complimented my command of the English language and how wonderful presentations I gave. This came to an end promptly one Friday morning. Zhang had recorded my presentation and gave it to me so that I could gloat over it for the rest of the day. Sadly, Zhang didn’t hear what I heard. I refused to recognize my own voice for the entire afternoon and into the weekend, because I realized even after a decade in this great country, I may dress, eat, and live like an American, but my accent was as crisp as only our southern neighbor. Thanx to Anthony- I lost my job and my esteem!

 Anthony went into a melodrama on how the workplace was not the same without me, and then introduced me to a gentleman behind him, whom I had failed to notice. This was because most Indians that I meet show an expression of empathy that I am one of them- an approval of being part of the family. This gentleman, Shivaram Madhavan –whom I later came to know, bore an extremely surprised expression at me as if I were an alien.  Before he would even shake my hand, he shook his head firmly in disbelief 

 “I heard you were a Nepali. You don’t look like a Nepali at all” Together we made it to the kitchen, I popped open my first beer, gulped down half of it, and continued our conversation.

 “Really? Maybe that’s because I don’t sing and dance, don’t wear flip flop with a sock and don’t have a bobble head!” I quipped feeling better already.

 Shivaram kept on going, “No no! He looks like a Nepali” He pointed to Anthony, the comment, which made his eyes open up “ You don’t look like a Nepali at all!”  

 Screw the potluck. Screw the classmates and the co-workers. Like a true Nepali, my blood began to boil instinctively. This was personal now. “Please enlighten me, who do I exactly look like” I raised my voice taking another long gulp.

 “Seriously Yaar! You’re too fair. You look like a Bihari!” He patted my back as if it were a good thing.

 I am a man of tolerance. Over the years, I have been labeled a Pakistani when I forgot to shave, Mexican when I shaved, Guatemalian when I stood up, and a host of other South-American and Middle-Eastern nationalities which I had embraced graciously. I really didn't know how to respond to “A Bihari”? Hey! Maybe it is a good thing coming from a quintessentially Indian gentleman.

So in company of my two newly found friends– I began to unload the grilled pork-chops, Basmati Rice, and savory-pepper steak that lay at the end of the long table. My favorite!

 When I came back to talk, I saw that Shiva-ji’s eyes widened once more and smirked in disapproval. What now?

“Man I thought you guys were Hindu. You can’t eat BEEF! ” He asserted.

Thinking I’d get back at him for his earlier remark, I quickly replied “You should seriously try this! It’s really good. These are not like our cows. These are Christian cows. Bred for the meat!”

He stepped back in disapproval while Anthony laughed digging into his plateau.

“Besides Shiva! Show me the religious text where it’s written that we can’t eat beef” I blurted out feeling a bit-tipsy. This remark suddenly gave me goose bumps as it echoed inside my head. Have you had this feeling of insecurity when you state a claim without any proof secretly hoping that the other person also doesn't have an explanation? I had heard this from some Nepali Dai in our drunken philosophy conversation few years ago. (I chuckled in delight at Shiva’s silence!).

I thought I had back-slapped him for good- that too without the usual bickering, fight or explicit swearing.  Or so I thought I did. As Anthony got distracted in the kitchen with other folks, Shiva whispered in my ears “Yaar! Look at your plate. Pork, Beef, and Dumplings. 

You are not even a Bihari, you’re like a Chinese – You eat anything!”

[originally published in sajha.com 01-29-12]