As if
my share of human suffering has not been enough, call it some glorified form of
sadomasochism, I decided to indulge in experiencing the tangible as the Gods of
‘Plenty of (Franken) Fish’- an online dating site for those of you living in a
shoebox, wished for me to do. After having exchanged plenty of texts involving
topics not just skimming the surface of facts and data and intelligence, (it was
practically a beginners GATE test for dating nuptials) we seemed to have
covered formidable ground…from bigotry to genetic differences, if any, between sexes, to
rebirth and life after death, if any, to music tastes, if any…I must say, the
man claiming to be a ‘Doctor’ from Netherlands and working for the Navy,
engaged me. Now let’s not get excited, engagement doesn’t imply agreement! I
watched his views appear before me and fade with jaundiced hues, leading me to
consider how much of it was my own projection and how much of it his
perspective on life, if any. I sat on the fence contemplating between coloring
my hair blue, napping and shopping at a thrift store or actually venturing out
to meet Dr K from neither-land (I had already deemed him Dr Death by now…no
premature judgement of course).
We decided on a neutral place, an Indian
restaurant. (Of course by now I had already given him my address, my bra size,
my social security number and my date of birth..no worries, I take it slow, I build
it up). Aesthetically I decided to keep it simple, I didn’t bother looking
sexy. I only do that when I know I have to be in an elevator for 60 secs and no
one has the courage to say anything but stare as I sway my hips out prudishly.
You see, I am a stupid woman who makes only wise choices, timing is everything.
So I was going to meet a military man from Netherlands in an Indian restaurant,
an Indian woman ripened in USA. I decided a simple cotton sari should do it.
Yanking the chain here, no it was going to be a simple Versace sequined black
gown. Yanking again. It was a pair of unwashed pants that had been on marathon runs
in the dryer supporting the fluff cause, coupled with an equally unwashed
shirt, lots of perfume and some hair thickening serum to poof up my newly
pruned head of no hair.
I walked into the restaurant, ignoring the staff,
Indians are used to rudeness. There he was sitting, the only white man amongst
a crowd of two customers. He recognized me immediately and a giant figure
creeped up before me to greet me. I can’t remember if I hugged him or the trauma of meeting
him has blocked that memory off….
In any case, moving onwards, it came to ordering
time as soon as I sat down. No time to chit-chat, the man was hungry, plus I preferred
to stare at the menu rather than his face! I could tell by his drooling
enthusiasm in wanting to order the entire appetizer and entree section….my brain drifts, wasn’t it Alan
Watts who said much eloquently “the menu is not the meal”… Lamb curry, 8
parathas, Hyderabadi Goat Biriyani, Salt Lassi, Samosas…I stuck with the little
known chicken biriyani…as he wolfed down parathas after parathas leading both
the waiter and me to gawk at each other periodically....(no, we are not
splitting the bill, bro) and then, quick as lightening, came the profound question, why do Indians
prefer to kill the goat over the pig....hmm...quick think fast missy....he is
not asking about the cow, but rather the GOAT!
As I
chewed the bitter cud in my mouth over what seemed like a lifetime’s lag in my
response system, while also concurrently punning in self-deprecation “cat goat
your tongue..?”, the first thing that shot out of my mouth was..
‘It’s a small animal’
‘what do you mean’
‘well, it’s not as large as a cow, it’s small, the smaller
the animal you kill, the lesser the karmic burden’ (cough bullshit)
‘what? But there are small pigs, dirty small
piglets, they are smaller than goats..’
Part 2 – to gloat or not to goat
I knew that was NOT working for me….then like a
flash of a brilliant comet rising from my brain, a fitting retort revealed itself
that would shut him up (well, shut him up long enough to not pursue any further questions on that topic, but rather be more involved in his obvious gluttony fetish)
‘oh, you know Mother Kali??'
'who?'
'tsk, Kali, the Gothic Goddess of Death and
destruction, wearing a garland of heads..
'yes yes..' gulp
'Well, to please her, goats are sacrificed in India
and since every life is holy, we consume every part of that sacrificed
goat..goat it?'
'and the pig??'
'Well we love the pig and, we love the cow…just eat
your lamb'
So there, now that Kali was having a giggling fit in
this test of my knowledge of my own culture that wasn’t going to redeem me from
what was to follow next..
Lets toggle a little here, I skipped a very
important detail, the one that has to do with “his looks”. Well, call me
intellectually vain, his bald head was shinier than a chrome moon, his face was
dryer and scruffier than my unshaven bristled legs, his beady eyes were pervy
green reminding me of fungi draped lagoons harvesting mosquito eggs, his neck
was so short that it could make Susan Boyle look like a giraffe in front of him,
his teeth …well..more later on that..and his BODY, you ask? I have no idea, he
wore a long camouflaged muddy trenchcoat that draped him in a
shroud-like-bubble…I wanted to look at his gut so bad, but the coat doubled up
like a quarantined shield between him and me…so let me just stare at his ugly
shoes or his bald head instead, both those extremities prodding my soul to ask
the deeper question in life…’what the eff am I doing here??’ or “how bored am I?”
The ordeal of the dining ended eventually. Never
have I seen time tick with so much reluctance. Then came then another loaded
question…
‘So what is around here?’ Was he asking about more
restaurants?
‘There is nothing around here…Little India hides in
inconspicuous industrial neighborhoods you see…but there is a micro brewery (my
desire to drown my sorrows just a micro-tad…my beer infused blurry eyes might
make the sight in front of me more palatable, I don’t want to micro manage by
macro desire to seek refuge in some impending dehydration cum hangover).
‘Nah, I drank too much last night…I alternated with
a bourbon and an IPA’
‘What was first…bourbon or IPA…(why did I ask that?
What is wrong with me? How bored am I?)
‘I can’t remember…I drank too much…am hungover’ – Oh,
I shouldn’t take it personally, we all know what IPA stands for 'Indian Patience Act'..
‘Well do you think that all the food you just ate
might help a bit now?’
‘I ate too much too’ (hell ya, you think?)…..lets
go for a walk’
So somehow he talked me into following him in my
car, to a well known State Park. I wonder if there was something in my biriyani
that had tinkered with my brain to make any wise decisions! But yes,
nature…cathartic!
After 22 minutes, we arrived onto a dirt road over
a cliff, confronted with stunning views of the Pacific blue waters. I forgot
about the sore company I had with me draped in a hazmat suit, I was immersed in
the beauty of the cliffs, the ocean, the surfers, the gliders…but the man
wanted to go down (the cliff). I thought to myself…well then, jump. I will look
the other way but I guess he really wanted to hike down. I had no idea what I
was signing up for…my heeled boots and a rough trek downhill. I swore like a
drunken Irishman, tripping, rolling, bumping, sliding, skidding, I reached the
bottom of a black pit also known as Blacks Beach black and blue – San Diego’s
famous nude beach where you will find countless repressed Indians and Chaldeans
on their first landing on US soil, frequenting eagerly, desiring to spot a nude
beach blonde Barbie or perhaps a nude nubile mermaid, but alas, the visual that
greeted me was ugly fat decaying men dangling shriveled body parts that could
cause serious projectile vomiting of all chicken biriyani previously consumed…
I put my bruised foot down, refusing to go any
further. I could have just walked into the ocean as seen on many Bollywood
films as a symbol of just giving up on life but I felt an uncanny urge to
rather of ‘live to tell’ …
Part 3
- end it already...
So I dragged the dead goat too long already..lets cut through
the hike...I was beat and my spirit broken. I was so disappointed in my ability
to cut my losses and his, I decided to just collapse over a rock. He didn't
approve of my positioning. I asked..why? He said I was too close to the
Chinese! Close to the Chinese...hello, we share the Himalayas with them! But
apparently they were on a mission to create sand penises
and I was intruding...whatever, I scooted. Then, pay attention, came the icing
on the crown, the silver lining in the cookie, the fondant in the milk shake,
his elusive little round container of something ominous. At first he did it so
fast, I only caught a glimpse of it entering his mouth..perhaps a sand fly he
was warding off...making me want to concentrate harder on the precise movements
of his deft hands...
Ten minutes later, followed, a slightly slower
deliberation...I stopped it midway like a Ninja on high alert...
'What are you doing?'
'Oh its tobacco .I chew tobacco'..spit spit ...where
is your portable Made in India Asura spittoon?
Like they said “If you expect to rate as
a gentleman
Do not expectorate on the floor”
No
answer. I could see the corners of his mouth leaking.
'Er..whokay..are you addicted??'
'No, it’s good for you..it keeps you alert, it’s a
neuro stimulant..it is the smoke in cigarettes that messes you up, no smoke here.."
'Er..so are you addicted?'
Spit spit..'so you divorced? My ex-wife tried to
take 50% of my housing allowance, dumb fk, I told her, get a job ...she has
500k in a fund, prenuptial.. Now she wants my money .fk..I told her get
lost..and she calls me abusive, now I am an assh*le I agree..not an
abuser...'..spit spit ..deposit..earth calling 911.
I didn't know how to react...I found myself facing
the human condition, the other side of the Ganges, the grotesque ugliness of
human ego and perception floating as a carcass.
I said nothing..I watched him spit and
speak..intermittently ...revealing his black and brown teeth as he proceeded to
tell me his 37 year old estranged wife was dying out of bone cancer, I sunk
deeper inside myself.
Eventually we ended up completely lost (or disillusioned) in the
canyons since I refused to follow the simple Newtonian protocol of what goes
down, goes up, we drifted through ritzy mansions where people's garages were a
few times larger than my dwelling unit..beautiful architecture with no lights
twinkling inside, no movement to signify life, but silence as the only
indicator of a quiet mayhem. These encounters of the fifth kind that make you
realize how Dostoyevesky conjured up his characters creating the most enticing
of mind chatters, that dictates how we live life, how
we die manifold deaths in a moment, or perhaps how we stagnate like algae ridded lagoons and how we hide our dogma behind
trenchcoats shifting blame, deflecting, building walls greater than the Chinese could. 2
hours plus into the drifting, we finally found the main artery leading to our cars than our hearts. I
hugged him this time, deliberately. We never spoke again.
