NAMASTE - Is it NYE yet?

The earth was spinning, the fern before me bending like a flame playing with my head, everything was moving, my legs felt heavy, I was breathing but the air I sucked-in held little meaning. It was a tease. It was there but not. Suddenly I fell, flat on my face. My vanity and dignity disappeared into the slippery icy steps as quickly as my consciousness vanished into some unannounced time bending exercise. I found myself dusting off my right knee for I knew it was going to bruise badly later that night. and I strutted uphill smiling …I had fallen. no excuses to conjure up except that I had no endurance at 8600 ft.

It was my first getaway after a long unending divorce and custody battle of three years. My first vacation. And the chosen ground of my prowl in liberated single hood, had to be the desert town of Palm Springs CA. I am still trying to come up with a more fitting name for this city, hmm Palm Stinks perhaps? What was I thinking as I had packed my fine off-shouldered black sequin sexy dress to doll up in (aka SUFFER-IN WITHOUT BREATHING) on NYE hoping to be some hot stranger’s hotter date? What was I thinking as I had packed in my Jimmy Choos (aka JIMMY's FOOT CHEWS?) to strut around in what I deemed later as a bleeding town for gay men seeking men gay, age being a construct, holding hands, kissing in the rain, drunk as a moth by the flame and my presence sticking out as a sore vagina in that blizzard. An anomaly, what was I doing there? (Nothing against gay men of course, bff).

As if the futility of finding even a one-night-stand wasn’t cracking like a silent whip through the cold 31st night, the night kept getting interesting in it’s weird convoluted ways. We found ourselves pouting and drooling in a chocolate shop like deluded Gretals minus Hansels. I bought myself a champagne and rum truffle, don’t ask why. Milk Chocolate just wasn’t going to cut it.

As we waited outside the store resting in the shade of its candied canopy to protect against getting rained on with NYE's loneliness and as my eyes cried inside themselves in self-pity, a white man approached us. He was staggering. He was moving like the earth and the fern I had encountered earlier that morning. Surreal coincidence? Then he winked. An evil grin clung on to the corners of his mouth as if attempting to set itself free in some monstrous perversion of sorts. His gaze slowly shifted towards the children and my mother bear instincts took over. I rushed the children and myself back into Charlie’s chocolate factory (I much prefer Charlize's) periodically glancing at the window to see if the man had magically disappeared. But it seemed like he was waiting for us to return just as we were waiting for him to leave and in that tug of war, our free BUZZ bus arrived and we lost the war. We ran frantically towards the Buzz in the rain and as we passed him he screamed “go back to India, go back to India, go back”

Annica, my girl friend was infuriated. It was her first exposure to racial slurs, being of Canadian birth (friendly Canadians). She audaciously shouted back “Happy New Year” ..twice, ending with a defiant “Namaste”…sort of like a charged-up profanity. NAMASTE!

I started laughing because nothing made more sense than laughing for wasn't it George Orwell who said "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." 

“Go back to India”, a more specific version of "Go back to where you came from" since Americans are weak in geography...but haven't we all heard that before? Er ..was this BUZZ BUS gonna take me there? Could I bribe the driver to take a detour, were the rest of the folks transporting to India with us tonight?? Visas? It was a free ride after all. But how would I confirm to this dude that I indeed went back? I would really like him to know 

“Sir, we listened to you, we bribed the driver and went right back, to India! Get this, no hard feelings, our fresh-off-the-bus pack was greeted by nubile apsaras/nymphs with jasmine garlands draping us in silk scarves, they then generously applied snake oil all over our exhausted bodies and we rested over a white elephant who gently rocked us to sleep as we listened to Ravi Shankar’s sitar and finally wrapped up the day with Deepak Chopra’s deep relaxation guided meditation on our way to our villages. Btw, the Parrot astrologer sends a message, please confirm this bus didn’t run you over, in some taciturn karmic fury, as you inadvertently jay-walked to your death? If so, sorry to hear that. NAMASTE”

The acoustics of #dating and goating

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.