Writing

Excerpt

Excerpt from Ravi’s Guide to Being a Cool Indian – Lying

Indians make it obvious they are lying by repeating the same excuses for why they have to suddenly cancel a get-together. That’s because they don’t care whether you know they are lying because they assume you will lie back to them and it will all even out. Principle #1: lying is fine as long as it is done in moderation and in a spirit of fairness.

Principle #2: Indians have so many cultural expectations that the only way to actually satisfy all of them is to lie. My sister Vineeta has been dating an Austrian architecture student named Hans who she met while attending Columbia for a Masters in International Affairs. Hans keeps a beige man-purse slung over his shoulder and sports trapezoidal glasses with purple side-rims. He mostly talks in some robotic algorithm about architecture. All facts, no fiction. Vineeta correctly suspects that Mum won’t approve, even though the question of whether Indians should date non-Indians has been settled now that Indians have variously bagged Liz Hurley, Gwen Stefani and Derek Jeter. So she keeps hiding the fact that they’ve been dating for the past year.

Unfortunately, this leads to Principle #3: Lying about where you were the day before might not catch up to you, but lying about where you were the whole prior year just might. Mum called Vineeta about meeting an Indian doctor who was doing his residency at Johns Hopkins. Vineeta tried to avoid the set-up by complaining about the distance. But in hiding her relationship with Hans, she had claimed to be doing weekend trips with friends to Philly and DC, which are no farther than Baltimore.

Vineeta called me for advice on avoiding the set-up, though I had no advice for the dishonest but obedient child when my success in parrying parental interference was premised on being the honest and disobedient child. She asked me what I thought of Hans. I maturely avoided the question because of Principle #4: Maturity means knowing when to lie, when to tell the truth and when to say nothing at all (wisdom means knowing when others are lying).

So off she went to Baltimore for an afternoon date with the doctor in the hope that “his parents are forcing him into this, too.” Or because she thinks that Hans is not a long term partner. If she broke up with Hans, she would definitely find someone else. Some of my friends tell me that Vineeta’s attractive, but I can’t evaluate that any more than I could distinguish a squirrel from a chipmunk.

She told Mum she didn’t connect with the doctor, but that just means Mum will keep setting her up. So maybe the main take away is Principle #5: if you’re going to lie, make sure you’re the type of person who is okay dealing with the consequences.

Chapter 1 –Foibles and Secrets, London

Vineeta

Vineeta needed this puja. She would appeal to the Hindu Gods to quickly bless her cousin Shushruth in advance of his wedding and then move on to more important issues, like her impending confrontation with her brother Ravi.

The bare-chested priest set up the religious accoutrements—a fire pit, coconut, orange petals and an hourglass-shaped copper jug of holy water—on a blanket in the middle of the living room. It seemed far-fetched that this man was a representative of the Gods, but it was possible he was a switchboard operator who could get their attention when the ceremony began.

Vineeta maneuvered around arriving guests, over the cheap mustard-colored carpet and past an oversized sofa that had been pushed to the perimeter. Though her own apartment in Manhattan had tasteful modern furnishings and scent sticks, she felt cozier in Shushruth’s Ealing home, where she had spent many hours before her family had moved to America when she was six years old. In fact, she had grown up down the street in one of the uniform rowhouses—two stories, a chimney, and a large sloped dormer window.

She arrived at the galley kitchen to help Shushruth and her other cousin Pankaj with food preparation. They were biological brothers born to her mom’s youngest sister. But the middle sister had been infertile, so Pankaj’s mom had fulfilled her duty as the youngest sister to give Shushruth to the middle sister to raise as her own. They had both grown up in this suburb of London about twenty minutes apart and still lived with their parents.

Pankaj’s bald dome reflected light like lacquer under the overhead lights, blossoms of hair puffing out of the V of his Polo shirt. He was the crown jewel of the family. The banker whose Saudi prince level demonstrations of wealth made his parents beam with pride—gaudy gold chain necklace, oversized watch, name brand clothing that didn’t necessarily match. He was bright and analytical, but she had never really connected with him.

Whereas with Shushruth—shorter than her and dressed in a knock-off Polo shirt and corduroy pants that didn’t necessarily match—she felt some emotional connection which didn’t require sophisticated conversation to make the relationship satisfying. He was smart, a doctor, but always made the predictable observation—the weather was cold, stocks were up, vacation was nice, food was tasty.

Pankaj was pouring cups of water, so Vineeta assisted Shusruth with transferring the cooked food into serving dishes, careful not to accidentally stain her glittery orange blouse. She was dressed in a traditional salwar kameez, with a tasteful gold necklace and group of bangles.  A voice interrupted her serenity.

“The gang is back together again!”

Vineeta turned to witness Ravi’s outstretched arms and beaming face, somehow appropriately dressed in an oversized linen shirt with string necklaces that made him appear both like a rock-star and a Hindu disciple.

“A feast for the man of the week, our beloved cousin, the youngest of the bunch who has decided to get married first. Good to see you again,” Ravi said.

He walked in to give each cousin a bro-hug before turning to Vineeta.

“Long time no see.”

 “I was wondering when you would show,” Vineeta said. “For you this is almost like showing up early.”

“IST, Indian standard time.”

“I’m so glad you made it. It’s so nice to be all together,” Shushruth said.

“Yeah, it’s almost worth getting married for, isn’t it?” Ravi asked. “Where’s the bride?”

“I think she’s still getting ready upstairs,” Shushruth said.

The four of them formed a tight circle near the stove in the cramped galley. They spoke briefly about wedding prep, flights and jet lag before Shushruth and Pankaj were summoned to meet arriving guests.

“Our little excursion to Blackpool will give us a chance to properly catch up,” Ravi noted as they departed.

Vineeta was curious what type of bachelor weekend Ravi had planned. Would he push the bounds of decorum or stick within the cultural mores that Shushruth followed?

“So. How’s Mum and Dad?” he asked.

“They’re good. You didn’t see them outside?” she asked.

She needed to confront him, but his presence also comforted her. The physical being she had spent more time with than anyone else in her life, even her parents.

“I did, but there’s their version and your version.”

“No major fights, if that’s what you mean. Your absence has been duly noted, however. Nifty trick booking a hotel,” she said.

He had conveniently avoided staying with the rest of the family by claiming he was on assignment for the t.v. show he worked for. So while he luxuriated at a hotel in downtown London, she was stuck with her parents at her cousin Pankaj’s house.

“It wasn’t a trick. It made the scheduling easier. No going back and forth to London or having to explain why I need to be somewhere,” Ravi said.

 Vineeta began re-arranging refrigerator magnets—a picture of Sathya Sai Babu, the phone number to George’s Pizza, a realtor’s calendar and a “Greetings from Switzerland!” postcard. She felt cold perspiration drip from her armpit to her blouse. She hated confrontation, but certain things needed to be said, with or without celestial help.

“Or having to talk about your book.”

“What’s wrong with the book?” Ravi asked, helping himself to a fried pakoda from a pyramid on the stovetop.

Ravi’s Guide to Being a Cool Indian had been published a few weeks before. Amongst the various humiliating revelations about her life, Ravi had detailed her secret relationship with her Austrian boyfriend Hans. While her mom had skimmed it with minimal comprehension, her professor dad had read it. Fortunately, he was withholding the information from her mom in the hopes that Hans would eventually go away. Vineeta had to tell Hans that she had lent the Guide to a friend so Hans couldn’t ask to read it.

She hadn’t seen Ravi since the Guide had been published and had avoided confronting him over the phone because he was her portal into the secret privileges of New York—the candle-lit lounges with belly dancers, celebrities and free drinks. Not to mention that she feared he was right.

When she had first met Hans, the cultural differences made him seem interesting—the sexy Austrian accent, tales of skiing in the Alps, jokes which seemed original the first time he told them. But he did talk about architecture in some “robotic algorithm”. Was he really just too stoic? Or like Ravi wrote, all facts, no fiction?

 “Maybe you should have previewed it with everyone before letting the world see our family’s foibles,” Vineeta said.

“Foibles? Who uses that word?” Ravi asked.

Vineeta’s therapist, Dr. Doris Jenks, used “foibles” every few sentences in lieu of problems, mistakes, dysfunction, abuse, deprecation, degradation. But the doctor’s assertion that it was important to know all her foibles had become expensive, even if the doctor’s notepad made Vineeta feel important. No one else had ever recorded her thoughts.

“I don’t know, I use ‘foibles’, who cares? You didn’t exactly paint Mum in the best light. Or me. Or Hans.”

She tried to look him in the eye, but he was searching for a kitchen towel to wipe his hands.

“I just think you should tell Mum and Dad you have a boyfriend. What’s the big deal?” Ravi asked.

“It’s complicated.”

“People usually say things are complex when they’re incredibly simple but they don’t have the courage to deal with them.”

“That’s easy for you to say because Mum puts up with whatever you do. With me it will lead to Armageddon.”

When she had first told Hans about Shushruth’s wedding in London, he had reacted with such enthusiasm that she had realized he had thought he would be joining, even suggesting a side trip to Vienna. She had tried to emphasize how bored he would be because she would be busy catching up with old relatives, but he had said he didn’t mind quietly observing. She finally had to tell him that she hadn’t mentioned him to her parents because her mom expected her to marry an Indian. Vineeta had expected Hans to get angry, which would have been good because it would have forced a decision. Instead he had accepted her explanation that she would talk to her parents about him right after the wedding when she could prep them properly and when they weren’t mainly focused on her cousin’s wedding.

Hans had still sulked for days, making sarcastic references to his irrelevance, and this morning had called to ask whether she had met any nice Indian men. She wondered whether he knew that she had gone on a number of brief set-ups with Indian men over the last year to stop her mom from getting suspicious. She could have managed all these issues in due time but for the Guide. Her brother’s desperate attempt to stay in the spotlight as his musical career waned.

Ravi turned to face her.

“She’s always pissed anyway. They moved out of India, they need to get used to the idea that we’re not going to be Indian. You can’t keep living your life to please them.”

“I haven’t been. I didn’t become a doctor, and I’m dating a non-Indian,” she said.

“Fine, you can’t keep spending your life resenting them for wanting your life to be different.”

“Meaning them wanting it to be different or me wanting it to be different?”

“Either.”

“Who said I want my life to be different?”