I was born.

I went to school, more school, more school, and yet more school.
I am at the crossroads where school is almost finishing, real life is beginning, and my world is completely changing.

More than any degree, I have learned that laughter, silliness, and pure nonsensical banterings--along with hugs, are the keys to open any soul. These put together have opened so many doors in my life, more than one could ever imagine being possible.

Who knows where my brave new world will lead me... but I do know this:

I truly believe the impossible is possible.

9:30. Didn't matter now whether work was interesting. He couldn't just care anymore. Just another soulless day in that sterile cubicle. The smoking breaks were the best part. How much longer could he go on? He saw Maria walking in as he got out of the cab. High Heels. He might get through this day.

“I suppose I must be going.”

She scanned the cluttered dorm room for her 7 for all mankind jeans, which she so carefully selected along with the lace underwear that was neither Victoria’s nor a secret.

“I’ll walk you back,” he muttered rubbing his eyes trying to get rid of the Canadian Mist induced hangover.

Last September, the Seven Sisters opened their arms to me.

My story reads like Girl, Interrupted. I was interrupted. Thirteen years trickled by in a haze.

Philosophy is my one and only. (The elegance leaves me breathless.)

From the loony bin to east coast intellectualism!

Finally, a day off; I get to wear real clothes. I pull on my Luckys and turn in front of the mirror. Ten days of wearing too large teal green pyjamas and eating onion rings and my jeans don't fit. I had hoped to look chic, but secretly, I suspect I look like a schlub.

“Hi Kutti,” says Mom as I enter the house,
“Have you put on some weight?”

“Mom,” I say, steel in my voice,
“I don’t buy into the skinny myth anymore.”

Shocked, she responds,
“But how will you get married?”

“Well, Mom,” I reply cheekily, “CA state law won’t let us girls marry each other anyway.”

Her eyes ran down the features of his face.
Beneath the line of precisely folded turban began smooth caramel colored skin, eyebrows strong and dark.

I could get lost in those eyes, she thought, as her mind swam through pools of deep brown into a future involving two strangers who had yet to say hello.

Here's one for jeans:

"Have you always been this small," she asked?

A one-year relationship full of duplicity and deception & six months of engagement before his demons made themselves known, my battle scar was a body to envy.

My jeans sagged like excessive drapery on a curtain rod one hook short. My jeans fluttered like a flag of surrender.

"I’ve always been small," I told her, unable to recall when my heart first broke.

Friday mornings are filled with promise: crisp Piedmont weather, blue skys, and a flight back to DC from a week of work. The plane lands, and things blur into a hazy mixture of mundane mayhem. Car was towed and needs retrieval, my paycheck lost and I need it now, I have drycleaning to drop off, and more to pick up, laundry to do, shelves to assemble, boxes to unpack, friends to see, people to meet, drinks to drink, birthdays to attend (birthdays...Jesus, every goddamn day is someone's birthday). The TV is unwatched. Dinner, reconnecting: conversations, permutations, explorations, reevaluations. Who's my friend? You? You? No. You. Where did it go? Saturday, that is. Fudruckers, Jumbo Slice, Amsterdam Falafel. Reminder: Sunday, shop for bigger pants.

And then it IS Sunday, and it's like a countdown. T-minuswhateveruntil6:30pm. Everything is just a little bit more frantic, everything is turning, turning. Coffee? Sure, sure: Cosi at noon? Bag is packed, it thunk-thunks clumsily on the sidewalk cracks. Sit, laugh, flirt, drink, am I jittery? Yeah, I am. And suddenly oh-my-god-look-at-the-time-gotta-go, and I'm off, off to the metro, the taxi, the airport, the check-in (no bags to check), security (remove the laptop, toothpaste hairgel, mouthwash under 3oz in a zip-loc quart-size bag), the gate, where's the fucking plane, it's late, I could have waited longer. I could have had more time! But no, here it is, everyone march off so I can get on. I fly back to the foothills, back to the trees that are a little more barren, and I am.

One.

Week.

Older.

“Does my life actually have any meaning ?” I asked, as I gangsta-leaned across the pillow on my superkingsized bed.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” replied Katya, fresh from her Victoria’s Secret photoshoot. “First let me finish this quadratic equation for Nasa. I keep telling them that I can’t solve all their problems and that sooner or later they’ll have to rely on their own quantum physicists, but this is what happens when you have too many PhDs on your resume.”

“Surely there must be more to life than fast cars and even faster women ?” I mused despondently.

********************************************************************

“Look at it this way,” said Isabella, the supermodel-neurosurgeon. “Sure, you’ve got the palatial mansion with a dozen pimpmobiles in the garage. Sure, you’ve got the fabulous jetsetting lifestyle, with two Nobel Prizewinning girlfriends who are desired by millions and who can also make a mean aloo paratha. But d’you know what really makes a difference ? Your participation on Sepia Mutiny – you’re saving the world, one post at a time.”

That did make me feel a little better.

And then Angelina Jolie parachuted through the ceiling and we all made out and everyone lived happily ever after. The End.

Skinny..Why don't you eat more?
Chubby..Maybe its time to start working out?

24..There's so many nice Indian boys out there. Why don't you put yourself up on sale on one of those nice websites? We want one of our daughters to get married to the right person. Don't you want us to be happy?

Thank God maturity at 24 brings along the confidence of being content with chubbiness whereas the perfect body at 20 was plagued with insecurity.
Now if only I could find a nice boy.

Reminder: Sunday, shop for bigger pants.

In the great tradition of the six-word novel. Good stuff, Salil.

"You're kids are going to be gorgeous," remark my friends

"What fair skin their kids will have, and look how he eats the chipati? Like a tortilla," whispered Padma auntie.

"I just want to tell you I hope your marriage fails," my mother says with a smile at my grandmother's funeral. We haven't spoken since.

Sunday afternoon, no classes Monday.
I sit in bed, pajamas.
Dreyer's Real Fruit Lime popsicle.
My laptop's being used literally.
Sepia Mutiny's occasional story-telling ventures.
Some people need bigger jeans?
I look at my popsicle.
It is only 80 calories.
This is my third today.
I felt bad, now good.
These are really yummy popsicles.

Happy 25th!

Proud to see who you’ve become!

So strong, confident, ambitious!

America has offered so many excellent opportunities,

But life is about more. . . perhaps it’s time for you to have a partner, a companion in life.

. . . if only I could confess the true joys of my American upbringing: blue jeans and boyfriends!

I lived in India, the South and the North,
Been in American East and West,
But never found a nest.

The nest is where the heart finds warmth that brings us comfort and keeps us cozy. In the company of loved ones, with whom judgment and all conditions dissolve; a nest of acceptance and love allows the spirit to breathe regardless of geography. Should you or I be so lucky as to have found one.

Composed this in a weird moment of inspiration, not to be construed as an indication of my mental state :). So here goes nothing:

Saw a severed head on the news today.
Wished it were mine.

That night at the airport, you were wearing a pink shirt and blue jeans, your behenji glasses, hair tied up in anticipation of the long flight to the US. You were going away. Away from your past. Away from me. you turned around and walked away through the glass doors, and I watched you walk away.
I cried myself to sleep that night. I sometimes still do...

Asha's Dad-- both of your contributions were solid, but your second...I needed to fetch a sweater after reading it. Wah wah. More, please. :)

Also, t-hype?

My jeans sagged like excessive drapery on a curtain rod one hook short.

THAT sentence has haunted me since I read it. Loves it.

She started packing early in the week. She expected it to be just like the past few Thanksgivings. She wasn’t sure if there would or would not be a turkey this year, depending on if the family vegetarians won out in the meat/no meat battle. But she was sure that after the pie and chai, right about the time she felt like crashing on the old living room couch to watch Cosby re-runs, her mother would reminisce about where they were last year.

Right here, in the same room, with the same people. No one new, her mother would think aloud.

And that would ignite the evening. Her father would turn on the computer and open the matrimonial site. He would fidget with the mouse, still a novice, a clear display that he used the computer for this purpose only. Her mother would stand dutifully behind her father as they clicked through doctor #1, doctor #2, doctor #3… They would call her from the other room, insisting she care about her future.

She would refuse to join the festivities, instead lying slothfully on the sofa. It was the same ritual every long weekend home.

You aren’t getting any younger! Your birthday is coming next month! Do you know that Guddi’s and Rupi’s daughters are married and they are three years younger than you?! Do you want us to die miserable?!

She stuffed in her favorite shirt between her jeans and sweater and locked her suitcase.

My life is a ritual, she thought, but one I can’t let go of. Not yet.

Anna,

Thanks. Would you like more of the first or the second entry? My mom is a venerable treasure chest of traumatic inspiration. Someday I'll tell the green bean story (why I no longer eat green beans) or how my mom tried to be hip when I brought my college girlfriend home for the summer. (That's a tease...)

I bet Anna's shocked at my own autobiographical anecdote in post #10 -- no doubt it sounds wildly unrealistic.

I suppose that is true. I don't actually have a superkingsized bed, for example.

Actually, Anna, that kind of shocked me after I wrote it.

Also, I'm cosigning you on Asha's Dad. My favorite: neither Victoria's nor a secret - lol!

Asha's Dad...you're taking REQUESTS?! Squeeeee, bitches! The second one, which starred your Mom did give me chills, as I attempted to lamely relay earlier via the sweater ref. I would love to know why you don't eat green beans, since I've written entire stories about how I can't have onions (thanks, Mom!). I'm thrilled-- we have so many good writers at the Mutiny. :)

I stared into the toilet at the regurgitated flotsam of beans and mash potatoes. I had made good on my threat of vomiting if served green beans.

30 minutes later, my mom returned. She kept her promise and cooked an entire package of green beans.

“Throw up a single bean and I’m driving right back.”

We returned from the movie and walked into my room to find a present left by my mother. I paused in disbelief. My eyebrows lurched upward and my chin dropped ever so slightly.

There it was resting comfortably against the pillows, a bright orange rectangular box, almost floating on the freshly made bedspread.

“Lifestyle Condoms”

The car door slammed shut. It was quiet inside.

Not like out there, where everything was spinning out of his grasp. With a jingle of the keys, the car roared to life. Needles and lights danced. He placed his hands on the steering wheel, preparing to show the world who the one was in control.

Jai = swoon :)

Asha's dad
I'm wowed by your mom.

thekingsigh- I love reading your 55s :)

Asha's Dad, your mom is a venerable treasure chest of traumatic inspiration? So's mine, yet I never wrote anything that good :-)