by Anita Claire
***
That night when Anil comes to pick me up for dinner, I grab his hand and drag him over to my new car. I’m not a giddy person, but I’m so excited I give my new car a hug, then laughing, I lean against it like I’m a model at a car show giving him a wink. No one else is in the parking lot, but he puts his hands on his hips and gets this annoyed look on his face, finally saying, “Hita, act proper.”
Where on earth is this coming from? Is he angry because I hugged my new car and winked at him? Or is he angry because I didn’t get the car he thought I should get? I’m hoping it’s because he’s working crazy hours and is just spent.
***
Kristi is now on a whole retro Woody Allen kick. On Sunday, we watch Sleeper and Annie Hall with a bowl of popcorn between us. Kristi tells me she’s visiting her folks in Oregon next weekend. Since she won’t be home on Saturday night, when Anil texts me out for dinner, I text back: How about eating at my place this Saturday. I’ll make dinner?
About ten minutes later I get a text back: Yes, that would be great, what time?
Chapter 17 – Dinner
My brain swarms with thoughts of what to make. At first I think I’ll make something real special. After contemplating it for awhile, I realize that I shouldn’t get too fancy since I want the meal to come out well. I’d love to call my mom and have her help me, but she’ll get too nosy if she finds out I’m dating an Indian guy. For a country of over a billion people, it’s surprising the mom network’s connection when it comes to finding a husband. I think within three phone calls, she’ll have the whole background on Anil’s family. If she approves of him, she’ll be pushing us to get married. Though, maybe then I’ll get more than some stupid kiss on my forehead.
Spending way too much time looking through all the handwritten index cards with minimal instructions that my mother gave me, I finally get my shopping list together. After driving a half an hour each way to the Indian grocery store, I start working on dinner. When Anil knocks on the door at six, I actually have the meal in the oven, the table set, and lentil vadas ready to start off with.
He greets me with a big smile and comments on how nice the Indian spices smelled from down the hall, but still no touching. I stand there with a big smile wondering if I should give him a hug. Hearing the beeping go off in our little galley kitchen I wake up from my thoughts and run into the kitchen.
Asking Anil to sit at the table I serve the lentil vadas, we both look at them. With a shrug of my shoulders I say, “They’re not as pretty as the ones we get at a restaurant, but I’m sure they still taste nice.”
Needless to say they look better than they taste. I get a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I had one of the princesses over and had screwed up, we’d be laughing. But Anil doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor. After taking a bite I get a horrible look on my face, and say, “why does this taste like I made it with plaster of Paris?” Then I start laughing.
He looks at me like I’m crazy saying, “How is ruining perfectly good food funny?”
Now I’m scared that the rest of the meal is screwed up. I’ve never been much of a cook; growing up my mom cooked, in college I was on the meal plan. Last year when Juliette and I shared an apartment, we spent a lot of time experimenting with food. Some things turned out a lot better than others. We always had fun, cheering our successes and joking and laughing over our failures. I eat three meals a day at work, it’s almost like I’m back on a meal plan. Now I’m thinking I forgot what little I knew about cooking.
Taking out my next course I’m hoping for better results. At least I made the rice in a rice cooker, so it must be okay. As I serve the Sambar over the rice, I pray I seasoned it correctly.
One bite in and I’ve scalded my tongue and blown out the back of my head from the intense seasonings. I look up at Anil’s face and realize it’s not just my tongue as his nostrils flare and his face turns red. Drinking down his Kingfisher Beer in one big gulp, he looks around for more to drink calling out, “What in the Gods are you serving me? Have you gone mad?! Did you not taste this?”
I’m horrified, my mouth is open and my hands are fluttering in front of it, but then I start laughing; it must be some kind of nervous disorder that’s suddenly over taken me. He wildly grabs another bottle of beer drinking it down in one big gulp. He looks at me with his eyebrows knit tightly and says, “What kind of person tries to poison their guest?”
Unfortunately, this comment only makes me laugh harder. At the same time two scenes from Annie Hall play across my mind. The ones where Woody Allen buys live lobsters to eat. The first time he’s with Annie, the two of them are on the floor laughing since neither of them has the guts to boil the lobsters. The second time he brings live lobsters home, he’s with another woman who finds no humor in boiling lobsters.
I’m starting to think the princesses are Annie, and Anil is the other woman. Did Kristi know this about Anil? Did she have me watch Annie Hall as a prelude to tonight? As I try to explain this to Anil, he looks at me like I’m insane finally saying, “Shall we go to a restaurant since obviously cooking is not one of your skills?”
Taking a break from laughing, I say, “Actually, I made a third dish.”
His eyes get large as he looks at me horrified, “What, in case the first two didn’t do the job?”
This comment only serves to kick off another fit of laughter. While Anil looks at me like I’m a complete idiot, he finally says, “I hardly see the amusement in this.”
Thinking of how much time I’ve spent on my disaster, I tell him, “You go to dinner, I’m going to clean up.” Picking up the twenty-five alarm Sambar and reigning in some more laughter I finally sputter out, “I better dispose of this dish carefully or it will eat a hole in my pipes.” Then I start laughing again.
Anil looks at me with a flat line across his mouth. My mind flashes to Savi. I’ve now gone with Anil on a bunch of dinners. Until tonight I didn’t realize how humorless he was. I think you need a lot more than three dates to make a lifelong decision.
Actually the third dish was the charm. It came out great. Too bad Anil didn’t stay long enough to enjoy it.
Chapter 18 - Hanging with Kristi
When I talk to my mom I tell her that I had some friends over for dinner and attempted to make Sambar, but wound up burning a hole in everyone’s gut.
My mom chuckles in response telling me, “Oh, Hita, if Sambar powder is fresh, it’s very potent.”
Why didn’t the lady in the Indian store tell me about this?
***
Now that I have a car, I can do some of the things I’ve been hearing about but haven’t had the transportation I’ve needed. One thing I’d like to try is a coding night. Of course in college I spent a lot of nights coding, but I’ve heard that these coding sessions are a lot of fun.
Looking online, I find a group that meets at a coffee house not too far from me. Heading over after work, it’s not surprising that most of the people are guys in their twenties who all have that thin, pasty, bedraggled look like they spend their nights coding. Good, I was afraid it would all be brogrammers. The leader of the group tells us which language we’re using, and then sends us that night’s assignment. Of course, we’re in Cupertino, not too far from Apple’s campus, so the language is Swift. I’ve used Objective-C, C, and I spend my days programming in C++ and Python. Now I need to stretch my brain and not only solve the problem, but also learn the Swift calls. It’s going to take me a bit before I can do much more than hang on and see what the other guys come up with.
***
On Wednesday I don’t get a text from Anil. By that evening I find myself staring at my phone. It’s not that I want to go out with him, but it feels like he’s rejecting me for my cooking, which is so unfair. How was I to know that you need to use old Sambar powder? It makes me even more pissed off since he wasn’t much of a boyfriend. He was never around, totally controlling, not interested in sex, wasn’t particularly fun, and had no sense of h
umor. I should be dumping him, he shouldn’t be dumping me.
Since I don’t have any plans Saturday night, I join Kristi. She’s been meeting up with Brian and Tim at Game Kastle to play Warhammer. At first I’m a little rusty, but I soon catch on and am right in the thick of things. They tell us they’re having some friends over to their apartment next Saturday and invite us to join them.
On the way home I ask Kristi, “Do you think they’re really having friends over, or was that just a weak way to invite us out?”
Kristi laughs it off. “Who cares, either way we’ll be playing games.”
***
One of the ping pong guys wrote a little program that IM’s both your computer and your phone, so you don’t miss your turn. There’s enough of us playing to have rolling competitions. Whereas six months ago, I was considered a warm up partner, I’m now a regular player. Though, the two Chinese guys are so fast I don’t know if I’ll ever win against them. My favorite guy to play against is Colin. We play at about the same level. After we play, if he wins or loses he treats me the same, always with an easy smile, a joke, and a friendly conversation as he hands me a drink out of the beverage refrigerator.
***
Getting together with the princesses on Friday, Jennifer asks me about Anil.
“Dinner was a complete disaster. I mean he acted like I intentionally tried to poison him.” Thinking about it, I start laughing. Finally sputtering out, “Why do I find this so funny?”
Jennifer watches me laugh, shakes her head, finally saying, “You’ve always had a quirky sense of humor.”
“He has no sense of humor. I’m so glad this wasn’t a traditional Indian arrangement. I wouldn’t have learned what a humorless personality he had until I was married.” Jennifer shutters and I ask, “What was that for?”
“Thinking about being married to Carter makes me shutter. His values were so different from mine. He judged people based on how much money they earned. He wasn’t very nice to people he thought were below him.” With a contemplative look she continues, “Don’t get me wrong, I someday want to have the house on the hill with the tricked out kitchen, nice car, and a couple of cute kids. But I will never choose my friends based on the size of their bank account.”
Clinking margarita glasses with her, I say, “Here’s to finding guys who get us and whose values we share.”
***
Kristi contacts Brian and Tim about bringing Jennifer with us to their party. On Saturday the three of us head over to their place. They live in a generic apartment complex that looks like it was built in the 1980s. The apartment is a decent size with tan carpeting and white walls. It’s decorated with what Juliette calls “minimal guy,” in that they have an Ikea couch in the living room facing a massive TV and gaming console. The dining room has a full size Dance Dance Revolution machine in it. Not the Wii version, but a full arcade version designed for two people.
Brian and Tim actually have friends over. Again, mostly guys. By the look of the T-shirts they all work at either Cisco, Intel, or Apple. On the way over, Kristi tells us that Brian and Tim went to UC San Diego. Upon entering the apartment, Brian comes over to welcome us, he leads us past the Dance Dance Revolution machine and into the kitchen where they have a large Igloo filled with beer covered in ice.
Jennifer elbows me, as she tips her head to point at a beer poster of a hot girl in a bikini taped to the wall. “Isn’t that Juliette’s high school friend?”
“Yeah, remember when that poster came out? It was all over campus. Juliette flipped.”
“So did Meredith. She said she met that friend when she stayed at Juliette’s over Thanksgiving.”
Tim joins us in the kitchen as Kristi asks, “What’s with the Dance Dance Revolution machine?”
“My parents got it for me when I was in high school. I was totally into it at the local arcade. They thought buying one would keep me in shape. I finally got it up here.”
Jennifer asks, “Are you any good at it?”
Tim and Brian look at each other and smirk. “We have our own revolving competition along with Larry.”
Kristi looks puzzled as she asks, “Who’s Larry?”
Brian responds, “Our third roommate, we don’t see him very often these days since he has a girlfriend.”
Tim then fills in, “Yeah, most of the women here are her friends.” Changing the subject he tips his hand to the big machine, “Have you ever tried it?”
We all shake our heads. Jennifer pipes in, “Show us how it’s done.”
The guys look at each other and shrug their shoulders.
Jennifer comments to me, “No one would ever think that UCSD was near a beach if they saw those two. They look like vampires, you know, people who’ve never been outside in daylight.”
“I bet they’ll never have to worry about skin cancer,” I joke back.
The guys turn the machine on and it starts blasting techno music. Everyone crowds into the dining room. They both jump up on the platform. Brian gives Tim a nod.
Tim says, “Let’s do it.”
They start the game; the two of them watch the scrolling dance steps while their feet fly in what looks like complete unison. We all cheer. Tim wins, but not by much.
Jennifer gets a big smile on her face as she squeals, “Let’s try it.”
I shrug my shoulders and say, “sure.”
After watching those two, I had no idea how difficult it is. I’m sure Jennifer and I look totally lame but we have a great time. Kristi joins us in a round robin contest that none of us really won even though, averaged out, I think I have the highest score.
On the way home, Jennifer comments, “I was having second thoughts about joining you guys. But tonight was fun. My ears are still ringing from that crazy disco beat.”
“I take it Kristi and I are no longer scary together?” I can’t help but saying.
“The two of you are still a scary combination.” She says as she pulls out her iPhone and shows me a video of Kristi and me looking all awkward on the Dance Dance Revolution machine.
Kristi grabs it from her and starts laughing. She holds the phone in her hand ransoming it off to Jennifer as she pleads. “I’ll give you back your phone only if you promise you won’t put this on Facebook. Not everything in our lives needs to be shared.”
Chapter 19 – Thanksgiving at Home
Meredith plans a big Thanksgiving dinner at her place, but I’m going home. Not wanting to use my precious vacation days for visiting family, I fly to Chicago on Thursday, just in time for Thanksgiving dinner—Indian style. The table is set and a bunch of family friends are already over. I’m greeted with lots of hugs and kisses. My brother, who is currently in his senior year of college, is already there.
Since everyone attending is a vegetarian my mom doesn’t roast a turkey. She has prepared all the American Thanksgiving specialties, including cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, though most of the meal consists of vegetarian Indian specialties.
On Friday morning I challenge my brother to a game of ping pong. All my practicing at work has paid off. I beat him easily, every game. Every time I beat him he gets a little bit angrier. His returns get harder, but not more accurate. I’m so used to playing with guys, the speed has no effect. He finally throws down his paddle and storms up the stairs.
My mother comes over to me saying, “Men don’t like it when they lose, especially to women.”
Furious at her for that comment, I respond, “Well then I think they have some work to do on their attitudes because I’m sure not going to swing a game to placate some guys ego.”
“Hita, you need to tone down the feminism or you’re never going to be happy in a marriage,” she replies.
“I’d rather be single than live with a man who doesn’t respect me and isn’t proud of my achievements,” I answer back.
Shaking her head Mom says, “Hita, what am I going to do with you?”
“Support me, be proud of me, but I’m not going to be sold down th
e river to some guy who doesn’t get me.”
“Hita, how do you make it in California with that attitude?”
Shocked at her thinking, I respond back, “I’m doing well. I have a great group of friends. I actually play ping pong against a group of guys. They like me, they even respect me, and I never would consider throwing a game for their egos.”
“Are any of them nice Indian boys from a good family?”
Exasperated I respond, “What is it with you trying to marry me off? Can’t I explore being single for awhile?”
My mother’s arms are now crossed over her chest and she has a concerned look on her face. She runs a science lab. How can she be so sexist?
Heading up to my childhood bedroom, I lie down on my bed. I pull out my phone and check Facebook, Instagram, and texts. There are pictures from Meredith’s Thanksgiving dinner. The other princesses were there. So was Sam’s friend, Ben. Good thing Isabelle is traveling. She had an on and off thing with Ben for years. By our senior year, just mentioning his name gave her hives.
Thinking about Isabelle is good luck. She stopped teaching English in China and is now traveling around Australia. She posted a great selfie on a boat in Cairns with a whole story about diving in the Great Barrier Reef.
Savi’s parents are having a big traditional dinner at their house tonight so everyone can meet Arav’s family, since now they’re engaged. With a party like this, everyone comes dressed up in their best traditional clothes. My mom calls me into her room. I follow her into her closet. She has all her saris carefully folded and stored. She pulls out a sari for me to wear. It includes a deep yellow silk slip called a pavadai and a matching short sleeve midriff baring blouse called a choli. The actual sari is nine feet of high quality saffron colored silk with elaborate sand script patterns embroidered in bright yellow along one side. Mom wraps the material twice around my waist with the loose end of the drape thrown over my shoulder, baring my midriff. I’m glad I’ve been riding my bike and playing ping pong all summer long because my stomach is completely showing, and I’d hate to have it all flabby and hanging out. My mom also has matching silk slippers and big dangly chandelier earrings for me to wear. She, too, wears a sari; hers is almost the reverse of mine—bright yellow silk with an orange to red ombré embroidered design.