Mehndi Magic at the Big, Fat Punjabi wedding . . .
I squat in front of the mehndi artist and extend my right palm. She shows me a dozen designs to choose from and I pick an intricate paisley leaf, with spirals on the side. Within minutes, she\’s coaxed the dark-green mehndi color out of her plastic cone and on my outstretched palm much like squeezing icing onto a cake. She throws on some pink and turquoise glitter to match the lehnga I\’m wearing. It looks pretty, but now I have to sit idly for at least an hour, giving the henna sufficient time to stain my palm. I\’m not bothered though. I\’m attending my cousin sister\’s wedding in India, and there\’re plenty of relatives I can talk to who\’ll help me pass the time.
HOW TO PRAY . . .
Pray to the morning warmth that creeps through the shuttered window on a bright sunny morning in February, no rain, no fog, it reminds me of sleepy summer vacations in the hill station of Dalhousie;
Pray to the flood of immigration in the late 90\’s that has brought Patak\’s pickles to the Indian Spice Market and Bollywood movies to Regal Cinemas at Hacienda Crossings. Now I can choose if I want to see Fifty Shades Freed or Padmavati or both, in the span of a lazy afternoon, if my heart so desires;
Pray to the 11 p.m. phone call from my daughter who\’s away at Santa Clara University, an entreaty for me to visit with her furry, four-legged friend, Coco. \”Thank goodness she didn\’t choose to move five states removed to Tulane University,\” is the heartfelt cry of a mother who\’s bewildered how much it hurts to have an empty nest at home;
Foolish Promises . . .
The year her father-in-law died was also the same year, their family dog, Skittles passed away. Dad was 90 years old when he passed. He\’d lived a long, full, and sometimes difficult life. He\’d celebrated countless births, marriages, and milestones. He\’d also witnessed multiple deaths, disturbances, disorders, and disasters. She thought Providence had granted her family enough notice so that they could let him go without the usual cacophony of grief that surrounds the death of a family member.
What she’d failed to account for was that Yamdoot, the Indian God of Death doesn’t choose a time and place convenient for its victims when He comes calling. As Dad lay dying of old age and organ failure, their beloved white Westie Terrier, six-year-old Skittles began to heave his last breaths.
“Don’t die. Please don’t die,” she hissed at Skittles.
A New Year resolution: Write an ethical will
It all started with a phone call from India that my grandfather had died of a heart attack. By the time I booked my flight to New Delhi and made the 17-hour flight (with two layovers) back home, his body had already been cremated. The last rites had been performed; the funeral service was over; the […]
Dubai Dairies: The Desert Safari Experience
There is a place where golden sand is so fine it melts like butter through the spaces between your fingers, where lizards cartwheel down dunes and where an animal\’s two rows of extra-long eyelashes make it the envy of every woman alive. You may not believe it but this place really does exist, and it is called the Arabian desert.
I was in Dubai recently for a milestone birthday celebration, and the most memorable part of my trip was a desert safari organized by Platinum Heritage Luxury Tours.
Twas\’ the day before Thanksgiving. . .
A few days before Thanksgiving, I took a Bart train from San Francisco to the suburb of Pleasanton. It was one of those mornings that signal Thanksgiving is near-a cloudless sky, temperatures bracing enough to warrant diving into the coat closet to locate a scarf and gloves, and the sight of fallen leaves swirling in a neighborhood park as I walked to the Bart station. A billboard loomed above me, advertising a turkey dinner for only $39.99 at Marie Callender\’s.
I love the week leading up to Thanksgiving because of the anticipation of my family coming together again. I love the reminders on T.V., on radio and on social media to be grateful for what you have and hold because it allows me a moment to close my eyes and thank the Universe that my house echoes with laughter and joy again.
Locked out. . .
\”I\’ve never had an elevator break down on me,\” I said to the brown-eyed, auburn-haired stranger, I was riding it with on 450 Sutter Street, San Francisco.
\”Shh, shh,\” she admonished, laying a finger on her lips. \”Don\’t say it out loud. This one\’s already broken down twice.\”
\”What did you do, then?\” I asked with morbid curiosity, a die-hard suburbanite visiting San Francisco for the day and looking for some tame adventure. Being rescued from a stuck elevator would qualify.
She shrugged and exited the elevator with rapid strides. I continued on to my floor and was a little disappointed when I arrived without any upheaval. The lingering disappointment remained with me after I\’d been examined by my doctor and found \’healthy as a horse.\’ Time to go home to placid Pleasanton.
It\’s always assualt-style weapons: an immigrant\’s perspective . . .
\”America is not my chosen home, not even the place of my birth. Just a spot where it seemed safe to go to escape certain dangers. But safety I discover, is only temporary. No place guarantees it to anyone forever. I have stayed because there is no other place to go.\” – Irene Klepfisz, \”Bashert\”
I was in Vegas last weekend. Three days after the massacre at Mandalay Bay. I expected to find a ghost town or at least a city crawling with police sirens; \’Do Not Cross\’ yellow tape; and/or gun-toting security patrols. Nope. Instead, while the world watched as another American male murdered other Americans on American soil, Sin City was business as usual. The poker tables at Bellagio where I stayed were full. The slot machines were humming. Later that night while attending a private celebration at the Hakassan night club, I observed how quickly the dance floor got packed with young nubile bodies. At midnight there was a line snaking outside the women\’s restroom.
Is it because this is America\’s new reality, I asked myself.
The moon is full; it reminds me of Karva Chauth. . .
At the end of the day, it\’s the rituals you embrace and make your own that matter. I didn\’t grow up keeping Karva Chauth or seeing my mother keep the fast. (Karva Chauth is a one-day festival celebrated by Hindu women in many countries in which married women fast from sunrise to moonrise for the longevity of […]
Tell me an embarrassing incident you can\’t forget . . .
Orwell says somewhere that no one ever writes the real story of their life. The real story of a life is the story of its humiliations. If I wrote that story now— radioactive to the end of time— people, I swear, your eyes would fall out, you couldn’t peel the gloves fast enough from your […]