The lilting music tumbles and washes over me. Is it Beethoven or Bach? I wouldn’t know, even if I tried. I’ve never been a classical music type of person. Give me Frank Sinatra or the young musician my daughter’s crazy about—Billie Eilish, I think her name is.
They play these kinds of calm, soulful tunes in these high-end spas, all soft voices and padded steps. It’s a facade really. Just like Biden’s unexpected but salient victory in the polls last week. I voted for Bernie Sanders, but if Joe Biden gets the nomination, I’ll cast an unwilling vote for him. Not that it matters. Trump is expected to sail into office for a second term. Darn those blue-collar states again—the middle-class belt fighting against the jobs going abroad.
Last night, I watched the Oscar-winning documentary American Factory, about a plant in Dayton, Ohio, that makes windshields. American Factory is the view we never get as high-tech China clashes with working -class America. Unionized lazy American workers who want coffee breaks and paid vacation versus uncomplaining Chinese labor who put in twelve-hour shifts. ‘Wake up and smell the coffee, America,” I wanna scream. The world is never going to be the same again.
Not with 1,016 cases of coronavirus in the United States and thirty-two deaths already. Lines at Costco because people are stockpiling Crystal Geyser Alpine natural water, freeze-dried Shitake mushrooms, and Aleve tablets. Life as we know it is cancelled. “Prepare for a catastrophe,“ screeches the headline of the New York Times in my inbox.
It’s just like that time when Delhi was burning. November 1, 1984. The only government-sectioned T.V. media outlet—Doordarshan—depicted Rajiv Gandhi’s somber face, his pristine white kurta pajama, an angry red tilak on his forehead as he solemnly set alight his mother’s funeral pyre while frenzied mobs led by Delhi police dragged turbaned Sikh men out of their houses, and set them on fire. I saw pictures of a young mother pulled from a Shatabdi Express train by soldiers. The husband sitting silent, with his baby rocking on his lap. In and out, they thrust themselves into her as her screams rent the humid, fecund air. Later, much later, he let his face crumple, the tears he’d held back soak over his baby’s onesie.
Every year the victims of the 1984 riots try to seek financial assistance, an apology or acknowledgment of the evil that was wrought. Hah! Now, Delhi’s burning again. This time it’s the bloody bodies of Muslims washed out in the languid waves of the holy river Ganges. They say there are a lot of similarities between India’s nationalist leader, Modi and Donald Trump. Down to the same wispy, windblown hairstyle.
“You can open your eyes now,” says the chirpy voice over my shoulder. “Be sure to drink plenty of water. I’ll be waiting for you outside the door with lemon-infused Evian.”
“Thank you,” I say carefully, and vigorously rub the Dettol hand sanitizer my Dad sent me, between the webs of my fingers. Better than the Purell that costs $97 on Amazon. Am I surprised? Insulin costs $3 a vial at New India Chemist in my hometown of New Delhi. It costs $482 a vial at Walgreen’s pharmacy on Santa Rita Road in Pleasanton, California. And, Trump wants to make America great again, eh?
Bah to the Nob Hill spa at the Highland Hotel in San Francisco. Thank you Stratford School ‘Auction for War Vets’ for the gift certificate I won. However, next time I’ll stick to the Thai massage at Buddha Bliss in Chinatown. I prefer the smell of stale sandalwood and fish chips. And, their hearty knuckles on my bruised shoulders.
