America, Black and White, life, life lessons, random

My clothes, my chicken. Your opinions, I don’t care.

I’ve been visiting the gym regularly this year. I realized that it was a necessary evil I had to comply with if I wanted to lose that extra butt I’ve been carrying around. I could easily run for Most Unhealthiest Person in Gym award and win since most of the people I see there are hard core, weight lifting, protein shake drinking, cross fitting guys and gals. In the past few months that I’ve been there, I’ve seen more armpits than I’d like to accept. I’ve seen abs and six packs and calves of steel. None of them are mine, btw.

So, I go to the gym 2-3 times a week after I drop off this man who stays in my house (he says he’s my husband but idk). After an hour of cardio and struggling around with minimal weights, I go grocery shopping ’cause after all that exercise your girl’s gotta eat. I’m very iffy about the kind of poultry I purchase. Good poultry is available in this Pakistani/Indian/Arab/Confused grocery store a few miles from the gym. Some weeks I go there directly after working out and other weeks I drop by while running errands.

There’s a sweet old Pakistani/Indian/Arab/Confused Uncle who works there. I’ve been frequenting the same shop for a few years now so he recognizes me. Every time he sees me he gives a toothy smile and says, “Salam Alaikum! Kya haal hain?!”

Now firstly, I can’t speak Urdu and I know only conversational Hindi. Yet for some reason 99% of the people I’ve met assume that I can actually SPEAK these languages, because as a Muslim it is blasphemy if I don’t speak urdu. They then proceed to have long conversations with me. However, while I can understand what’s being said, I cannot reply back. So when Confused Uncle asks Kya haal hain, I give my best smile and say “Teek hain!!!” He then returns to stacking the shelves apparently satisfied with my answer.

Now, every time we’ve had this interaction I’ve been dressed more or less like this.

 

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A button down, skinny jeans and whichever scarf is clean. This is my uniform, my normcore. In the above picture I’m wearing my favorite button down with donut prints (H&M men’s section, you’re welcome). I most probably haven’t showered and from the look on my face I’ve only had one quota of caffeine. While I applaud my sartorial choices, I’m not too thrilled to go grocery shopping at 11 am when I could sit at home and watch Netflix. Basically, I’m the most anti social person and that’s just me generally. But I always try to put on a smile, even if it is fake, for Confused Uncle ’cause he always enquires about my haal.

The days when I go the shop after gym, I look like this.

 

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Sweatshirt, leggings, a cap instead of a scarf cause I don’t want to strangle myself and a smile because endorphins. I’m sure most people would find this gym outfit too stuffy but I feel comfortable in it. And some days I look cuter than pictured. I’ve not got weird looks in the gym so far ’cause honestly nobody cares what I wear. They’re all too busy pumping weights and what not. The first day I went grocery shopping, Confused Uncle was manning the meat area. When we made eye contact I automatically smiled and said “Salam Al–

Aapko kya chaahiye“, this cold eyed stranger cut me off.

“Uncleji!”, I wanted to scream. “It’s me! You know me!” But this man with his poker straight face looked right through me like we’ve never exchanged the same conversation ten times before. I was confused initially but then it struck me “Uncleji didn’t recognize me in my gym clothes!”

Oh Uncleji, could my cap and leggings be that big a disguise.

But it wasn’t just that he didn’t recognize me. He treated me like he does every other customer and reserved his sweet side only for scarf wearing, desi Mozlem women. I was and still am so outraged by this. Funnily enough, I’ve never had bad service anywhere because of my scarf. Maybe it’s because I live in liberal state where there are Mozlems aplenty but people have generally been nice to me. I’ve never felt mistreated because of what I wear or don’t wear. But this Uncle is a perfect example of stereotypical desi man mentality of sitting on a 100 feet high horse judging every woman for the choices she makes from their stinky Tower of Male Privilege. Men like him only believe in external “modesty” because they understand modesty to be one dimensional. My cap wearing self is not wild and loose. And just cause I wear a scarf I’m not a goody two shoes. Over the years I have found a sweet spot in the middle of these two “extremes” that suit me just fine. Also, why do men get to dictate levels of modesty? It’s so easy for men to tell women to dress modestly (doesn’t matter the level of modesty)  when they get to wear the same two pieces of clothing as every man on the planet. If you have an opinion about women’s modesty you better be a woman yourself. And don’t judge a woman for her choice of clothing unless you’ve actually worn said clothing before.

Since I have a deep fear of confrontation I never said anything to Uncleji about it. But it wasn’t the only time I experienced it. The situation played out the same way every time I wore my gym clothes. Now, I don’t go the store in my civilian clothes ’cause I ain’t got no time for fake enquires about my haal. So, BYE FELICIA.

(I will still purchase poultry from said grocery shop because chicken.)

(Not all Muslims speak Urdu. Your world is shattered, I know. But hey, it was a small, narrow one after all.)

(All images belong to me. Please contact me if you’d like to purchase my artwork.)

 

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Book Mark, Fiction

Two

One

Jamilah parked her scooter in Vijaynagar Market, the most crowded street in the city where she was fortunate enough to have her shop. Every morning she drove past the questionable glances and piercing eyes of her neighbors. In this small town everyone, especially someone with a story tailing their back were well known. The hushed tones didn’t bother her as she made a habit of leaving the futile thoughts at the threshold of her shop. Deluxe Avenue – a variety shop that nestled comfortably between a bakery and a fabric store was what she considered home. The glittering blue lights around the signboard never failed to make her heart swell with pride. Deluxe was the result of many tears and fights. When her father died leaving the tiny stationery shop in a state of disarray, Jamilah was the one who jumped in and took control. Over the years, she gave the shop a new facelift by stocking unique products and attracted a different clientele. Hameed would be squirming in his grave if he knew his daughter was in charge. Although he was aware of his daughter’s bustling nature, his conservative attitude felt compelled to ignore it.

“Good morning, madam!” a voice from a group of boys nearby called out to her.

“Good morning, Ravi! Are you ready for school?”

“Yes, madam. I want to stay and help you today, but Amma said that I have to go to school.” the boy frowned.

“Amma is right, Ravi! Once you complete your studies I will give you more duties than just arranging the display. But promise me you will score good marks this term too.”

“Okay, I promise!” Ravi shouted gleefully and ran to rejoin his mates.

Priya is so lucky to have that boy, Jamilah thought to herself, if only her drunkard husband realized it.

“Good morning, Jamilah!” came a voice from the desk at the entryway. The voice belonged to Kumar Uncle, the 55-year-old manager whose help Jamilah enlisted to run the shop.

“Good morning, Uncle! So are we ready for today?”

“Yes, yes. Someone from AM Industries called me last night and said their representative will be here at 10.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Jamilah nodded “I will show you the presentation I’ve created. Did you clear out the meeting room?”

“Yes, I did. You can take a look upstairs.”

Jamilah inhaled sharply and climbed up the stairs. There were three moments in her life so far that she considered noteworthy: reopening the shop, her daughter’s birth, and her wedding. Each day had changed her life drastically. Today would go down in the list as the fourth day. A few months back at an exhibition, she had met someone who had presented her with an opportunity that was too tempting to ignore. AM Industries was a huge company that dabbled in investing and promoting small businesses. Jamilah promised herself she wouldn’t be swayed by just the promise of expansion but she would weigh her options fairly.

Just like the previous events in her life, she was exceptionally prepared for today. All her documents were in order, the presentation was on her computer, the room was clean and she had spent last night researching the company.

Just then there was a knock on her office door.

“Hey..”, Ismail entered carrying a bag of files that Jamilah had forgotten at home in her haste to leave.

“Ismail! What are you doing here!” Jamilah was surprised at her husband’s rare presence at Deluxe. Most times he left her to her own devices so she was curious about this sudden visit.

“I just felt bad about our fight and thought I’d come see if you are free for lunch later?”

Jamilah looked at her husband, and instead of the suave, young man she saw this morning she only saw a desperate man craving for company, craving for a purpose. He searched everywhere to find his purpose and always returned to his wife after many fruitless attempts. Ismail knew that no matter what he did he could always count on Jamilah. She was the stability to his fiery impulsiveness. Although he knew his wife was aware of his dalliances, he was always defensive when she brought it up.

“Don’t you have to go see the builder in the afternoon?”

“I do. But Majid Uncle is there. He said he would let me know what happens.”

Ismail’s long breaks from work never had a deadline. Majid was trustworthy enough and as long as he kept things afloat Ismail did not see an issue in letting his uncle run things.

“It’s been three months since you’ve visited the site. Three months, Ismail. Majid Uncle has been going to every one of those meetings and is returning with requests, which you keep satisfying without question. God knows how much money he-“

“Enough, Jamilah!” Ismail bellowed. “Please stop talking badly about my family.”

“I’m not! I am just asking you to-“

“You know, if you get down from your high horse and step into my shoes for a second you would know what I deal with.”

“Fine”, she held up her hands. “You do what you want to”. Today was an important day and Ismail, Jamilah decided, no matter how hard he tried, was not going to ruin it.

“I won’t say a word against your uncle, Ismail”, she held his arms “You can calm down. Thanks for bringing me these”, she said, taking the files that Ismail had brought.

Ismail let out a heavy sigh and turned away.

Jamilah knew going into this marriage that her husband needed to be treated like a child. His wild temper and fluctuating moods preceded his reputation. The family gave in to the whims and fancies of this man-child. Man by way of his vices and child by his erroneous nature. Jamilah was the only person who could handle him. No matter what mood he was in, she could mold him and calm him. Many mistook this for love but Jamilah knew that this was the only way she could survive in this marriage.

“You’re right, Jamilah. I have to keep a watch on Uncle. Even Abu was saying that his quotes were unreasonable. So I guess I should better start paying attention huh!” Ismail sat down holding his head in his hands, “It’s so hard for me to care about these things, Jay.” his voice shook.

“Or anything..” Jamilah thought.

“After Appa’s death Majid took over and I didn’t have to worry about anything. Now it’s work, construction, you, Ma, our daughter and it’s all coming down on me together.”

You forgot the college girl you’ve been hanging out with, Ismail. Remember her? Why isn’t she what’s worrying you? Or is she your comfort?

“It’s all too much and I just want to run away.”

“THEN GO!” her insides screamed. Just leave me, leave everything and please just go! I can’t take another minute of your pathetic cry for attention if you can’t help yourself, her heart pounded as it contained itself inside her. When Jamilah first met Ismail she gullible enough to think that her husband was hers and that together they would reach new heights. But every wish and hope she had on him came tumbling down the moment she saw his true nature. The storm inside her chest had been long forming. It raged and raged, gathering momentum, collecting all the injustices done to her, swirling for years, waiting to be set free.

Jamilah had been taught from a young age to internalize her feelings. Her mother always taught her that nice girls don’t retaliate when subject to disapproval.

“When Appa shouts at you, don’t talk back! Just say sorry and go.”

“If Sara maami says something nasty about you clothes, just smile.”

And then on her wedding day Sara maami, the purveyor of marital guidance took her to a corner and advised her, “Listen to your husband, ponnu. Don’t bother him with meaningless conversations. Whatever he does, it’s for your own good.”

Whatever he does, it’s for your own good.

Whatever he does, it’s for your own good.

“Are you listening?” Ismail’s voice jolted her from her daydream.

“Sure, of course, I am,” she said distractedly “You don’t have to run anywhere”, she held his hand. “With just a bit of effort, we can change things around here.”

The forced sincerity in her voice did not surprise her anymore. Sara maami was right; she was not going to bother Ismail with meaningless conversations. She would dispense her feelings and words to him, as empty as his promises were, whenever he was in need. This way she could conduct her dealings and keep her husband hanging on too. And if time allowed it, she might even be happy.

“Yes, yes, we can try”, Ismail was growing restless. “So what’s happening here?” he asked looking around. “Are you ready for your presentation?”

“Barely. AM Industries is a pretty big company. I’m not sure if I want to be a part of it.”

“Well, maybe partnering with them will give you more free time.” he said as he walked to the door.

Free time.

Yes, that’s exactly what she needed. MORE free time to sit at home and wonder with whom her husband was.

“Let’s see what they say.”

“Good luck and oh, maybe we should cancel that lunch after all. I’m sure you will be busy with work. Perhaps next week.” he smiled “Bye.”

Jamilah was exhausted and it was barely 9 am. Just as she was about to look through her presentation, her phone rang.

“What do you want, Afreen?” she said wearily.

“Wa-alaikum-salam to you too, little sister. What’s the problem? Why do you sound so tired?”

“I’m not tired. Just..busy. Anyway, what do you want?”

“Do you know the date today?”

“It’s the 15th, isn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Oh wow, I never realized it’s been what.. nine years?”

“This is the tenth year, Jay”, said Afreen quietly. “Have you called Ma?”

“Not yet.”

“Call her,” the elder sister commanded, aware of her younger sister’s bristling relationship with their mother.

Ever since she was a child Jamilah was always detached from the rest of her family. Peculiar in her dreams, and not practical as her mother would have liked her to be, Jamilah was a stranger in her own home. Her family couldn’t understand her aspirations. This more often than not brought a rift between mother and daughter, both so different from each other, yet forced to relate to each other. Her mother forced a sense of belonging, which Jamilah naturally resisted. The dreams she had for her life made her a stranger in her family’s eyes. Her aloofness was only cemented ever since that fateful day ten years ago. The disaster had ripped her family apart and none of them were ever healed again. But considering how she felt right now, Jamilah thought that maybe she was already healed.

“Yes, yes, I will call her today.”

“Okay, take care. And good luck for your meeting. Salam!”

“Salam”, Jamilah hung up her phone and walked to the calendar that hung in the corner. March 15th was circled in red.

How could she forget today? Every year she approached the month with apprehension. Her mind was in a tizzy and she couldn’t help but relive those days. The closer she got to the date; a sense of dread enveloped her. But this year was different. Jamilah didn’t feel anything, let alone remember that the day was approaching. Maybe I’m finally over it, she told herself. But is it ever possible to get over death? It doesn’t matter how long it’s been, ten years, twenty years, thirty years. Regardless of how long a person has been dead, their life leaves an imprint on our soul. And when they are gone, the imprint lingers, hidden from the surface but occasionally bursting through, until it’s our time.

But is it ever possible to get over a suicide? When death occurs prematurely and is enforced so fiercely. Was the burden they carried so heavy that it couldn’t be shared? Was the pain so intense that it cut through their heart? Was it this, was it that? If only the dead could answer these questions, then maybe we wouldn’t spend our lifetime searching for the answers.

Jamilah was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to fake concern anymore, so she made a mental note to call her mother later.

“Jamilah, he’s here!” Krishna Uncle burst into the office. “He’s early”, she gasped looking at the time. Jamilah grabbed her things and ran down the stairs to welcome the unplanned detour that would change the course of her life.

 

 

 

 

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America, Events, my crazy days, Uncategorized

Stanford Theatre

Growing up, my parents enforced pretty strict bed times. Obviously, my brother and I didn’t adhere to it. My father is in business and followed the entrepreneurial rule book of having no set schedule. Most days he would return home hours after we were asleep. My mother would stay up until the wee hours of the night waiting for my dad. She would entertain herself by watching TV. Those days (the nineties) were the early days of cable in India. Cartoon Network, Star Movies and HBO were considered a luxury, a luxury we begged our parents to install.

The Cartoon Network of yore had amazing content. Johnny Bravo, Dexter’s Laboratory, Swat Cats, my brother and I ingested these cartoons with a fervor. But only until 9 PM. After nine, Cartoon Network became TCM and stayed that way until 6 in the morning.

Every night after turning off the lights and making sure we were asleep, my mother would sneak into the living room like a cat, turn on the TV and watch whatever movie was playing at the time on TCM. Like a switch that went on, I would wake up the minute I heard the TV although the volume was barely audible. I’d quietly sneak outside my bedroom and hide behind the wall of the living room. From that vantage point I watched as Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, Cary Grant, Gregory Peck and all these other marvelous stars sashayed their way through movies that were pure magic. Mom was aware of my antics for every now and then she would call out to me asking me to return to my bed. But as the years passed, and as I grew older I earned a place sitting beside her as we watched numerous classic films. Like all good things, the reign of TCM ended and it was Cartoon Network 24/7.

I outgrew cartoons during this period and turned my sights to renting DVDs of old movies.  We spent entire summers watching movie after movie gawking at artistic gowns and suave actors. This is why I love classic films. Not just for the interesting story lines, brilliant dialogues and the charming men who fuel my dreams, but for the warmth these memories bring me.

During my time exploring the Bay Area I happened to come across Stanford Theatre in Palo Alto. The theatre consists of just one screen (unheard of these days) and an organist who plays prior to the evening shows. The corridors are adorned with vintage film posters and a large popcorn is only $2.50.

Every year they have an Alfred Hitchcock film festival and this year it’s happening right now. Yesterday, I watched Suspicion for the first time and I am still reeling from Joan Fontaine’s evening coat.

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Fiction, Word Pad

One

“I am meeting Syed tonight,” said Ismail, “so don’t wait up for me.”

Jamilah sighed. She knew this was coming. Lata, her neighbor had told her that Syed was in town so she was anticipating this.

Ismail tucked in his shirt and turned to the mirror. Hair gelled, shirt crisp, pants starched and that colgate smile. He was ready to start the day. He walked over to Jamilah and hugged her from behind. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating, and not in a  good way. But Jamila was used to being ambushed by her husband.

Ismail held his wife around her waist and looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was as if five years of marriage and a two year old daughter had done nothing to diminish her beauty. She still looked as beautiful as she did on their wedding day.

“How late will you be?” Jamilah asked gently, not wanting to push his buttons lest he lose his temper, which he did quite often these days.

Ismail quickly withdrew his hands. She could see the cloud of anger forming in his eyes. One more question and it would set him off. Lately, Ismail had been tethering on the edge for far too long.

“I don’t know, okay. Syed is back after months and this is the one night I get to meet him where his crazy wife isn’t in town. I just want to meet one friend and here you are going all crazy on me when you are the one who come home late every night!”, Ismail bellowed as he ran his hand through his hair

Jamilah was expecting this. There it was, the key. The key that he was lying and/or feeling guilty. Ismail   was very vain about his hair and rarely touched it. When he did ruffle his hair it meant something was wrong. Jamilah was quick to pick up on this trait. Obviously, Ismail wasn’t aware of this. She was not going to let go of the one thing she held over him.

Jamilah walked to her husband and held his hand, “You know why I work, Ishu. My shop is the only thing that keeps me sane. It’s the one thing my father left me and no matter how many times we have this conversation I am not giving it up.”

“I know, Jamilah. But its not about your shop. Do you think I can’t hear the accusations in your voice?”

You know what I do. I’d prefer it if you didn’t acknowledge it.

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything! If you felt guilty it was on your own accord!”

You know you are guilty, you can’t even hide it.

“Lata has always been a gossip. The whole neighborhood knows that. Please don’t believe everything she says!”

Stupid bitch needs to keep her eyes on her own family.

“It’s not what Lata said…”

It’s what the whole neighborhood did not say. It’s what her family ignored just to get her married. It’s what her mother-in-law knew but was ashamed of. Its what Ismail’s newest conquest was thinking. It’s what the whole world saw but did not dare mention it to her – she was married to a philanderer.

“Look here, Jamilah,” he interrupted, “if you have a problem then I think you should stay with your mother  for a few weeks.”

The only thing worse than marrying a philanderer was leaving him for her parents.

“Don’t be silly, Ismail. Of course I don’t want to stay with my mother”

She won’t take me back.

“It’s almost 9,” Jamilah continued, “and I don’t want to be late for my meeting.” She turned to the mirror and started brushing her hair.

Outside the doors of this tumultuous marriage between two people, forced through circumstance to stay together, was the world that forced them to. Ismail and Jamilah lived with Ismail’s mother – Shahida. When Ismail was thirteen years old his father had died in a car crash leaving behind a small fortune. Small enough that Ismail could sail through his life without lifting a finger. Shahida tried to instill some responsibility in to the boy, but the lack of a male role model was evident. All through college, which he only cleared because the principal was a family friend, Ismail had a string of girlfriends. Now, at 29, his boyish charm was still in tact. Marriage did not stop him from straying. His uncle who took care of his fathers’ business replenished his bank account every month, he had his mother to make him breakfast every morning, a wife who gave him a daughter to silence the grapevine and a girl on the side to direct his interests to.

Aslam’s dream was for his son to study abroad, unheard of in the small town. Although the town was filled with business men whose wealth enriched the fields and markets, rarely did an heir study more than required. Aslam wanted to be different. His son was going to front that educational revolution he saw coming. Unfortunately for him, Aslam’s dreams remained just that as his son wasted away his inheritance on fast cars and expensive clothes.

“Ishu, come sit for breakfast”, Shahida knocked at her sons door. Breakfast was always a rich affair in the upper class neighborhood of M.R. Nagar – two kinds of meat, vadais and a towering stack of idlies. Jamilah followed the dutiful wife portocol and served her husband.

“Ismail, can you please ask your uncle to call Nasreen? It’s been two weeks and he hasn’t spoken to her family.” Nasreen was the oldest of Shahida’s children. She was the beauty of the family, married at nineteen. Shahida had always wondered if she made a mistake by not letting her daughter pursue an education, but it wasn’t easy being a young widow with a beautiful daughter. “Give her off before the vultures come to your door”, Haseena maami had warned her, “now that your husband is gone there is no one to protect you.” So, eight months after burying her father, Nasreen was married to the first proposal that came her way. Salim was a quiet, serious looking doctor from a good family. Shahida was sure he would keep her daughter happy. After all, he had three sisters himself and “it is best to give your daughter to a family with girls”, according to Haseena maami.

“Ma! What are you doing!”, Ismail’s shriek yanked Shahida from her daydream.

“Sorry Raja!”, she said wiping down the spilt gravy.

“Why don’t you have breakfast too?”, he said, pulling up a chair.

“Ya, sit maami and I will get you some tea. I have a meeting so I have to leave soon.”

Jamilah said a prayer of gratitude for her mother in law everyday. She was the only upside of marrying Ismail. They had a great relationship that drew in a lot of jealousy from their family members. Shahida was the first person Jamilah spoke to about taking over the shop. She was more supportive than her own parents. She was the one who convinced Ismail too. Jamilah suspected that allowing her daughter in law to conduct business in a conservative town was Shahida’s way of repayment for marrying her philandering son.

Shahida was no innocent widow as her son would have liked to believe. She was well aware of his wandering ways. The hushed tones and shifty eyes did not fool her. But she never confronted Ismail about it. People in their society did not talk about such things. They were shameful secrets and the more they were ignored, the more they stayed hidden. Such was the habit in this society. Man was expected to stray because that was how he functions. The woman however, was to ignore his shortcomings, produce babies and not air out her dirty laundry in public. But this did not stop the purveyors of gossip who fluttered between houses carrying juicy bits of information.

Anyway, though Shahida, he is married now and Jamilah is a smart girl who will hammer some sense into him.

“Here don’t forget your lunch, Jamilah”, she said, handing her her bag.

“Thanks maami. Salam, I will see you in the evening. Ismail…”, she nodded to her husband and left the house.

 

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America, Black and White, life, life lessons, madras

Hoarder

I have a problem. I hoard things. I don’t collect random knick knacks and all my nostalgic stuff consists of slam books, letters and diaries. These I keep in two cardboard boxes marked with “ZARINE’S STUFF DO NOT OPEN” written across the front. The boxes safely reside in Chennai, perched above an antique cupboard in my room. I unbox them every time I’m at home, relive those memories for a few moments and pack them up again. Those few moments are enough to tide me over for a year.

What I hoard are pretty things. Notebooks, shoes, clothes and scarves. I buy pretty things with the intent of wearing them but I hoard them while I wait for the “perfect” occasion. This has caused me to buy stacks of pretty clothes that never see the light of day because no occasion seems “perfect”.

I have a gorgeous, purple colored, Kashmiri embroidered jacket. While buying it I was ecstatic at the prospect of wearing it. Since that day five birthdays have come and gone. Anniversaries, special dinners, festivals, but none of these matched up to the “perfect” occasion that I created in my head. I possess a number of beautifully designed notebooks that scream to be written in. Rolls of silk scarves are piled on top of each other, each anticipating a perfect outfit. Exquisite kurtas wrapped in delicate tissue paper sit in my closet waiting to be worn, waiting to create memories in.

But lately I’ve realized that the most imperfect occasions create the best memories. That “perfect” occasion in my head will never materialize because my expectations far surpasses the reality of it. And funnily enough the reality is a million times better than my expectation. Now, I’ve promised myself that I will wear the clothes I want to and write in all my books even if it is just a sentence. I will use my pretty things to make memories even on the most ordinary days and years later, when I come across these things I will see them for what they are- not just “pretty” things but memories.

As for my purple jacket, she still hangs in my closet in quiet anticipation. Little does she know the plans I have for her.

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America, Black and White, life, life lessons, random

Epiphanies

The past few months I’ve had an epiphany of sorts. Maybe its the growing up or maybe it’s just seeing people in a clearer light, but it is happening. This epiphany (or epiphanies to be precise) has shaken the core of what I thought I knew. I guess everyone goes through phases like this that help them realize things, but accepting what I saw of others and of myself has taken me a while to adjust to.

I know people change, priorities change and people grow but it has been so hard for me to come to terms with it. Friends I once thought were everything have left me stranded and the others, I see them for whom they truly are. This has taught me to be selfish. Selfish of my heart that I should protect from people who treat it mercilessly, like its a plaything. Being selfish has also given me a thicker skin. I don’t let words or actions affect me and I just imagine them sliding off of me, distancing myself from it as far as I can.

Now I know not to trust people based on their face value. I know that promises are just that.. promises.. words that can be so easily mouthed without any action being taken. But what this phase hasn’t made me is bitter. I’ve realized that everyone is going through some difficult stage and the way they act out is by throwing darts at others. I see those darts and I understand them, but they aren’t going to hit me. My shield is my empathy. I feel you, I hear you but you aren’t going to get my heart.

So that’s my lesson for today, kids. It’s okay to be selfish as long as you are protecting your heart. And no one is worth those sleepless nights spent agonizing every situation over. Those that are meant to be in your life will be there no matter what. And then there are others that are there only because they feel they owe you. Learn to differentiate. Prioritize the ones that bring you happiness and protect your heart. Always, always, protect your heart.

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Eating Out, Food, Random Things of Interest, restaurant review

Discovering: Haute Couture Toast

The current scene in the Bay Area region is very much hipster (as known by all residents of the world). Gone were the days when toast just referred to that brown piece of cardboard popping out of the toaster. Artisanal bread, topped with what may seem like “mundane” toppings – cheese, jam, nuts and fruits is all the rage. And oh no, not just regular jam, but jam made with organic farmed fruits, farm fresh cheese and nuts. I wanted to experience this trend as much as I could before people realized that they were just getting excited about bread, and jumped on a newer, more basic bandwagon.

[Listen to this piece by This American Life. Read this article in The New Yorker.]

I had read about a couple of popular places that embody this trend . The Husband who struggles to be up to date with the hipster world stumbled upon a cafe late last year and described (failingly) the amazing breakfast he had that featured fruits on toast. After surfing Yelp I decided that I needed to experience this new trend. Hence I was led to farm:table (reads farm to table not farm *cricket sound* table as pronounce by a noob (not me)).

Farm:table is a tiny, Harry Potter’s-bedroom-under-the-stairs sized cafe? restaurant? breakfast area. While there is a little more variety in the menu by way of croissants, eggs and pastries the star of this establishment is toasted bread (varies daily) generously slathered with butter, topped with mascaporne cheese and assorted fruits, with a sprinkle of nuts. Sounds pretty basic, I know. Even the husband mused, “Who would think to put fruit on bread!”, and then paused to realize that jam was essentially canned fruit.

But believe me when I say that this variety of toast was like nothing I’ve ever tasted before and was definitely not basic. Each bite was at once creamy, crunchy and fruity. It is probably one of the best breakfasts I’ve had, a great departure from my usual breakfast of bread and fried egg. I would return to farm:table in a heart beat if I didn’t live an hour away. But make no mistake, I will be making the trek the next chance I get!

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