As a desi gal growing up in America and living in India for a while, I saw most of my gal friends go from being under the jurisdiction of their parents to then being "handed over," on a silver platter no less, to their future husband. I'm not against marriage but this simply perpetuates the idea that women are delicate flowers to be protected throughout their lives. Blah to that. Was there ever a sense that maybe a woman, especially when desi parents bend over backwards with a woman's education, that perhaps she has her own mind, her own ideas, her own sense of agency?
Sometimes I feel like I'm a Desi-American anomaly: 26, unmarried, living away from home, and pursuing a major no desi-in-their-right-mind has ever contemplated. However, at the same time, none of this would have been possible if I was not in college. My parents would not let me live on my own had it not been for the fact that I needed to finish my degree. In fact, I chose the university that I did because it was far from home and it would be a nightmare to commute (or so I told my parents). After being away in India for 3 years, I couldn't fathom living under my parents' jurisdiction again. Not that I hated them or anything. In fact, I think I got along with them better.
Now, years later, I think they realize my need for independence. Mom told me that after I get a job I should get an apartment near work. Imagine my shock. Mom tells me that she knows I can survive on my own if need be but, at the same time, she laments that I haven't met the right man to "take care of me." It's got to the point that she's happy with any news of any guy I tell her when I come home. Whereas 5 years ago she would have killed me if I mentioned a non-Malayalee or a non-Christian guy to her, nowadays, she's like "well, we don't know his culture, but I'm not going to say no....it's up to you. We just want you to be with someone who will make you happy and protect you." YEA! She actually said that! She told me this last week! Imagine my double shock. Not only can I now marry WHOEVER THE HELL I WANT but its MY decision. I attribute this whole change in their attitude to the fact that they are just happy if I marry ANYONE, at this age. Not that 26 is ancient but I'm sure my child-bearing years are ticking away.
Interesting, right? Moral of the story (tongue in cheek): Ladies, if you wait long enough, you can marry whoever you want, live wherever you want, and study whatever you want. Umm, I guess it helps if your parents are slightly more toward the liberal side. I guess I was luckier than most. BUT, at the same, you have to be able to put your foot down too. Maybe I'm also lucky that I'm here and not in India. I bet gals in India would have a harder time in establishing a choice.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Vicks
You know, I haven't always been addicted to fennel. At various points in my life I have been addicted to various things from gum to Bournvita. The weirdest addiction, though, has to be Vicks Vapor Rub. Back in Bangalore I was introduced to the stuff when I was suffering from a very bad cold. A.T, my best friend and roomate at the time, told me that I should put it on my forehead and nose to clear up the congestion. One girl, I don't remember at who at this point (Vicks kills brain cells!), told me that she sometimes puts it on her eyelids so that it will induce tears and basically force you to cry the cold out of your system. Hmm, so I was like, "That makes sense," being the health professions high school graduate that I was.
So I did the Vicks thing for about a week and the cold gradually disappeared. I suddenly realized that the Vicks-all-over-my-face was an unbelievable high. The tingling, the pain, the simultaneous sensations of heat and cold, and the eerie feeling that my brain was melting. Wow. That did it for me. Soon I couldn't go to sleep without it. I think more than a physical addiction, it was a psychological one. For a few minutes in the day, I could totally escape from my thoughts. My mind was focussed only on this Vicks-induced heightened sensory overload.
Since I no longer had a cold, I no longer really needed Vicks. I started sneaking out to the Sudhe Gunde marketplace in between classes to get the stuff. I started putting the stuff on only after B.A went to sleep, V.M went to the study room, and A.T went to take a shower. A couple of weeks later, I started going "to sleep" earlier and earlier. At one point, I went to my room directly after dinner. My roomates wondered what was wrong: thwarted love, some sort of illness, problems with school, etc. Of course, it was none of those things, though some people would argue that maybe it was a combination of all of those things. People thought I was weird but I didn't care: Vicksie, as I came to refer to my jar, became my best friend.
All was going well until the night I made a Vicks-muddled blunder. I had come home kind of late from college and missed dinner. So I went straight upstairs. When A.T. didn't hear from me she got worried and came upstairs to look for me. I must have been a sight. There was no light in the room save a lonely zero-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. I was crouched in my nightgown on my bed inside the mosquito net staring at the little jar of Vicks. I looked like a desi Gollum: "My preciooosssss."
Of course A.T. looked shocked and asked me what I was doing. "Nothing,"said I as I slowly put Vicksie behind me on the bed. "Ninde kayala enna?" "Umm, nothings in my hand." She walked closer, "Show me." I showed her my empty palm. She glared at me with such a look that I actually showed her Vicksie. "You are still using Vicks? Why?!?" I told her that I didn't know but that it made me feel good. She made me give her the jar and I was like, "Nooooooo! Wait! Maybe I'll just finish this jar and it won't be wasted." She ignored me, turned on her heel, said something to the affect of "Podee kazhathay" and walked out of the room.
Alas, I couldn't sleep that night. Later A.T and the others came and did a sort of Vicks intervention. They told me about another girl in the hostel who had been addicted to the Vicks Mentholated Cough Drops. They told me that there was something about Vicks that was not good. B.A. said, "We'd hate for you to have to return to America addicted to Vicks" I mean, seriously, all around me people were doing pot and other sort of bad-kid things and here, this ABCD, of all people, was addicted to Vicks, of all things. How utterly shameful.
I agreed with them that this would be too embarrassing a thing to be addicted to. No longer allowed to buy Vicks (A.T. wouldn't let me out of her sight when we went shopping), I gradually got over the withdrawal symptoms (sleeplessness, restlessness, being distracted) and became Vicksie-free! I, one of the fortunate few, had been saved.
Of course, I needed a new addiction at that point and good old Bournvita heeded my call. But that, my friends, is a whole 'nother entry.
So I did the Vicks thing for about a week and the cold gradually disappeared. I suddenly realized that the Vicks-all-over-my-face was an unbelievable high. The tingling, the pain, the simultaneous sensations of heat and cold, and the eerie feeling that my brain was melting. Wow. That did it for me. Soon I couldn't go to sleep without it. I think more than a physical addiction, it was a psychological one. For a few minutes in the day, I could totally escape from my thoughts. My mind was focussed only on this Vicks-induced heightened sensory overload.
Since I no longer had a cold, I no longer really needed Vicks. I started sneaking out to the Sudhe Gunde marketplace in between classes to get the stuff. I started putting the stuff on only after B.A went to sleep, V.M went to the study room, and A.T went to take a shower. A couple of weeks later, I started going "to sleep" earlier and earlier. At one point, I went to my room directly after dinner. My roomates wondered what was wrong: thwarted love, some sort of illness, problems with school, etc. Of course, it was none of those things, though some people would argue that maybe it was a combination of all of those things. People thought I was weird but I didn't care: Vicksie, as I came to refer to my jar, became my best friend.
All was going well until the night I made a Vicks-muddled blunder. I had come home kind of late from college and missed dinner. So I went straight upstairs. When A.T. didn't hear from me she got worried and came upstairs to look for me. I must have been a sight. There was no light in the room save a lonely zero-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. I was crouched in my nightgown on my bed inside the mosquito net staring at the little jar of Vicks. I looked like a desi Gollum: "My preciooosssss."
Of course A.T. looked shocked and asked me what I was doing. "Nothing,"said I as I slowly put Vicksie behind me on the bed. "Ninde kayala enna?" "Umm, nothings in my hand." She walked closer, "Show me." I showed her my empty palm. She glared at me with such a look that I actually showed her Vicksie. "You are still using Vicks? Why?!?" I told her that I didn't know but that it made me feel good. She made me give her the jar and I was like, "Nooooooo! Wait! Maybe I'll just finish this jar and it won't be wasted." She ignored me, turned on her heel, said something to the affect of "Podee kazhathay" and walked out of the room.
Alas, I couldn't sleep that night. Later A.T and the others came and did a sort of Vicks intervention. They told me about another girl in the hostel who had been addicted to the Vicks Mentholated Cough Drops. They told me that there was something about Vicks that was not good. B.A. said, "We'd hate for you to have to return to America addicted to Vicks" I mean, seriously, all around me people were doing pot and other sort of bad-kid things and here, this ABCD, of all people, was addicted to Vicks, of all things. How utterly shameful.
I agreed with them that this would be too embarrassing a thing to be addicted to. No longer allowed to buy Vicks (A.T. wouldn't let me out of her sight when we went shopping), I gradually got over the withdrawal symptoms (sleeplessness, restlessness, being distracted) and became Vicksie-free! I, one of the fortunate few, had been saved.
Of course, I needed a new addiction at that point and good old Bournvita heeded my call. But that, my friends, is a whole 'nother entry.
Wednesday, February 4, 2004
Wrist Bubble Part III
Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. That is what I have. Or so Dr. Dillard said. I could have told him that. Tell me something that I don't know, Dr. Doody-head! Hehe. Okay, you are right: why take out my anger on him? It ain't his fault that neither my keyboard nor my mouse is ergonomic. It's not his fault that I type superfluously on xanga or chat incessantly on msn messenger. Not his fault that I rest my wrist on the table out of habit. Alas, I've acquired the latest syndrome of the internet age.
I suppose I can deal with it. The day Dr. Doo--err, I mean, Dillard diagnosed me, I lost that wrist support brace thing that I got at Walmart. You know: that brace thingy I wore once in a while because my wrist tingled. It also doubled as a fashion statement not to mention as a cool prop with which I could perform my robot-hand act *L.J demonstrates by flexing her wrist back and forth, "jjjhrrrr.....jjjhrrr....jjjjhhrrr"* I wish the wrist support thingy had been black with a metallic sheen, kinda like the chrome-i-ness of that melty-metal guy from Terminator. How cool would that be? Unfortunately, it was skin-colored and looked exactly like what it was: a supportive brace for the masses of same-colored people afflicted with wrist problems.
Anyhoo, if I don't find it, I'll have to go buy a new one. Those things are expensive, you know. If I was an uncultured un-cool freak, I'd wrap some old rundown "bronze" pantyhose around my lame wrist and be done with it.
I suppose I can deal with it. The day Dr. Doo--err, I mean, Dillard diagnosed me, I lost that wrist support brace thing that I got at Walmart. You know: that brace thingy I wore once in a while because my wrist tingled. It also doubled as a fashion statement not to mention as a cool prop with which I could perform my robot-hand act *L.J demonstrates by flexing her wrist back and forth, "jjjhrrrr.....jjjhrrr....jjjjhhrrr"* I wish the wrist support thingy had been black with a metallic sheen, kinda like the chrome-i-ness of that melty-metal guy from Terminator. How cool would that be? Unfortunately, it was skin-colored and looked exactly like what it was: a supportive brace for the masses of same-colored people afflicted with wrist problems.
Anyhoo, if I don't find it, I'll have to go buy a new one. Those things are expensive, you know. If I was an uncultured un-cool freak, I'd wrap some old rundown "bronze" pantyhose around my lame wrist and be done with it.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Wrist Bubble Part II
Alas! 'Tis no jackhammer, nor knife, nor anything seemingly dangerous. It isn't some implant or an alien lying dormant ready to burst through. No, no, no....nothing nearly as exciting. A ganglion cyst. That's what is growing on my wrist. No one knows what causes it but some theories include trauma, over-stress, or rheumatoid arthritis.
P.C. told me that though it seems like a good idea, don't slam a book down on it. Some people said it will go away on it's own if I rest it. Some said I have to surgically remove it while others say I have to get it aspirated.
They even had a diagram and, needless to say, it looks very much like my hand and I was very disappointed that what was shown looked more like a tiny water balloon than anything seemingly interesting. Blah, boring....nothing like a cool "wristbone" but a rather lifeless "wristbubble". Wristbubble....that is no name for a superhero....doesn't even hint of coolness.
Here's the diagram of my ganglion cyst:
P.C. told me that though it seems like a good idea, don't slam a book down on it. Some people said it will go away on it's own if I rest it. Some said I have to surgically remove it while others say I have to get it aspirated.
They even had a diagram and, needless to say, it looks very much like my hand and I was very disappointed that what was shown looked more like a tiny water balloon than anything seemingly interesting. Blah, boring....nothing like a cool "wristbone" but a rather lifeless "wristbubble". Wristbubble....that is no name for a superhero....doesn't even hint of coolness.
Here's the diagram of my ganglion cyst:
It's on the same hand too. It looks retarded, right? Blah. There goes my one chance at being a mutant superhero.
"Look at what's happened to me,I can't believe it myself.Suddenly I'm up on top of the world,should have been somebody else.Believe it or not, I'm walking on air.I never thought I could feel so free.Flying away on a wing and a prayer,Who could it be?Believe it or not, it's just me."
--theme song from "Greatest American Hero"Sigh....that shall never be MY theme song (L.J bitterly shakes a fist at the sky and then suddenly withdraws it in pain....."Owww! Damn wristbubble.")
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Wrist Bubble Part I
Okay, two days ago I realized that my right wrist is different. "Different how?", you may ask. Well, on the surface it seems just as normal as my left wrist. But when I bend it down, a mysterious lump of bone magically appears. Now, I don't know if this lump had always been there, latent and waiting, OR if it is the result of some sort of accident that I had zoned out during. However, I don't remember anything that traumatic. Anyway, so for the past two days, I have been preoccupied with my wrist, staring at it while I type (like I'm doing now), comparing my left wrist with my right, comparing my wrist to other people's, and occasionally lamenting the fact that I'm somehow deformed. A.F., of course, takes that opportunity to agree vehemently and call me a mutant.Hmm, a mutant, eh? Like X-men or something! Wow, awesome! I can join the ranks of Wolverine, Cyclops and Storm. Maybe this wrist thing is just the beginning of some growth that will actually become a knife or a jackhammer or maybe one of those radar detector thingys! Wow, and for the meantime, until I fully evolve, I shall be called "Wrist". "Yes, now introducing Wrist, we don't know what she does with it but we're sure it's going to be mutant-worthy." Maybe my wrist can be used as a distraction. Bad guys will come to attack me and I'll be like, "Wait! Beware the Wrist," and then I shall suddenly bend my wrist and the bad guys will be mesmerised by something even they can't explain. "A girl with a protruding wrist bone," they shall say, " how utterly peculiar." And then, while enamored by my deformity, the bad guys will have their asses surprise-kicked by Wolverine or Storm! Mwaahahaha, how clever.Well, the whole mutated-super-hero thing might not be for me or, maybe after a while, mom and dad might be worried that Wrist has been single for way too long. In order to marry off their mutated daughter they may invite prospective suitors to the house. Of course, I shall have the last say. If the guy is cute or extremely engaging, a tray of chai shall be brought out with a smile. If he is not all that great, or acts like an ass, a flip of my wrist will not only drop the hot chai on his lap but shall reveal my latent wrist-secret. He shall scream with double-shock as hot chai burns through his clothing and he sets his eyes upon by the horror of the wrist! "Noooooo!", he'll cry as he tries to cover his eyes and his chai-stained crotch at the same time. He'll run straight out the door bellowing in fear, as well as a strange sense of awe. I shall smirk to myself while mom would berate me for doing it yet again. "Ayooo, at this rate, you shall never get married!!" "Hehe, I shall do it my way, mom," I would say as I pull up my velveteen glove to protect my secret weapon. "You cross me and you shall get The Wrist!"Wow! Think of all the uses of this new-found malformation! Sure, some are not necessarily good but it does make me special. Like I was telling A.A the other day. It's like I'm a unicorn but my singular horn is on my wrist. I'm a human uniwristbone! Wow, how much more special can you get when you have to name a catergory for yourself because you are just so rare? I wonder if there are others like me out there?Well, in all practicality, I better get this thing checked out. For all I know I could be dying from....I don't know....Wristboneatia? Who would have thought that this would be the way that I'd go? "Here lies our dear, L.J ,killed by her own wrist bone." How morbid! I'm going to donate my wrist to science, of course, so they will some day be able to save others like me and my wrist shall be on display for all the world to see. My wrist bone shall be more famous than I and shall live forever in the hearts and minds of generations to come.
Ode to my Wristbone
So suddenly you appeared
When I least expected you
You might be innocuous
but you might kill me too
Yet, you are very quiet
and do not reveal much
Surely you have more powers
like other mutants and such
Power to maim and
power to shock
power to distract
and power to block
You've made me special
for I am suddenly unique
A protrusion such as yourself
can only add to a physique
I love you, my wrist,for you are a part of me
why you are now here only time will help me see.
Until then, conjoined at the wrist we shall be
Forever and always,my wristbone and me.
Ode to my Wristbone
So suddenly you appeared
When I least expected you
You might be innocuous
but you might kill me too
Yet, you are very quiet
and do not reveal much
Surely you have more powers
like other mutants and such
Power to maim and
power to shock
power to distract
and power to block
You've made me special
for I am suddenly unique
A protrusion such as yourself
can only add to a physique
I love you, my wrist,for you are a part of me
why you are now here only time will help me see.
Until then, conjoined at the wrist we shall be
Forever and always,my wristbone and me.
Saturday, December 27, 2003
Matrimonials
Damn those matrimonial ads! " God-fearing, ancient RC malayalee family hailing from central Travancore invites proposals from professional green-card or citizen men -doctors-engineers-computer-related anyone from RC families in the US, for their Fair & Lovely, US Educated, humble, independent (yet God and husband-fearing) smart, cooking skilled ("she slices, she dices"), old-fashioned (yet tech savvy), career-minded daughter (albeit FREAK of a daughter who gets drunk every chance she gets and parties til 5 in the morning). Sure, what more could you want.
Why do all matrimonials sound the same? Why can't they be truthful instead a jumble of cliches gleaned off of other ads. Why don't they just say, "As in the traditional manner of establishing marriage as the goal of human existence, I've got a daughter/son who is of marriagable age as society has deemed it. If you have one too, fabulous! I'm sure yours is wheat-complected and God-fearing too. How about you send me a picture. If your son/daughter is ugly or if our family-friends relate seeing him/her make out with some non-Desi, we shall politely refuse by saying he/she is too tall/short. It's the only decent way."
The sad thing is, if you are truthful in a matrimonial ad, it is so obvious that you must have written it yourself and not your parents. Parents include such attractive zingers such as "homely" to mean traditional and "God-fearing" to mean religious. These are catch-phrases that have proven their worth again and again. How can you beat that? You write something akin to "traditional and religious" and parents who read the ads will know something is up: "Ayyo, she is not God-fearing......her parents didn't write this ad! Oh goodness gracious, perhaps she is orphaned or perhaps she is a disappointment to her parents that she has to write her own ad. Ende devamay!!"
Another thing is that only parents read matrimonial ads and since they can tell which ones were written by their parental peers, they will point out the other ones as some sort of inticement. "See, this boy wrote himself. That means he is not being forced." Yeaaa right, like I'm not being forced when I'm given an ultimatum in the middle of a heated argument: "You write one or vee vill write for you!!" Yea, mom and dad, I have a lot of choice here, don't I?
I feel sorry most for those kids in my position who have to write an ad as their parents dictate it to them because supposedly the parents "don't speak English good, monay." And those poor unfortunates have to cringe as mom and dad analyze the range between "fair" and "wheat-complected," the validity of skin color as a religious and cultural indicator, and the modicum of difference between skin shades. Matrimonial ads are inherently racist, says I, especially when skin color is the basis of selection! Of course, people would be shocked to be accused of racism but in the same instant argue that somehow being "fair" makes for a "better" alliance. Yea, buddy, that makes a lot of sense: "I'm not racist but being white is prettier." What a load of crap.
Blah, so what's the point to my complaining? I'm still unhitched and not necessarily enjoying it. However, it's the principle of the matter, I say! My individuality has been distilled down to a description my parents pay per word to have some fish-wrap of a newspaper advertise me amongst a myriad of others. I don't stand out here. I sound just like the other ads around me, the others who have gone before, and the others who are yet to come.
How can you weed out a soulmate in all this verbose garbage? I advocate the use of a code word that only your soulmate would know. I think my code word would be synchronicity. Yea, so you have the typical matrimonial bs: "RC parents seek alliances....blah blah blah," and then all of a sudden the word "SYNCHRONICITY" would appear in all caps, for no rhyme or reason, right in the middle of the ad. Most people would be ignore it and silently blame the editor for being a lazy bum who can't even do his job. But, my soulmate, the bright, fantastic person that he is, would be, like, "hmmm" and would try to figure out this oddly positioned word and what it was doing there. And VOILA, we would meet, affirm that yes, it was indeed synchronicity, we would get married, live happily ever after, etc, etc, the end. La dee da.
Damn you. *L.J scowls and shakes an angry fist at the Malayalam newspaper sitting on the table* Where's my fennel? Ah, glorious fennel-induced sleep. Good night people!
Why do all matrimonials sound the same? Why can't they be truthful instead a jumble of cliches gleaned off of other ads. Why don't they just say, "As in the traditional manner of establishing marriage as the goal of human existence, I've got a daughter/son who is of marriagable age as society has deemed it. If you have one too, fabulous! I'm sure yours is wheat-complected and God-fearing too. How about you send me a picture. If your son/daughter is ugly or if our family-friends relate seeing him/her make out with some non-Desi, we shall politely refuse by saying he/she is too tall/short. It's the only decent way."
The sad thing is, if you are truthful in a matrimonial ad, it is so obvious that you must have written it yourself and not your parents. Parents include such attractive zingers such as "homely" to mean traditional and "God-fearing" to mean religious. These are catch-phrases that have proven their worth again and again. How can you beat that? You write something akin to "traditional and religious" and parents who read the ads will know something is up: "Ayyo, she is not God-fearing......her parents didn't write this ad! Oh goodness gracious, perhaps she is orphaned or perhaps she is a disappointment to her parents that she has to write her own ad. Ende devamay!!"
Another thing is that only parents read matrimonial ads and since they can tell which ones were written by their parental peers, they will point out the other ones as some sort of inticement. "See, this boy wrote himself. That means he is not being forced." Yeaaa right, like I'm not being forced when I'm given an ultimatum in the middle of a heated argument: "You write one or vee vill write for you!!" Yea, mom and dad, I have a lot of choice here, don't I?
I feel sorry most for those kids in my position who have to write an ad as their parents dictate it to them because supposedly the parents "don't speak English good, monay." And those poor unfortunates have to cringe as mom and dad analyze the range between "fair" and "wheat-complected," the validity of skin color as a religious and cultural indicator, and the modicum of difference between skin shades. Matrimonial ads are inherently racist, says I, especially when skin color is the basis of selection! Of course, people would be shocked to be accused of racism but in the same instant argue that somehow being "fair" makes for a "better" alliance. Yea, buddy, that makes a lot of sense: "I'm not racist but being white is prettier." What a load of crap.
Blah, so what's the point to my complaining? I'm still unhitched and not necessarily enjoying it. However, it's the principle of the matter, I say! My individuality has been distilled down to a description my parents pay per word to have some fish-wrap of a newspaper advertise me amongst a myriad of others. I don't stand out here. I sound just like the other ads around me, the others who have gone before, and the others who are yet to come.
How can you weed out a soulmate in all this verbose garbage? I advocate the use of a code word that only your soulmate would know. I think my code word would be synchronicity. Yea, so you have the typical matrimonial bs: "RC parents seek alliances....blah blah blah," and then all of a sudden the word "SYNCHRONICITY" would appear in all caps, for no rhyme or reason, right in the middle of the ad. Most people would be ignore it and silently blame the editor for being a lazy bum who can't even do his job. But, my soulmate, the bright, fantastic person that he is, would be, like, "hmmm" and would try to figure out this oddly positioned word and what it was doing there. And VOILA, we would meet, affirm that yes, it was indeed synchronicity, we would get married, live happily ever after, etc, etc, the end. La dee da.
Damn you. *L.J scowls and shakes an angry fist at the Malayalam newspaper sitting on the table* Where's my fennel? Ah, glorious fennel-induced sleep. Good night people!
Thursday, December 4, 2003
Supari Fiend
My supari ingestions had reached crisis levels, supposedly. Dude, it's not even real supari....just that crap they hand out at desi restaurants as a "mouth refresher/digestive aid" when you leave. Anyway, so we all call it "supari" since it resembles the actual stuff and it's easier than saying the-crap-they-hand-out-at-desi-restaurants.
Anyway, two nights ago, as I was working on my various papers and unconciously hand-to-mouthing my 6/8th bottle of "supari" that was left, A.A. and A.F came by to "see how I was doing". Yea, right. So I hid the "supari" bottle because I know they were going to check the level of "supari" depletion. Well, unluckily, they found it. Try as I might, I couldn't get the bottle back. They had to literally wrestle the bottle from me.
Man, it was like the whole Bournvita bottle episode back in Bangalore when Bobby and Anu took and hid my bottle of Bournvita....My bottle of Bournvita from which I religiously ate a spoonful of the malt chocolate (embued with vitamins and minerals) as soon as I came back from college. It was Bournvita, for gosh sakes! It was, like, my only source of calcium. Besides, it tasted really good. Just like "supari". And "supari" can be good for you. Fennel, which is a main component of "supari", is good for you. Fennel is a digestive aid and liver tonic. Seeeeee???
Anyway, so lacking my supari to keep me awake with my papers, I went to sleep, the withdrawal symptoms of extreme lethargy already taking over.
The next day, however, I did get my presentation done. Ironically, our last class was to be held at a desi restaurant nearby. I suppose I knew I would be in the presence of "supari" but I was too worried about my paper to care. At the end of the class time, our professor decided to give us a "treat": PAAN. That's right; the actual addictive betel-leaf-surrounding-actual-betel-nut-supari treat. My professor said in India you put the whole leaf-wrapped concoction in your mouth. "Aaaah refreshing", she said. Me and this other girl were the only desi-familiar people in class and suddenly my desiness seemed to be called into question if I did not put the whole damn thing in my mouth at once. So I did. Remind me never to put the whole of ANYTHING in my mouth if I don't know what it tastes like to begin with. It was horrible. Every bite sent another shock of painful sensations through my mouth. I was at a point where I couldn't spit it out or swallow it. I was doomed to chew and chew the abhorrant substance as it ate away at the inside of my mouth. My professor saw the grimace on my face..."Is it strong?" She asks. Good lord, woman!! If it had been any stronger my mouth would have been shooting fireworks up the wazoo. I could feel the insides of my mouth being worn away. I'm sure it was bleeding. Painfully, I finally ate the damn thing. My professor took a nibble--yes, JUST a nibble!--and stated rather nonchalantly, "yes, it is slightly stronger than stuff I've had before." I swallowed water in hopes of flushing it out but the water just reminded me of how much of my mouth had been made raw! I swore I would never eat paan or frickin "supari" or anything of the sort again. I tried to eat the "supari" at the door as we left, thinking it wouldn't be as bad. Bad idea. The fennel stabbed the raw surfaces along the inside of my cheeks and gums. I ran outside and spit the crap out. I'm sure people must have thought I was some uncouth FOB spitting the red crap all over the pavement.
Talk about being taught a lesson. Down with supari! (Fennel is still good for you though.)
It didn't help when A.A. and A.F. made me go through the ordeal of gargling salt water in order to heal the inside of my mouth. I guess they were right. I saw a website today about how they add mouth-tingling addictive substances to "supari" made in Pakistan and India. My "supari" habit must have made my mouth super-sensitive. Geeez, talk about rubbing salt in your wounds.
Anyway, two nights ago, as I was working on my various papers and unconciously hand-to-mouthing my 6/8th bottle of "supari" that was left, A.A. and A.F came by to "see how I was doing". Yea, right. So I hid the "supari" bottle because I know they were going to check the level of "supari" depletion. Well, unluckily, they found it. Try as I might, I couldn't get the bottle back. They had to literally wrestle the bottle from me.
Man, it was like the whole Bournvita bottle episode back in Bangalore when Bobby and Anu took and hid my bottle of Bournvita....My bottle of Bournvita from which I religiously ate a spoonful of the malt chocolate (embued with vitamins and minerals) as soon as I came back from college. It was Bournvita, for gosh sakes! It was, like, my only source of calcium. Besides, it tasted really good. Just like "supari". And "supari" can be good for you. Fennel, which is a main component of "supari", is good for you. Fennel is a digestive aid and liver tonic. Seeeeee???
Anyway, so lacking my supari to keep me awake with my papers, I went to sleep, the withdrawal symptoms of extreme lethargy already taking over.
The next day, however, I did get my presentation done. Ironically, our last class was to be held at a desi restaurant nearby. I suppose I knew I would be in the presence of "supari" but I was too worried about my paper to care. At the end of the class time, our professor decided to give us a "treat": PAAN. That's right; the actual addictive betel-leaf-surrounding-actual-betel-nut-supari treat. My professor said in India you put the whole leaf-wrapped concoction in your mouth. "Aaaah refreshing", she said. Me and this other girl were the only desi-familiar people in class and suddenly my desiness seemed to be called into question if I did not put the whole damn thing in my mouth at once. So I did. Remind me never to put the whole of ANYTHING in my mouth if I don't know what it tastes like to begin with. It was horrible. Every bite sent another shock of painful sensations through my mouth. I was at a point where I couldn't spit it out or swallow it. I was doomed to chew and chew the abhorrant substance as it ate away at the inside of my mouth. My professor saw the grimace on my face..."Is it strong?" She asks. Good lord, woman!! If it had been any stronger my mouth would have been shooting fireworks up the wazoo. I could feel the insides of my mouth being worn away. I'm sure it was bleeding. Painfully, I finally ate the damn thing. My professor took a nibble--yes, JUST a nibble!--and stated rather nonchalantly, "yes, it is slightly stronger than stuff I've had before." I swallowed water in hopes of flushing it out but the water just reminded me of how much of my mouth had been made raw! I swore I would never eat paan or frickin "supari" or anything of the sort again. I tried to eat the "supari" at the door as we left, thinking it wouldn't be as bad. Bad idea. The fennel stabbed the raw surfaces along the inside of my cheeks and gums. I ran outside and spit the crap out. I'm sure people must have thought I was some uncouth FOB spitting the red crap all over the pavement.
Talk about being taught a lesson. Down with supari! (Fennel is still good for you though.)
It didn't help when A.A. and A.F. made me go through the ordeal of gargling salt water in order to heal the inside of my mouth. I guess they were right. I saw a website today about how they add mouth-tingling addictive substances to "supari" made in Pakistan and India. My "supari" habit must have made my mouth super-sensitive. Geeez, talk about rubbing salt in your wounds.
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