Understanding Brown Girls

You can’t start a post about brown girls without referencing this Youtube video, right? iisuperwomanii‘s guide to brown girls is something I watched and laughed over when it came out 2 years ago – January 2011 – but recently revisited on a youtube binge that involved watching every single video released in the last year, and then some, by JusReign, Akamazing, and obviously, iisuperwomanii (These are my 3 favorite desi Youtube celebs…do you know others?).

The first thing she talks about in this Youtube response to JusReign’s Rant on Annoying Brown Girls is how us brown girls want lots of attention.


We’re a little bit needy/clingy/attention-starved. Just a little. I love her references to the whole boy/girl inequality thing (WHICH IS SO TRUE, BY THE WAY. NOT JUST A STEREOTYPING ERROR) but I don’t agree with her logic that this inequality is the reason behind the neediness.

Inequality can lead to self-esteem issues when you’re a girl second-guessing everything you’re doing. Nothing seems to be good enough for the parents, so yeah, you start to wonder sometimes just how good you are. So when you’ve got a guy telling you that you’re beautiful and amazing and he loves spending time with you, you feel like FINALLY, you’re doing something right. And that’s a good feeling. I like that feeling 🙂

Plus, I don’t think that craving attention is necessarily a ‘brown girl’ thing. All girls want attention.

Okay fine. I do like the video (and admiring her hair in the video), but honestly…everything else she says can just apply to all girls. So we’re not going to talk about it anymore, but it was a good intro and it’s still a funny video! I love the way she delivers everything 🙂


Prysmatique dishing the dirt on what she thinks about brown girls…and about being one –

OKAY so maybe I should talk about myself for a change. I haven’t done that in a while on this blog. Just have a public heart-to-heart-type-post.


Brown girls start drama too easily. All my life (post-7th grade life), I have tried to avoid hordes of brown girls. If you really put more than 2 or 3 of us in a group, it’s only a matter of time before shit goes down. I witnessed that firsthand and maybe I’m not letting go of the past, but that feeling of backtalking traitorous “best friends” is not something I want to relive again. So I’ll abide by my decision, thank you very much.

I’ve learned to avoid the packs of brown people. At NYU, they actually banded together and called themselves BROWNTOWN. They had a NAME. I don’t even know what to say about that…every time I try, I just cough and sputter in disbelief.


My parents need to stop talking about my marriage. I’m not getting married yet. I’m not planning on seeing anybody for anything THAT long-term. I’ve barely even had a boyfriend, barely explored my sexuality (That is to say…I am straight, but haven’t done much, sexually), and barely thought about my future in such a concrete way.

My parents, though, have done all of the thinking for me. As one of the (few remaining) unmarried/single girls in my generation, EVERY SINGLE MEMBER OF MY FAMILY IS AFTER ME. My gosh it’s so bad that I once had a ring on the middle finger of my right hand and my aunt came up to me and gave me a knowing smile before asking, “So you’re practicing already, huh?”

FRUSTRATION. The ring just matched my outfit you silly fools. Just because I am now 21 (Going to be 22 in July zomg), everybody loves nudging, poking, and hinting at marriage when they talk to me. My own mom incessantly elbows me and asks “Oh, do you have a boy in mind?”

My god. They are so clueless, so old-fashioned, and so IRRITATING. Keep in mind that because I’m Brown, I’m not actually allowed to date. But somehow, still, I am supposed to have a boy in mind?



If I don’t cook and clean, I am a failure and a disappointment. No mother will want her son to marry me…Oh how I laugh. Fine, it’s still a valid point that I should be clean and organized for the sake of having a good-looking house/room, but the fact that I am messier than my OCD mom is somehow cause enough for her to moan in despair about how my future mother-in-law will kick me outta the house if I don’t clean up my act. (Pun intended, and you see, even when she’s lecturing me about being clean, she brings marriage into the mix) And of course, an Indian wife who doesn’t cook and clean and coddle her husband is a useless wife, and I will be useless if I don’t start cooking some nice rajma and daal and chole and gobi aloo soon. [Those were the names of some Indian dishes, if you didn’t gather from context]



I just wanted to write about how it feels like to be a Brown girl sometimes. It’s frustrating, especially when you’ve got parents that are far too stuck in older times for your own comfort.

Being Brown is difficult. Coming from parents clinging tightly to their roots and the way things were done when they were brought up in India is tough when you are born and raised here.

I would not call myself whitewashed, but I definitely have a different opinion on the strict ideology my parents have about marriage, the ideal husband or wife, and   duties assigned by gender.

I want my boy to help me out with the cooking once in a while. I want him to make ME coffee in the morning once in a while. I refuse to be like my mother, who caters to my father’s every need not because she loves him and wants to (Although there is definitely some of that), but because she believes that this attention and coddling is what is expected and becoming of a wife.

That’s what sickens me. That it’s an obligation. That it’s somehow shameful or disgraceful when your husband gets up off the couch to get himself a glass of water when you are sitting next to him. That you feel GUILTY that you didn’t offer water to him earlier or get up to get it for him. And that if you wanted water, you would again feel GUILTY if he got it for you and you could have gotten it for yourself.

I think that’s pretty messed up, and that’s their upbringing, not mine. Why are you guilty? He’s a grown ass adult. If he wants water, he can get it. If you want water, you can get it. If you want to get each other water, do it out of courtesy or love, not duty or obligation.

So yeah…if you managed to read this far into the post, I hope you understand me (and my opinion on being raised as an Indian-American) a little bit better 🙂


Relationship Preferences

Freshman year, I was convinced that I had a very limited range of age requirements for the kind of boys I would let myself like/date. I was absolutely CERTAIN that he couldn’t be younger than me, and I wanted him to be studying at NYU with me too. I couldn’t even fathom dating somebody I couldn’t see all the time especially since my first relationship was long-distance, we never met, and we broke up because it felt like it was a pointless and fruitless quest for romance if we could never meet in person.

Then in Sophomore year, when I met my first “real” boyfriend (As in, one that I could touch and hug and kiss as much as I wanted to), it wasn’t all that I expected. He was my age and went to my school. We even lived in the same dorm building and that definitely made it easy to hang out with him. BUT he was Vietnamese. That definitely wasn’t in my “plan” and well…three months later, THAT relationship fell apart because we both realized that we couldn’t really let our feelings deepen if I couldn’t envision any possible future with him.

Junior year I was in the slumps and just sort of partied around and hooked up a little bit. One night stands? Yay. Every time I got close to a guy, I ran away. None were Indian.

Until early this year. Technically still a Junior, I was a Senior by credit this spring semester. And that’s when I met a guy who was much older than me. (Okay fine, 5 years older) and Indian. He’s like the first Indian I’ve ever been that powerfully attracted to too, so I was eager to see where this would lead. I even dressed to impress LOL. But I don’t really see that one going anywhere though we still talk now and then.

But as a Senior, I feel now that I am much more attracted to older guys. Guys that have got at least 3+ years on me. I think that they’re a lot more mature and are looking for more serious relationships rather than one night stands, which seems to be the norm for NYU. What’s also scary is that I am trying once more to restrict myself to only seeing Indian guys because I don’t want to enter another relationship that will fail because the guy will realize that I can never show him to my parents or let them find out we are dating. It’s just so much easier if the guy is Indian. I’m sort of tired of sneaking around all the time. Also, I’m commuting.

Just found it interesting how my relationship preferences have sort of changed and grown and maybe even matured over the years. Also, let’s not kid ourselves…I am totally procrastinating working on my novel.

Le sigh, I will miss blogging in my own voice. Clearly, it is a bajillion times easier haha.



I have found that there aren’t many easy ways to explain arranged marriage to my friends. When I first mentioned it, they looked at me sympathetically and told me things like “Oh, but you always have a choice” or “But you’re only 23” as if these thoughts hadn’t gone through my head already. Then, they gave me sympathetic looks and told me “We’re always here for you if you need to talk” and “I can’t believe you’re going through with this” as the date of my wedding to Jay got closer and closer.

I’m not alone, and my story is not too unique. Instead of being told who to marry, now our parents tell us who to meet. They tell us who to go out to dinner with, and who to talk to. They tell us who is eligible and around our age. They nudge us into similar social situations and hope that something will click. They call relatives in India and ask if they know of any nice, eligible boys for their daughter in hushed voices so they won’t be overheard. And while they are doing all of that, they tell us in simpering sweet tones that they are just doing what is best for us and would we please stop teaching them how to be parents.
July 23, 2011 –

“Hey, it’s nice to meet you.” I said to the guy as he sat across from me at the café.

“I’m Jay.”

“Yeah. Hi. What’s up?”

“Trust me, this is weird for me too.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s nice to meet you anyways. So how do our parents know each other?”

“High School. I think. Doesn’t really matter I guess. What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll take an iced coffee. Love the smell, can’t stand the taste. Of hot coffee, I mean.”

“I’m basically addicted to coffee so as long as you don’t mind the smell, we’re cool.”

I smiled a little and felt some tension leaving my body. He didn’t have an Indian accent! But he was going to have to be pretty amazing to cheer me up, because my argument with Dan earlier today had been devastating. I had nothing to say to him when he ended our relationship because he was tired of waiting. I would have been tired of waiting too, if I had been in his place and had to keep everything a secret for so long. We couldn’t have a “proper” romance, he couldn’t meet my parents and promise my dad he wouldn’t bring me home too late. There were just too many pieces missing in our puzzle, and I understood that, but when we hung up the phone, I was crying anyway.

“I’m sorry, this is really weird for me,” Jay said.

“You said that already,” I said, and snapped out of my thoughts – they were leading me to unhappy places.

“Right,” he said.

The waiter came to our table and he ordered two coffees, one iced with milk and sugar. He looked over quickly at me while placing the order, but before he could affirm, I nodded and said, “Yeah, milk and sugar please.”

This wasn’t a date, because Indians don’t date. At least, the good ones don’t. There is no word for “boyfriend” in Hindi. I told my mother that Jay and I were going to talk to each other and get coffee, and she agreed enthusiastically. Probably because the plan to meet over coffee had been the combined idea of our mothers anyway. As I had been getting dressed, my mother had said, “Have a nice time with him. Try to get to know him. He’s a really nice boy, beta.” She only used terms of endearment when she knew I was going to hate what came after, and this was one thing that I was really and truly dreading.

They still never called it a date. It wasn’t a date. We were just getting to “understand” each other, as my dad told me before handing me the car keys.

The coffees came, and his mug of coffee had one of those pretty leafy designs swirled into the froth on top. Maybe it was a latte?

I spent the next hour getting to know him as I had been instructed. It was even more weird than all of the mandatory icebreaker games I had played at club meetings in the beginning of my Fall semesters at college.

August 12, 2011 –

“FINE Ma, I’ll do it”

And just like that, I sealed my fate. To Jay Chopra. There was silence around the table because my parents knew better than to act excited. Maybe they were relieved, and they were probably at least a little bit guilty. What could they possibly say to their daughter after she’s agreed to an arranged marriage? My mother got up to call his parents and invite them over for dinner. She had the decency to do that in the other room.

If Dan had been Indian, I think I could have loved him. I could have pretended to meet him for the first time and gone for coffee. I could have invited his family over to my house and cooked an amazing Indian dinner to impress them.

As it is, I cooked for Jay, his parents, his older sister and her husband tonight. My mother oversaw the whole affair and I kept my tears to myself the entire night. If Jay could tell I was upset, he kept it to himself and the two of us played at acting like we were happy.

Our tikka (tick-a) ceremony was completed that night. My mom procured gifts for the family out of thin air and just like that, I was off the market. I felt pathetic – I had only lasted three weeks.

August 20, 2011

The reality was sinking in, and the nights were getting chilly. Jay and I met each other for the first time exactly one month ago. I wasn’t happy, but my upbringing was forcing me to think optimistically. The rationalizations were killing me but they were better than the burning frustration the rebellious thoughts came with.

They wanted what was best for me. He was good. He grew up here, didn’t have an accent. We had both fucked somebody else already.

The mental list in my head was trying its best to expand. Reasons why Jay and I getting married might not be so bad.

I laughed as I thought about how it took me only 21 days to meet and agree to marry Jay. Just three weeks. My laughter was hollow as I contemplated just how defeated and desperate I must have felt to say yes to arranged marriage and give up a chance at love. “You’ll grow to love him. It’s better that way,” my mom told me, but growing up in America, I simply couldn’t believe that. There was just no way.

My parents’ marriage was arranged. All of their siblings entered arranged marriages too. Stepping down to my own generation, many of my older cousins had married the people they met through family. I had grown up thinking I would break that expectation, smash the tradition and meet the man of my dreams. He would sweep me away and family be damned, I’d marry somebody I loved with all of my heart.

But then, my parents asked me if I would marry Jay and I thought about life without any of my family. That’s why I said yes. It wasn’t because I thought we would make a good couple, but I knew that marrying Jay would mean that I would get to keep the rest of my family, and I loved them more than I loved my own heart’s desires.

Their timing was impeccable. I was vulnerable, bitter, and jaded. I felt like I could blame my parents if our marriage failed. It added a layer of defense, and I ensconced myself in thoughts like these and tried to tell myself that everything would be their fault.

September 3, 2011

Today was supposed to be a really exciting day – it was our engagement. Our mangni (mung-knee). I was dolled up in a new outfit, one of the twenty new ones we had picked out and had custom-tailored for my wedding. This one – a lengha – was an elaborate affair of teals and purples, my two favorite colors combined. There was gold needlework all along the blouse and the long, flowing skirt had splashes of gold-rimmed mirrors sewn onto an elaborate arrangement of flowing layers of teal and purple material.

The excitement of the wedding was getting to me – I had grown up enjoying so many of them, although this one was dampened by my perspective of being on the other side. I couldn’t help but think back to the engagements of my past, where I had dressed up, whirled around the dance floor all night, and enjoyed the buffet and Indian music. They really were joyous occasions, and as engagements go, this was supposed to be the ultimate one. It was my own engagement and I was surrounded by happy friends and overjoyed family and the pure joy on their faces overruled my heart’s doubts for tonight. I was glowing like a bride-to-be and swept away along with their visions of my perfect wedding.
I was starting to warm up to the idea and Jay and I were making the most of it. Having spent practically every single day since we met with him somehow, we were really getting to “understand” each other. We got along, and he helped me plan out all of the little details of our rushed wedding, which is more than I can say for some star-crossed lovers. We had a mutual understanding developing – I can see why my parents had phrased it that way now. He tolerated my friends, and I tolerated his, though the two circles hadn’t really meshed together yet. No matter, after our mangni, we had many more weeks of festivities before our wedding.

I hadn’t touched alcohol since we were promised to one another, because Jay didn’t like it. I also didn’t want to risk the entire house falling apart if he mentioned it to my parents or it came up in an argument. There are some things a lady must never tell, and there was no point stopping the inevitable now. We were getting married. And marriage was compromise.

If you had asked me when my next free weekend was, I would have had to ask you to come back to me next year.

December 17, 2011

Dance. Fireworks. Joy?

It was our shaadi! Jay and I sat next to each other in the wedding altar. I shifted uncomfortably and tried to stop my legs from falling asleep and he poked me playfully. Behind the sehra hiding his face from me, I could see him raise an eyebrow, a gesture I now knew meant he was asking me if I was alright while simultaneously implying that he found my discomfort amusing. I was surprised we knew each other so well already. It hadn’t even been six months but I could see us together.

I mean, I couldn’t see myself with anybody else. And that was a huge improvement in my condition when I first found out that I was going to be told who to marry. Briefly, my attention wandered as I thought about whether my parents had found out about Dan and I. Maybe that had fueled them into finding me an appropriate groom?
I was snapped out of my reverie with another poke on the side. Now he looked a little bit mad, but honestly, this part of the wedding is boring. I’d been sitting here for three hours now listening to the priest drone on and on, explaining my marital duties as a wife and as a woman. I couldn’t help but feel sleepy, and the thirty pounds of lengha, jewelry, and accessories I was bedazzled in weren’t helping my frame any.

These were the ugly realities that I had been oblivious to when I attended weddings growing up. I never really thought about being in the bride’s shoes. They were uncomfortable, and I caught myself before I sighed out loud and annoyed Jay even more. The mutual suffering was sure to create some memories we could bond over later. Most of my guests were wining, dining, and dancing. The only people who sat around the altar for this part were the immediate family; everybody else was happily eating and talking quietly amongst themselves. The older aunties were eying my friends, and I could see them mentally sizing everybody up and making more matches in their heads. Thinking things like “Oh she’s the perfect height for him” and “Look at her manners, bringing her parents food before getting any for herself.”

As much as I was enjoying the decor, the dress, and the food, the fact remains that I was about to marry a man who I barely knew. Of course, the past six months had helped and we were certain we wouldn’t kill each other, I didn’t know whether he snored at night, or if he was better at waking up in the morning than I was. The things that mattered were still a mystery, and although the little girl in me found a sadistic appeal in the uncertainty, the mature romantic in me was still trembling with trepidation. I was fighting my natural impulses with my inbred ones, and trying to sort out the inner turmoil.

The priest was still droning on, though it seemed as though he might be approaching the end of his speech – he was now gesturing at us with wild hand motions, and I looked sheepishly at Jay, afraid I had been caught again. He was still staring devoutly at the priest, but before I could poke him, his sister reached over for my hand and placed my left hand over his right. This would probably be the most prolonged physical contact we had ever had.

I tried better to pay attention to what was going on and I felt Jay swirling his thumb around my knuckles. I wasn’t sure if the gesture was absentminded, but I liked it.

February 14, 2012

“Jay, really? Pick up the damn dishes for once in your life,” I yelled.

“Sorry babe. I’ll get them, just leave em there,” he said.


I turned away from the dining table toward the dishes in the kitchen and walked right into him. I stepped back and glared at him, mad that our first Valentine’s Day together as a couple was complete shit compared to the ones I had fantasized about. No breakfast in bed, no romantic movie, and no kisses. He was a complete bore. I guess that’s what growing up in business did to him.

“Well, it’s Valentine’s Day. So…so happy valentine’s day?” he said.

“Why do you say it like it’s a question?”

“It is though isn’t it? Are you happy? Are we?”

“I see a pile of dishes in the sink, I haven’t properly cleaned the house in a week, and there were no chocolates on my bed this morning. So yeah, I’m pretty unhappy.”

“Here, let’s stop arguing. Happy Valentine’s Day. I’ll do the dishes and make tea, you go sit on the couch and find a movie to watch or something”

“Kay, bring popcorn”

It was a different kind of Valentine’s day, but like two roommates faced with the knowledge that they couldn’t live apart, we really were trying to make the most of it. It wasn’t love, and I was still torn up about it, but he was beginning to be comfortable and dependent, which is what my parents might have wanted for me after all.

The mysteries were beginning to unravel at last. He only snored at night if he ate something right before bed, and I snored when I was really tired – an embarrassing fact that he still hadn’t quit teasing me about. And I knew he woke up early in the mornings because by the time I got out of bed, the shower was cold and he had coffee ready on the table for us both. So it was a good partnership. We had the teamwork thing down, now it was the relationship that we needed to build.

When he came into the living room, he brought the tea, but also brought me flowers, chocolates, and a note as well. A rare glimpse into his heart, it read:

I know our romance wasn’t ideal,
But our relationship and marriage is real.
Please keep believing that it will work –
You may not have fallen in love with me,
But I know that we can love each other.

March 15, 2012

I had just finished telling Jay how my best friend and I had mixed up The March of Ides with the Ides of March in high school, and how I had never been able to remember which one was right ever since when he leaned over and kissed me on my lips for the first time – it’s the kind of fact that you know you’ll never forget, and I filed it away in my mind right next to “almost falling asleep at my own wedding” and “accidentally pushing Jay off the bed on our first night as a couple.”

There were no fireworks, and I wasn’t tempted to kick up one of my stiletto’d feet like they do in the movies. But it was nice and it felt right. When I pulled away, I was blushing as though he’d kissed me goodbye at the front porch after our first date. I guess that’s the day our courtship really began.

I’m copy and pasting this from my Google drive, I’ll fix formatting issues in a bit

Men of Futures

The world is spinning, my dreams are falling down. Is anybody out there? Can anybody out there hear me? Can anybody out there see me? Can anybody out there save me?

I just need to know what you’re doing out there right now. Are you going to help me, make me better, and make me whole? What are you doing right now? Are you asleep because you’re in the same timezone as me, or are you awake, a fellow insomniac? Will we have great 3AM sex? My future soulmate. No. My soulmate, though I haven’t met you yet. Are you out there? Where are you? In this country or in another?


Don’t you ever wonder what he’s doing right now? Or if she’s awake or asleep. Do you think you would like to know when the two of you will meet? No, that would take away from the thrill. But though you might not want to know, do you wonder?

I wonder all the time. When I’m walking down the street to buy dinner, I wonder what he’s doing then. I wonder what time he usually eats dinner, and where he is at that very moment of time. When I am taking a bath, my thoughts drift lazily from one concern to another and sometimes, settle on wondering if we’ve ever taken a shower at the same time. I briefly consider the criteria for a soulmate. Perhaps mine prefers to take baths at the same time I do.

They’re silly thoughts, I know, but I just wonder. I wonder what he’s doing. Is he skydiving? Partying in Ibiza? Is he rich, is he poor? Is he in school?

What are his dreams? Have we ever made the same wish at 11:11 PM?

Just the little things that add up and mean so much in relationships, that’s when I think about him. Will I dream of him first, before we meet? Will I see his body and feel an emotional attachment to the man before seeing him? Will our eyes light up when we see each other for the first time?

Part of me thinks it’ll be wonderful and amazing when we meet, and that we will just know innately that we are meant to be together. But then I think back to 8th grade, when I connected with the girl who has since then been one of my closest friends, and I know there was no skipped heartbeat. I was sobbing and looked a mess, and she patted me on the back and listened. But lightning didn’t strike, the world didn’t freeze, and I didn’t know in my heart that she was going to be a best friend, forever.

So will it be the same way with love? Will it develop gradually because he will be in my life and one day, we will find that all the hours have added up and we’ve fallen into the stage of our lives we can call love.

I don’t know what love is. I don’t know what I’m going to feel, but I just want to know if he wonders what he’ll feel too.

The Right time for Romance

When is the right time for romance?

Is it high school? College? Later? Never?

Am I supposed to find the cute neighbor next door and get married to him, persevere through all the odds that keep us away from each other? Because I do have a neighbor next door. The boy-next-door romance, is that what I’m supposed to follow? Is that my path?

Or is it the high school sweetheart that’s supposed to sweep me off my feet? Because that didn’t happen, and I didn’t date anybody in high school. I just went through it all with my best friends and we were happy. Being single wasn’t a pain or annoying. I was content, but did I miss my path then? When I didn’t go to all the parties I was never invited to, did I mess up and miss out? No more soulmate?

Then we get to college. I failed the high school path, but what about college? I’m almost done now but is there anybody in my life so passionately in love with me that he wants to marry me? Will I ever hold that allure for another? I just don’t get it. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m nice, caring, understanding, funny, witty, compassionate, and honest. Am I too easy? Is that why I didn’t meet my college sweetheart either?

Graduate school – that’s next on my life path. Law school. Am I supposed to fall in love with an up-and-coming lawyer? Together, we’d be the dynamic duo and win every court case and be besotted by one another in perpetuity. Is that what I’m supposed to do? Am I being led toward the white picket fence path? Where I have two kids, one male and one female, and get married sometime around 25. We have a house in the suburbs, work in the city, and see each other on the weekends. We probably have a small dog. A low maintenance one to make up for our busy schedules. Well then, is that what my future is? I guess I just have to wait.

What if I’m not meant to every find my soulmate? The path of the “crazy cat lady.” maybe that’s my loveless path? Will something happen that’ll debilitate my capacity to love another and I’ll grow up bitter and alone? I hope not, my Indian heritage should ensure a marriage at the very least, if not love. Will I be just another boring, forgotten Indian housewife then, if that’s what I end up doing? Marrying to reproduce and take care of the household and look the other way as my husband came home later and later smelling of some other woman’s perfume?

Wow, I’m working myself up to tears right now, but I need to get these doubts out of my system and on paper.

Maybe there’s a little hope in the arranged marriage path though. Maybe we’ll compromise and grow to love and cherish each other in a way that we never would have if it was a love marriage. That ability to understand one another and complete conversations with our eyes alone. The type of marriage that comes out of compromise and mutual understanding, not a whirlwind romance that would leave us high, dry, and probably pregnant when we realized we didn’t work. I don’t know, that path sounds a little better than the romances right?

Well then I see all these stories of girls who met their husbands when they were 14. That they just knew they would get married and dated all those years and then got married one they could and now they’re totally happy. I just don’t get it. Why are they able to meet their loves and I’m denied time and time again?

Maybe I’m overlooking the right one by pursuing my fantasies? But I don’t get it – some people marry the man who was their first kiss, their first date, their first friend, or their first love. Why don’t I get that? Why is my luck so rotten that I’m 21 now and have not a single clue what it means to be in love? I can’t be that heartless.

Why? When will it be the right time for my romance?

Day 14: Keeping Secrets (Alternative Question)

Day 14 — Because my parents never found out, I remember getting away with _____ as a teenager…

Oh dear, there’s no way I’m revealing that kind of scandalous information on a public forum when my parents might encounter it some day in the future when they’ve learned the definition of blogging! You all shall have to read my answer to the alternative question now! Enjoy below (:

Your daughter tells you she is bringing home her boyfriend for dinner. When they arrive, she introduces you to a man who is not your same race. Sometime during dinner she announces that they have been married for the last six months. What bothers you more? The difference in race or being excluded from the wedding…

I think back on this question and I’m surprised by how much of my mother is in me. The fact that she’s been married for the last six months would come as crippling news. I do however, have to make a complaint – the question is not phrased to be culture friendly. Let’s list out what’s wrong with this scenario!

1. Girls cannot have boyfriends, least of all announce he’s coming to dinner.
2. If a girl dates, her parents are not to find out about it
3. If a girl dates outside her own culture/religion/ethnicity, her parents are DEFINITELY not to find out about it
4. A girl lives with her parents until she gets married. So if she’s been married for 6 months, they haven’t been living together yet.

I would have to be a major failure as a parent if my daughter married somebody and I didn’t know. But the more I think about it….I do think that she should marry within her own ethnicity, so that part would bother me too. This is just, overall, a really stupid scenario though. If I pretend I am white though, I will say that I would be bothered most about not being a part of her wedding.

But I mean really, that is just NOT how relationships work! A marriage is a month-long celebration. What girl would willingly give that up and lie to her parents O.o It just makes no sense to me. There’s NO way this secret can be kept that long. Nope.

This question cracks me up. It’s structured to make everybody respond by saying how outraged they are by the hidden marriage, but I think that race does play a big part. I want somebody I can speak to in Hindi as well as English. I want somebody who will cook me an aloo ka parantha on Sunday mornings when I want to sleep in. I’m sure these things can be learned, but that level of comfort and integration wouldn’t be present in a marriage outside of our race.

Yeah, super unrealistic question. Hidden marriage bothers me more, but I am bothered by race too. If my daughter is going to take this drastic step, she should have the balls to introduce him to the family before she marries him so we can get to know the person behind the race barrier. If he loves her and she loves him, great. But Indian or not, I want him to be from a good family and I want them to have a proper wedding.



List of rules and questions is here

Please take a moment to check out the other wonderful blogs participating in 30 days of Blogging Honesty with me!

[14] Smile

[13] Misfortune ← Previous Story | Next story → [15] Silence
The Complete Challenge list can be found here

Roxy and Tyler. Forever.

It was really happening. His 5 year anniversary with Roxy was coming up, and he had the perfect idea. They were 26 now, but the Roxy and Tyler that had first started dating those 5 years ago were still there inside of him. He remembered just how passionately he loved her. Walking into the store just now, everything had felt so right.

Tiffany & Co. It was outrageous, he already knew he wouldn’t be able to afford anything from that place. He’d only been working for 3 years now, and he still had student loans to pay off.

But then he walked in and saw the ring. The one he knew she would fall in love with and cherish. It was perfect. No, it was more – it was MAGICAL, because it had called out to him. He was drawn to it, couldn’t help but walk over to take a look.

“Round Brilliant With Pear-shaped Side Stones” Priced from $13,800.

That cost more than a semester’s tuition. Then again, he had graduated a semester early so the impact on his loans wouldn’t be immense – he could just pretend he’d graduated on time. He was so tempted.

He took some pictures of the ring and walked out of the store with a smile. Not because he had an engagement ring.

No, the smile on his face was because he knew what he was doing for their five year anniversary. They were getting married.

Roxy and Tyler. Forever.

Arranged Disaster – Part 3 {{Sim}}

Sim had gone to college, and he had a degree: a bachelor of arts, or something like that. At any rate, this meant he knew enough English that everybody in the village went to him for their translations. Sim didn’t mind, but he did wish that more of the village’s young children aspired to go to college. Education was becoming increasingly important, as anybody who stepped out of the village would rather abruptly come to know.

But still, he could not complain much, because his unofficial role as the village translator allowed him sneaky glance s into everybody’s lives. He came to know tidbits of information which otherwise were obscured within complex family history. He came to know about the troubles, and successes, of cousins and relatives gone overseas. He came to know about the downfall of eager young villagers who had set off to Bollywood, aspiring to become famous and bring some respect to their small hometown. Overall, it was not a bad job. He peeled open a banana, ripe for one day too long, and reflected upon his life. He had gotten into a government college with a scholarship that covered all of his tuition and housing. He had snatched up the opportunity and made the most of it, graduating, as his parents proudly put it, “top of his class” and receiving the first Bachelor’s degree in the village. But then he had come back and, as was his duty, taken care of his parents. He helped the villagers translate their news, and taught English to other villagers – anybody who wanted to learn – but had no job. He was paid not with rupees, but with fruits of labor. Sometimes, he received bananas, and other times, milk freshly squeezed from a villager’s cow. The work may not have made him rich, but he was loved around town and the gifts brought to him were enough to sustain him quite comfortably.

As he pondered all these things and ate his banana, one of his closest friends came running down the small alley with a note in his hand. He looked excited. He watched as his friend bounded into the living room and, without so much as an introduction, placed the note down on the table and said “Isko mere liye angreji me padh yaar” (Dude, read this to me in English please?) He could guess who it was from – everybody in the village had noticed the love struck actions of his silly friend. He picked up the note, laughing and teasing his friend the entire time, and began to read to himself. Since the note was in English, he read it first to himself, so that he could translate it without losing its meaning. As he read it, he couldn’t help but grin, and his smile only grew wider as he read more of the note. Finally, relenting to his friend’s anxious pacing, he told him what the note said. It was actually a poem, some beautiful lines of verse. In it, she had explained the constraints of their relationship, and she hinted at her unwillingness to break away from social norms by herself to pursue her love for him. She was afraid, and sure that a rash and dangerous decision on her part could bring death upon both of them. However, she told him that, if she was worthy of it, he should never stop trying to get her. One day, she would be his. That is what the note said.

Arranged Disaster – Part 2 {{The Note}}

He would travel to the other end of the village every night, timing it so that his arrival there was just moments prior to her own escape onto the balcony for her daily tea. His heart, racing in anxiety throughout the day, would finally find its calm when he rested his eyes upon her, his love. She would sit on her flimsy rocking chair on the balcony and sip her tea quietly, all the while writing what he had, at first, thought to be a journal. As he continued to present himself though, she became bolder as well, and after much thought, allowed one of the written pages to slip through her fingers, fluttering down onto the dingy street. He leapt up, and she saw his face light up with unabashed ecstasy. This would be her first token of acknowledgment, and he promised himself he would cherish this piece of paper until he died. He caressed the sheet, feeling its texture, knowing from a single glance that it was high quality. And as her note raised his spirits, the realization of its futility shot him down. He battled with himself – reading the note would bring him that much closer to the inevitable brink of his destruction. She was above him in every manner – she was more graceful, more beautiful, and wealthier– and his love was going to lead to nothing but heartbreak. Deep down, he knew that, but still, he opened the note.

She had written a little verse, four lines of simple poetry. Her English flowed perfectly, and her letters were written with no hesitation. She knew better English than he did, but that, again, wasn’t going to stop him. He carefully folded up the note and set off for his friend’s house.