I sit there glaring at him. He sits there smiling at me. For what seems like ages. The bell rings. He moves to the next table. And another guy replaces him.
This guy, Malay, he is not there to find a match. Neither am I. But I find it offensive to see someone else like me. He ruined everything. He ruined the illusion. He ruined the fun.
"Hello, Myself Romesh Mehta. Motel owner in Hastings, Nebraska. Your good name please?" I am shaken out of my reverie. Ah yes, this guy uses the phrase "your good name". Perfect!
I flash him an evil smile. And set about freaking him out.
-----
This is what my life has been reduced to. Yes, I have a 6-figure income job at a reputed Wall Street firm. But it comes at the expense of long hours in the office, and most weekends spent traveling to random locations to sell clients the services of our firm. Something my boss Jan should do. Something I should make Jan do. Maybe complain to her boss, who is also a woman. But I am too insecure about my career to do that. I am too much of a wimp to do that.
Socially, I was always handicapped. My late parents, may god have mercy on their souls, were the textbook definition of "old-fashioned 20th century Indian middle class". Any contact with boys was shunned. But I was expected to do well academically. My dad was not happy to just have me coast through school and marry me off. As his only daughter, he expected all the achievements of me that he would expect from a son. But I was placed under social restrictions no son would ever have to face.
After slogging my ass off in school, I made it to a decent American public university in the Midwest for grad school. Some boys, Indian and otherwise, did hit on me. I tried to stave off their advances, in the name of focusing on my career, as dad always taught me to.
"Focus on studying hard and building a great career. These crucial years will never come back." my dad would lecture me every week. "Boys and romance and marriage will happen in its own time. I will find you the perfect man. Leave that to me. You just keep your focus on studies."
But eventually, one guy broke through. He was perfect for me. Smart, reasonably good looking, from a decent family, and a very nice person. He was the one I lost my virginity to, on a second hand mattress on the floor of his bedroom in an apartment he shared with 3 other Indian grad students. We were the perfect couple. Our future was set. Or so we thought. Or so I thought.
We weren't from the same caste, but I didn't expect that to be a problem for a guy like him. How wrong I was! His parents wanted him to marry a girl from their caste. And from a rich family. One whose parents owned several businesses that he could inherit. What hurt me the most was, he didn't even put up a token fight against them. Abandoned me as soon as they raised a stink. And moved on with ease. Married the girl his parents chose and posted pictures of him beaming with her on Facebook. As if all I ever meant to him was a fuck buddy, a welcome distraction while he completed his Masters program.
I thanked my stars I hadn't mustered up the courage to tell my parents about him. They were happy I had finished my Masters. Got a job in New York City, the business capital of the world. And then, a week before they were about to visit me in the US to attend my graduation, they were in a bus that slammed into a truck on the highway. And that was that.
I went back to India. Cremated what was left of them. Sold off what little property they owned. Spent some token time with relatives who had never been too close to us anyway. Took whatever money was left, and came back to America. Moved to New York City. Started my job. That is, started doing Jan's work for her. And focused on filling my tiny upper west side apartment with Pottery Pen stuff.
I tried dating. Meeting men through acquaintances, through friends, some from work, and even some from online dating sites and apps. Some Indian, some non-Indian. But as a 24 year old with no prior dating experience at it, I always struck out. It's not like I was ugly. I mean, yeah, I didn't wear make-up, didn't wear the trendiest clothes, and I did braid my hair for convenience. I knew I was not ugly. But looks didn't matter. What did me in was my awkwardness. I did not possess the flirting skills an average NY woman possesses. I would usually clam up. And guys never really went past a couple of dates. There were a couple of awkward booty calls but that was it.
Which is why I resorted to these Indian singles mixers all over the US. My job required me to travel everywhere anyway. And Jan was always inconsiderate enough to schedule my travel on weekends and make me take cheaper red-eye flights that I had to wait for till late at night. So I would look up what the latest Indian events, or the latest Indian singles mixers were. And attend them. A way to spend my evenings in unknown cities.
The first few times, I was genuinely looking for a good match. But after a couple of those mixers I realized they were filled with 2nd or 3rd generation dorks, who were looking for an arcane idea of what an Indian wife should be. Career? What's the need for that? Do you cook? How about laundry? How soon would you like to have kids? They didn't want a wife. They wanted a maid with a womb.
Disillusioned, I started treating these mixers as sport. Instead of trying to find someone, I started focusing on freaking the guys out. And it provided me with some comfort. Some recreation, apart from my Pottery Pen shopping. I was usually very diffident, but my pent up aggression and frustration at the world found an outlet in these mixers. If there was an Indian singles mixer happening around me, I was there. And I never thought anyone noticed. Until Malay. Whom I had also seen around all over the country. Whom I also knew to be in a similar game.
From now on, I decided, if I see Malay, I would sneak out of the event early.
====
Sunday night. The Baltimore deal is almost through. I only need to send them a confirmatory fax. Such dinosaurs, still hung up on fax. I am waiting downtown for the bus back to New York. It's an hour before departure time so I decide to do some window shopping. I walk into a designer clothing store, feeling decidedly frumpy in my loose business casuals. I admire the low cut evening wear and cocktail dresses. Look longingly at the skirts and tops.
The sales girl is hovering around to see if I need any help. I need help, but not the kind she can give me. I am severely conscious about my body. I am not fat or anything. I just don't feel sexy. I never have. I could get into one of these dresses. I am just not sure I could carry it off. I look around for a while and then leave the store.
Next, I browse around in a book store, a cute chocolate shop and an antique store. The next store I see brings me to a standstill. It's an adult bookstore with neon silhouettes of naked women. I have heard about these places. Seen them all over Manhattan, especially in the touristy areas. Never had the courage to go into one. But this time, curiosity gets the better of me. I open the door and walk in.
There's a middle aged lady behind the counter and a young black man stocking the shelves. Neither of them casts me a second glance. It is a big breakthrough for me to cast off years of conservative upbringing and walk into this Gomorrah, but for them, I am just another customer.
Doing my best to not be too scandalized, I look at the wares they have on offer. Nudie magazines and videos, with buxom naked women on the covers. God, how can these women be so comfortable naked and on display? Even when I was sleeping with a guy, I preferred to have the lights off. I browse some more. Dildos and vibrators. Lingerie, some of it edible. Whips, handcuffs, creams of various kind. All kinds of toys I have only read about but never seen up close. And then more dildos.
I start wondering about how dildos are made. Do they cast molds from actual penises? Do guys get hard and stick their penises into plaster of paris? Or does someone sculpt them independently? Is there a production line for them? What material works best? Is there such a thing as an artisan handmade dildo? I wonder how the pay is. That'll be an interesting line of work. Designing and selling dildos. Sounds more fun than selling financial services.
Some of the stuff intrigues me. I consider buying a dildo and a vibrator. I even take one of each off the shelf. But then the thought of actually plonking them down in front of another person, signaling I need those aids...it sounds too much for my middle class Indian sensibilities to bear. I put them back. Maybe I can order them online later. I still feel a little conflicted though. Why am I so ashamed of buying this stuff right here? Maybe I should. I reach for the toys again, when there's a sound of the door opening. Reflexively, I pull my hand back.
It's a woman about my age, carrying a couple of pink bags. She looks brown, maybe Hispanic. She confidently strides up to the aisle I am standing in and picks up an assortment of goods, including dildos, vibrators, handcuffs, and a lot of other stuff I can't even look at without blushing. She sees me staring at her, nods, and walks to the register. I slowly head towards the door myself. As the clerk is ringing her up, I walk out the door.
I see the bus is now here. I head for it, heart pounding. I think about delaying boarding till the last minute but then decide to just get it over with. Soon I am inside on an aisle seat. Half the bus is empty. The window seat next to me is empty.
This is the first time I have been in a bus since my parents died in one. On the way here, I had taken the Amtrak at my own expense. But I can't afford to keep doing that even with my salary, if Jan isn't going to reimburse it anymore. I need to get used to being in buses.
My heart is about ready to jump through my chest. I keep having visions of how my parents' remains looked after the accident. How mangled and twisted the bus chassis was in the pictures. That smell of human flesh being cooked with butter in the crematorium seems to waft back from my memory bank. That acute awareness of how utterly alone I am in this world now. I am praying for my parents' souls.
I am also praying for the seat next to me to be empty. So I can sit comfortably, maybe stretch out and sleep when the bus gets going. Not exactly sleep. Close my eyes and rest them.
Sleep has been hard to come by ever since mom and dad died. I keep popping Advil PM pills at night, but even that doesn't help sometimes. In fact today, I have been without sleep for almost 48 hours straight. So I am hoping the motion of the bus will put me to sleep for the 4 hours it takes to get to New York.
I keep staring at the trickle of people walking down the aisle, hoping none of them will sit next to me.
An older gentleman stops next to me, shoves his bag into the overhead bin, and then sits in the row behind me. Phew, dodged a bullet. A few more people walk by. The trickle of people ends. Yes, I smile, two seats to myself.
Just as I am celebrating my spatial conquest, I see her again. The woman from the adult bookstore. She strides in through the door. Glides down the aisle. Heads turn. And why wouldn't they? She looks gorgeous. Her thick silky black hair flowing down her shoulders. Definitely a Latina, I decide from her confident body language and easy way of dressing sexy. Her cleavage suggestively peeping through her tank top. And her smooth mocha legs visible under her short skirt. She moves with the grace of a tigress hunting for her prey.
She smiles at a few people as she walks down the aisle. And then she stops, right next to my row. Puts one dainty pink bag in the overhead compartment. And slides past me to sit down on the window seat next to me. Flashes me a smile, and then examines the window carefully, and checks out the red handle on it..
