The one

Is it a lot harder for a westerner to find the one true calling and the one true love than an Indian? Seems like it. Of course, this is mostly due to the lack of choice in these "areas" in India. Hence, is it fair to say that the most efficient way to restrict yourself a single path in life is to be unaware of the others? Furthermore, given you are aware of this quandary as I think I am now, is it but a cruel twist to the blissful ignorance credo, or am I- as part of one of the most practical minded survivalist clique in the world, the Indian middle class, just plain lucky?

Notes from the underground - In fourteenth person

The dude had been asking him every time he was soothed into a good mood with the ever potent G, aka the B if you're one of those Velachery folks, to look at new avenues . This was the dude's proposition: please pray that I get hooked up at that speed dating this week or, (he was rolling on the floor with laughter while coughing hysterically to momentarily faze the dude) join me at the speed dating event of the fucking century. For him, praying for anyone was out of the question. The speed date beckoned.

Keeping in line with the "fatten everything before you slaughter" dictum that governs the entire American social and commercial marketplace, the speed date was set before the week of Valentine's day. They got there earlier than everyone else and stood with an unremarkable smugness about them. The organizer, J, reminded them that they shouldn't be ashamed to take organized help to get laid. However, he also reminded them, with barely concealed amusement, that the horse could only be taken to the water. After J left, the dude turned to him and said, "White bastard thinks we're going to practice Desi-speak and scare the chicks shitless. Whats goin on, man?".

They are shown into their respective "speed dating rooms". The dude dosen't figure in this story anymore. He rearranges the seating and perches his humongous "wannabe an Afro dude, but gottabe a Desi prude" black coat on the chair. It sunk in.2 men, 9 boys, 1 woman, 8 girls and 3 juvenile delinquents. He was the lone " dude with a weird accent". He smacked his lips in delight, this had to be fun.

Comfort in discomfort?

Most of the Indian diaspora in the US has been subjected to movies about us. These movies present a bunch of situations, most of them rather inanely, in the hope that they resonate with our experiences and thus gain our patronage, so to say. The question of course is whether Ms Rai's populist "Art imitates life" observation really holds here? There might be certain cynics who contend that the above observation is in fact reflexive. But then, that's another topic altogether.

When a person tries to join a culturally different social clique, and I mean here just a group of friends and not the organized mishap that most organized meetings are, he tries to concentrate on the common topics of interest in the beginning. Then, he tries to weave a conversation that inextricably links the present with his past and thus in one masterstroke, highlight the differences as much as the similarities. Most of these attempts fail. Which is when the cynicism betrothed to him as a result of an obvious clash between his western education and Indian values takes over. The wave, which was treading new ground and possibly lashing upon new shores, has now receded. It has receded to its own waters skimming the familiar rocks with predisposed dexterity where the color of the waters paint the skies with the same hue of blue. Henceforth, his discomfort in the presence of the same clique is omnipresent and thus rather perversely becomes the only source for his comfort. Ms Rai never seemed as ridiculous as she did right then.