This chapter is about my absolutely DIVINE, and delicious love interest du jour, JS, to whom I have so tantalizingly alluded to in an earlier posting. (And no, I am not so predictable as to use his INITIALS to describe him…so if you have the same initials-rest your pretty little heads--it is NOT you!). So, reader, the agonizing wait is over—the elusive JS finally makes his appearance. My dearest male readers, you may want to selectively filter-as excessive female gushing and misinterpretation is going to be the pervasive theme of this posting.
Our story begins on Dec. 26th, 2003. I was still trying to (unsuccessfully) work things out with DMX, my Dad’s ticker was still ticking away like a time bomb waiting to go off, and I had just started my first of a series of bar review courses. Things were relatively calm, or as calm as life ever is for me. JS appeared in my life like a belated christmas prezzy. Truth be told, though, I hardly noticed JS…except to note his disastrous fashion sense. FASHION POLICE…911!!!
He swaggered in, in true playa style, clad in what can only be described as the most ghetto-fabulous monstrosity of a tracksuit. Try your Kodak best to picture it: Gray, baggy, Sean Jean sweatsuit nightmare, with logo blazing, of course, teamed with the most ostentatious of kicks…lurid red and gray striped, with plastic decals on it. Ugh. Even his stunning dark and handsome looks could not redeem him from this fashion train wreck. The reason for my lack of interest was more than his questionable fashion sense; it was the fact that DMX was still in the picture at that point. Contrary to popular belief, I AM a one-man kind of woman…and extremely faithful; Plus, (idiot that I am), I WAS still trying to work things out. That, more than anything, prevented me from truly noticing what an exquisitely superior creature JS was.
I DID manage notice a bit during that weeklong course, after all, am not blind. The enormous zip-lock bags full of PBJ sandwiches (how CUTE! My heart had already started to melt at the sight of that). Not to mention his bizarre habit of WATCHING me…and I don’t mean staring. Just watching, as if I was some amusing program on TV. More often than not, when he was watching during the breaks, I would be on the phone with DMX, intermittently crying or laughing. He would watch-I would narrow my eyes at him, and start hissing into the phone in Hindi, as clever comprehension prevention/deterrent tactic. Of course, he wasn’t fazed by any of this, and merely would pull out a sandwich from his limitless supply and continue to watch. I should have offered him popcorn…
Let us take a small pause before continuing to describe the tasty morsel that is known as JS. He is two out of three: meaning, the dark, and handsome-but not the tall. He is not troll short, but about a 5’9/5’10—which, for my 5’6 height, isn't that tall. He cleans up REALLY nicely, and he smells DAMN good. You just want to do obscene things to him on the spot. Oh-and he was once spotted moisturizing (awwww!!!)…quite the metrosexual in some ways.
He sometimes, depending on degree of thugishness, sports a goatee, and sometimes is baby-bottom smooth clean-shaven. Either way, he is immaculately groomed and is in no way, a member of the grunge movement.
He has thick, dark, shiny hair, which I like cropped short, and these amazingly twinkling, bottomless-abyss-like eyes, which are fringed by these long, perfect lashes. Think cow lashes. Ah…those eyes…they are like these shiny black gems glinting with naughtiness and kindness. Just looking at him, you can tell that, though outwardly a bad boy, he is inherently good. Or maybe I am just stupid; or so deep in smit (aka smitten) that I can't SEE straight anymore.
And let me also please share my own pathetic behavior around him. I hang my head in shame, as outrageous minxes around the world shake their heads in disapproval. Is completely foreign territory for me: I melt. I sigh. I swoon. I am pathetic. I know.
You know the term ‘weak in the knees”? Well-it fuckin’ happens! Who knew? I just thought it was bad Hollywood dialogue; turns out, it is a serious affliction.
Now, people, I have game. Seriously. Even as a gawky adolescent, I ALWAYS managed to get the guy (getting him to kiss me/be interested in me as MORE than his best friend was another problem), but I could always talk to them, flirt like a champ, and make myself completely indispensable to their lives. I am the Mohammed Ali of flirtation…except with this one.
If he spoke to me, I would morph into the fuckin’ Rain Man—sputtering out God-Knows-What, and looking down instead of AT him. I would become a blathering idiot around him-blushing (and you KNOW how hard it is for Indians to do that!), and just getting so shy. Meanwhile, with everyone else, I was my usual irresistible self, waxing poetic on my little stage, entertaining and charming the knickers off of everyone. Based on my idiotic behavior, he either knew how deep in smit I was, or he thought I just hated him. I had moments when I did alright, but for the most part, I was a bloody shame.
Anyway-I will spare you the boring details of what happened/didn’t happen during the six-week course. But there are a few memorable highlights to mention, just so you get why I am completely and utterly confused by him. In a nutshell, kisses were blown (by him), hugs given (by him), glances exchanged; I was teased, sweet-talked to, and smiled at…not to mention being watched. And he loves my banana bread.
However, I was also blown off, ignored, given the look of death and deliberately provoked. In between, without my even knowing, I found myself deep in smit over JS. Around the same time, Dad’s time bomb went off, I told DMX to fuck off, and I was trying to study for my Bar exam. Amazing repertoire of emotions, right? I deserve a fucking OSCAR for keeping my shit together during that time. And for whatever it is worth, JS’s presence was the little ray of sunshine that kept me going to my classes and kept me going...FULL STOP. This little crush had become so important to me in so many ways. It is hard to walk away from something that is the one thing that was good in your life.
However, due to his mixed signals and fuckwit behavior, I made (and continue to make) the decision to STOP liking this guy. As soon as I do, he does something that just sucks me right back in. One particular instance comes to mind. He had started to very openly flirt with this very pretty girl in our class. He just switched seats one day to sit next to her-and just introduced himself to her. Whether he was flirting or being his usual self (a later blog post will cover this-as it is a problem), we don’t know. But, I will err on the side of caution and say that he appeared to be macking hardcore.
The girl in question was pretty, no doubt about it, and clearly used to male attention. She would not have even given JS the time of day, had it not been for the fact that he knew someone that could further her career. His best buddy from high school is a very well known public person. We’ll leave it at that.
All of a sudden, she became best buddies with him-and consequently, me, because she knew that I knew him. She started accompanying me (unwanted) on my walk to the train station. Yuck. She would go on and on…and ask me questions about him. Given that she was about a gazillion times prettier than me, combined with the fact that JS and I had not spoken for a few days, I decided to quit the field. She knew she was pretty, too—and I am sure she knew that I was gaga over him, and thus, went on about him. I am NOT being a hater-bitch, but she was vain! And I soon found out why.
My opponent in the game of love, vying for the affections of the yummy JS was none other than a former Miss America contestant. I kid you not. She was a Miss America contestant…went to the pageant and everything; the caked on make up, the hairspray, the show-dog like parading—the whole tiara, so to speak.
It was too fucking unreal to even be bitter about—like something out of a bad teeny- bopper film, that, though painful to watch, is just too outrageous a situation to resist laughing about. Except that it was real life- MY life- and the fact remained that the fun girl will NOT get the guy over Miss America. No fuckin’ way! Even I, who have been deluded by Hollywood, and even worse, by BOLLYWOOD, was smart enough of a Gluco biscuit to realize that it was too situational comedy for words, and that I should just exit with as much dignity as I could muster, and try to find something else to smile about.
Except that JS surprised me. No sooner did I begin to studiously ignore him…didn’t even glance at him or anything for days, (Note-did not exit with dignity, instead resorted to Plan B-being pouty, resentful ice maiden), than it was Miss America who was getting the blow off. After being deprived of the Minx-love, he did his dripping-with-honey sweet best to kiss up to moi. Needless to say, it worked! He was a sweetie pie, but with mixed signals always. Long story short? Nothing happened. We took the exam…and that was that. The end? Not if I, (with the help of my fairy godmother, Batwoman), can fuckin’ help it!
Now, the lovely friends think I am fabulous; they love to convince me of this when I am weak. They inflate my sad, deflated ego-so that it swells to become a big, bright, red balloon. Even when I don’t stand a prayer, my friends remain convinced that I can, and do, perform miracles. They think nothing and no one is out of my league or grasp. They delude me into being more self-confident than I really am…and for this I am forever grateful. I have bagged many a babe and cool jobs/opportunities as a result.
So, I had gone, after Bar Exam hell, to booze and whore in not-so foreign lands. I went to visit my gorgeous bombshell of a friend, Batwoman, to combat post-exam depression. She had heard the daily play-by-play of my sad life and had the skinny on all the he said-she saids throughout that two-month period and was convinced that JS was as deep in smit as I was. She, through a daily assault of love, affection and “you are a superstar” dialogue, managed to lift my spirits and hopes, and I began to dream those Bollywood Dreams of getting the impossible guy.
I succumbed to her and she managed to convince me to write to him. Was casual-nice-but ambiguous. Not the overt, “Please let me fuck you senseless”, type of email that one would expect of me-but subtle. Did he write back? Did he?
You bet your boots! I told you he was a nice guy…didn’t I? But he did very unambiguously say that he was not looking for a relationship. Fine. I am not either; but would he be open to being a Chew Toy for an outrageous minx in heat? Maybe not. At this point, I was willing to have someone just rescue me from the boredom that seems to permeate my home like a noxious gas. It went from lust to bust. But I didn’t mind.
But I WAS helped along in my endeavor of getting to friendship by a rather disturbing line in his email. I don’t recall exactly-but the words “pray” and “lord” were used—which is enough to send a stake of fear and terror through the heart of any swinging gal! I’m serious. There was no better way for JS to yuck my yum than to bring religion into it. Being spiritual is fine, and religion in moderation is okay, maybe even endearing. But for anyone to use those profane words with a stranger is unnatural, wrong, and just downright frightening.
Even during my NYC days (sniff, sniff), the scariest, most nightmare-inducing persona that the city had was the Hallelujah man. He, dressed in his severe starched suit and tie, would set up shop on street corners and repeatedly, in his unrelenting staccato boom, yell out “Hallelujahhallelujahallelujah!” all the while glaring at you with his unblinking eyes. He did not blink. Ever. Nothing is scarier than fanaticism exhibited, except maybe clowns…who are scarier…but we’ll leave the clowns out of this.
Based on my phobia, then, you can understand why my instinct cried, “no way, no how”. Cow-lashes and kiss-blowing be damned! I decided wholly against writing back to the potentially Bible thumping JS. But the ever-persuasive Batwoman remained convinced that it was an innocuous remark targeted more at my Dad’s speedy recovery, and not an indication that he would use sweet nothings to turn me onto sweet Jesus…which segues nicely into my next point of confusion. How do we know it WAS sweet Jesus to whom he was praying? WHAT RELIGION WAS HE???
Now, I know I haven’t given enough info about JS to let on what ethnicity, religion, etc. he is—for reasons of protecting my own ass as well as his. But, we know this much: JS is definitely one of the “people of the book”…but I am not sure WHICH book. One of two bestsellers: the Bible or the ever-popular Quran. It is all so confusing, because his full name has elements of BOTH in it. Leave it to an Indian to try to figure out what a person is by their name, right?
His first name is as Christian as it comes, Middle name is pretty fucking hardcore Muslim (we think), and Last name, oddly enough, could go either way. It is not the kind of thing one asks over email. It should not matter, and it really doesn’t, because I am crazy about him either way. I can’t shut that shit off. And, given our nonexistent relationship, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. But…
I’d be lying, to say it doesn’t matter. Let’s face the facts. One part of me is praying to Jesus, Allah, Ganesh and whoever else that he is not Muslim. Not for my sake...but for his own.
Given the history of India, and Hindu fanaticism and bigotry, even I, outrageous minx that I am, would think twice of bringing home a Muslim boyfriend. Bringing a boy would be bad enough. A boyfriend? Even worse. Add Muslim to that fire, and it becomes fucking TNT! Luckily, my parents, kooks that they are, are still cool enough to accept anyone I bring home. I wouldn't be disowned or the like, but let's say that smooth sailing would not be in the cards.
Nowadays, in America, it has become very ho-hum, even boring and commonplace for Indo-chicks to marry nice, respectable White Christian or Jewish boys. The Jewish boys have the same values of family, education, community (or so they say) and more shit is to be expected by the overbearing Jewish Mommies opposing their non-Jewish, not-even-Shiksa(!) daughter-in-laws, that Indo parents can’t compete.
Marrying Christians is seen as a necessary evil for living in this country—like a virginal (and not so virginal!) sacrifice to appease the Gods of this country, to ensure wealth and prosperity in this foreign land. How many times have you heard some Uncle lament, “We paid the price of success in this country with our children!” Fucking get over it, Uncle!
But see, Muslim—ah, therein lies a HUGE problem. In many cases, the Muslims in question probably have more in common with Indians, culturally speaking, than any of the other “gora” cultures (unless British goras-who are, for all intensive purposes, more Desi than 99% of ABCDs in America). ** (for those of you not down with the Indo lexicon—gora means “white” and ABCD stands for American Born Confused Desi. Desi means “countryman”).
The Arabs, Persians and definitely the supposed Lex Luther to India’s (haha) Superman, the Pakistanis, all share so much in common with Indians. But, yet, these are exactly those who are on the blacklist of Indian parents everywhere.
Independent of religion, merely being ASSOCIATED with a Muslim country, would be a ground for rejection. For some, an Arab or Pakistani Christian, or a Persian Jew is tantamount to bringing home a mullah from Palestine. ‘Tis guilt by association.
Any girl who truly loves her man would think twice about subjecting any poor guy to the open hostility and hatred that is inevitable from the Indian community. It is sad. It is the worst form of racism to prevent yourself from even DREAMING of being happy, because of fear. I, for one, like to think if I truly loved someone, that I would overthrow all cultural taboos for the sake of happiness. Is the American way!
In the case of JS, (remember him? We digressed a little there!)…Even without the additional problem of his religion, I would still be royally fucked if my “rents” got wind of this. His ancestry is definitely on a blacklist somewhere, since not Hindu and Indian, but neither that, nor his religion would be the problem. For them, this would be slumming it to the Nth degree, based on WHO and HOW he is, not so much WHAT he is…It would petrify them to their suburban dwelling, non Hip-Hop core to even think of someone like JS as a potential suitor/friend/space sharing being for their daughter.
Just given his thuggish ways and his less-than-squeaky-clean past(he has alluded to it in emails. Yummy.), I would hesitate even daring to dream about him. But even then, I think he could make a great impression. The thugishness is not who he is. He is a lawyer and a highly driven person. He finished law school in two years, passed the Bar like me (Yay!) and is very ambitious. His family is respectable and educated (Dad was a lawyer before, brother is a film maker), and he is cultured and knowledgeable.
His Dad was also an immigrant to this country. He is politically liberal (Dad would be equally as mortified if I were to bring home a Bush supporter. Would be disowned on the spot) and opinionated about world affairs.
I am intrigued by him and I want to know him more. He is, by birth and upbringing, very much a part of one culture. But is also a completely different person because he chose to be. He is super sweet, and thoughtful, but at the same time, strikes me as being a playa and an unrepentant flirt. I want to know more…but you know what they say about curiosity and cats…perhaps some mysteries should never be solved. For this minx doesn’t have nine lives to squander.
