PROLOGUE: CHAPTER ONE: MY 411

Given that this blog started out as a posting of emails sent to the lovely friends, it has come to my attention that many of you are NOT privy to the inside 411 of my life. And, as amused as you may have been by my daily rants, much of it may not have made much sense out of context. Besides, with a little bit of background, I may come off as more than just an embittered old bag-and some of you may even get where I am coming from.

So, these next postings are for those of you who need to get caught up--so consider this the "rerun show" marathon to clarify postings from before and those to follow...even madness needs a context.

This is the deal: I am 27, Indian-American, and completely fabulous. (Though this too is variable—depending on how I feel at the time. And is, thus, a dynamic state). My friends (to whom I dedicate this site—in particular, The Pup and The Parrot) love me and I love them...they serve as soundboards, guidance counselors and the foundation upon which I have built my crazy life. Lovely friends--feel fee to chime in and add your own two cents about what makes me tick. Send them to me at my email address-and I promise to post them in their pure form.

Though trained as an attorney (yes-hate me, if you must), I truly cannot get behind it as the career of my calling. I am waiting for something to happen--not sure what exactly-but all I know is that I will have the right attitude when it does, not to mention the right handbag! I come equipped with a wardrobe of funky t-shirts and bags, not to mention an optimistic and sunny attitude. I am probably the last person you want to see on a sleepy Monday morning. Seriously, my natural state is hyper and chipper-and I am surprised someone has not shot me yet (a la “Tell Me Why I Don’t Like Mondays”).

Life seems to erupt around me and I welcome most of it in stride. I consider myself to be extremely lucky, in spite of the bullshit life has tossed at me-and I am the kind to bounce back easily. Ain't nobody gon' hold me down!

Given all this, it is time to fill you in (in brief) on the not-so-good events of recent days...to explain the prior postings:

So-until January-I had been in as long term of a relationship that can be managed by a gal in her 20’s—about 6 years!! I was planning on marrying this guy-in spite of glaring problems and constant pleading from lovely friends to leave his dumb ass. I even moved and left my true love (New York City) to be with him and give the relationship one last shot. Needless to say, bad went to worse pretty damn quickly.

The dreaded, miserable ex (DMX from now on) broke my heart and my spirit for some time...changed who I was temporarily (NEVER AGAIN!! Must be Scarlet O'Hara about this!) and made me siphon off parts of myself that I love: my exuberance, animated ranting, and childlike fascination.

But like I said before, I can bounce back from almost anything. I will cover DMX and the problems in a later posting…but suffice it to say that I was in bad shape before I left. I had given so much of myself to him that I barely had enough to recognize myself anymore. Luckily, the lovely friends were there to help pick up the pieces and loan me some parts of my former self to build on. It was cloning at its best.

So, I returned…heartbroken, confused, jobless and hopeless to the one place where reality is forever suspended: my parents’ home.

The “rents” are a crazy duo: Mom is a fulltime Mom (the term housewife, quite frankly, is so limiting). Clad in her sari and bindi, she is forever doing some puja or fast, while the rest of us continue on with our blasphemous, Big-Mac eating ways. The woman is a menace to all in her path: she speeds like a maniac, and shopkeepers go running when they see her approaching: coupons in hand and determination on her face. No one can get the better of her. You are royally fucked if you even try. She drives me crazy, but amazes me sometimes with how understanding she can be at times.

My Dad is a doctor and is as idealistic as me. He is always coming up with outrageous schemes for what to do with this parcel of land he has in India. Mind you, he has been plotting for about 20 years now-but a man can always dream. The latest is to build a wedding hall of sorts and rent it out to wedding parties. I wouldn’t be surprised if an extended family of five brothers has already set up shop there and procreated to make sure that their squatter family can at least outnumber us by 4 to 1 and beat us to a pulp.

I also have a brother-but I don’t really like him-so we’ll just leave him out of it, shall we?

Anyway-I returned to the house of discontent and insanity to recover from a broken heart. Needless to say, that was not to be. I do not think of DMX too much (which is good) but those musings have been supplanted by other irksome thoughts. I have regressed to my teenage years; complete with the nosiness of parents, maddening references to cleanliness (or lack thereof) of bedchamber, and even the sneaking of liquor contraband to my room. It has me wondering: do we ever really escape our past?

It is suspended, waiting on a shelf, to be picked up, dusted off and ready for us to place ourselves into. My life as I knew it-as part of an “us” or “we” was officially over-and I had to return to the “me”. My new life, though, was not so new after all. As much as I didn’t want to return to the period of my life that made me feel inadequate and caged, there was something comforting about knowing that some things are constants in your life. And though I feel a sense of desperation to return to civilization (namely-anywhere away from parents) I feel that my rebirth has to be complete by returning to the womb.