The Other O’Reilly

Last week i met Andrea O’Reilly for dinner because she wanted to talk to me about mothers in academe for her new project. At some point I told her that I was going to meet my friend Kenn O’Reilly after the interview. And after that she referred to him as the “Other O’Reilly.”

When I met Kenn later on that evening, he asked how my interview with the “other O’Reilly” went.

Actually guys, both of you are awfully sweet and share similar political views. The Real “Other O’Reilly” is of course, my non friend, Bill.



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About the Other Maya

At a photoshoot last week, I met another model named Maya. And I liked her straight away. She was bubbly, kind, had long curly hair (that I would gladly give my little finger to have) and she ate, like me, with both hands. I mean, really, how could i not like her? I’ve heard reports of unmet Mayas from lands as diverse as South America, Israel, and Wales and Africa, so I didn’t suspect that this other Maya, part Syrian and part French, was named for her mother’s long-ago Indian neighbor. But by the time she told me that it had already begun to feel like we were connected by affection.

I didn’t however like the make up guy--Mark. Although in the beginning he seemed as fun as everyone’s gay best friend. And I didn’t not like him because while contouring my eyes, he told me to stop smiling because I have big cheeks :). That was actually pretty funny and made me laugh. It was because he gave orders to have the other Maya’s curls brushed out. And then when I looked over at her, her eyes looked as though he had, just then, cut off all her hair.


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I See Kind People (Sometimes)

Big A and I part unhappily on Fifth Av. I stumble about uncaring in the rain, crying, completely lost. About fifteen minutes later, Big A calls, his voice so hoarse with sleeplessness that I’m already forgiving him. He tells me to stay right where I am, that he’ll pick me up, find me some lunch. His unexpected kindness makes me cry harder, but I’m tired and wait right where I happen to be--on the corner of South Seventh Av and Charles St.

The old Sardarji who runs an Indian bric-a-brac store called Khazana comes out to the big trash can with the remnants of his lunch. He sees me. I see him, and the sight of someone somewhat familiar shames me into surreptitiously drying my tears, and then in mutual homesickness, we talk about India.

Then he leaves, I’m crying again, and the Chinese masseuse who comes up out of the basement does a double take when she sees me and offers to give me a “Happy massage. For free--only take 15 minutes.”  And as she rubs on my shoulder muscles and inadvertently tickles me, I am happy. Briefly. The place is empty, but she still refuses payment, and I’m left wondering what makes people so kind?

Just that morning, the guy next to me on the train offered me his umbrella and encouraged me to take it with a “Go on, I have two more of these at home.” And I felt guilty because even Li’l A who to my knowledge has never gotten wet in the rain because I treat him as though he were really made of sugar (the rain-dissolvable kind) has more than two tiny-sized umbrellas of his own.

Then we’re sitting in the car (Big A and I, not me and the train guy) on the street corner, making… up (that’s not quite the right preposition, but it’ll do). Big A is charmed by these encounters--people are always so nice to you, he says.

Not always, I say.

And I look, pointedly, at him.


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Losing Arundhati Roy

My deadline sheet reminds me that I’m contracted to write an article on Arundhati Roy. And the book I’ve gifted the most has got to be her novel, The God of Small Things. I certainly agree with her on the Narmada Dam issue; I even stuck by her when her rhetoric got annoyingly shrill. So my dismay at Roy’s all-over-the-place article in The Guardian is tinged with much sadness and disappointment.

The saddest irony of all is that in an essay that criticizes the misinformation spread by various sources within Indian government, Roy’s own rage makes her incoherent, speculative and rife with cliché. A difficult and not particularly edifying read, but here goes zilch.


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Disrobed (Part 2)

Chlo popped in for a visit yesterday and before she leaves, she narrows her eyes and says approvingly, “Your boobs look good.”

You must understand that she says it like a dispassionate, professional boob expert (hence my lack of blush) but also in the tone of proprietorship.

Contextual Flashback: Last year, I suddenly became embarrassed by my breasts--kinda like a teenager, only too late. I was only comfortable wearing sports bras--the kind that bind you, preferably in a size too small. So I would wear these really cute summer dresses and a hefty, no-nonsense sports bra would peek out from under the strappy concoction. I even took to rationalizing them as radical and edgy.

But Chlo wasn’t having any of it (neither were Big A and Chelli A--but then who listens to family?). Then in August, she and Tammy couldn’t take it anymore and staged an intervention and Big A gave me bunches of cash to go and buy bras at a special bra place.

Now I wear real bras, but I’ve taken to slouching. Intervention coming soon, no doubt.



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Disrobed (Part 1)

Tumbling late out of bed at the start of a crazy day, I grabbed yesterday’s sweater off the bathroom floor, relieved that it fell to mid-thigh and that I could dispense with the hunt for additional clothing before I made Li’l A’s breakfast.

Halfway through his porridge, he asks if I could please grab him a pair of pants for school out of the dryer. “Then,” he says, (small smirk), “I’ll find you some pants so you can take me to school.”


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When Kiran Met Karen

Next to “Neil/Neal,” which functions as an approximation of the Sanskrit “Neel,” “Kiran,” close enough to the Celtic “Kieran,” is the most over-used American-Born Desi name.

Now there’s a movie about a lesbian love affair--When Kiran Met Karen--being shot in New York with Purva Bedi. And how meta--it starts off on a movie set.

More about the movie (that I’m convinced is secretly dying to be called a ‘film’) here.


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