(This post is part of a series of write-ups about life in America, from an Indian’s perspective who recently moved to this country)

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to drive. I took to the wheel very early and have been driving on the roads for over a decade now. Driving in India was tough. Geared vehicles, heavy traffic and unruly two-wheelers. What I never realized through those times was that the whole exercise was preparing me to drive anywhere in the world. When we arrived in Chicago in August 2013, the right-hand side driving intimidated me no end. We do not own a car here, but those experiences riding in cabs rattled the day lights out of me. I was horrified at the thought of eventually taking on the wheel and steering myself on these roads. Unlike India, the left turn is a longer one and the right turn is a shorter one. Your steering wheel is on the left-hand side of the car and the fastest lane on the road is the left lane too. What scared me more were the surplus traffic signs and instructions on every single inch of this country. It’s all mapped out and a traffic violation can get you hefty fines sometimes amounting to $500! Everyone strictly drives in their lanes and the car’s odometer denotes distance in miles (and not kilometres).

So obviously, when I finally decided to take my driving test in March this year, I was a bundle of nerves. We hired a car (with insurance – which is a necessity for all vehicles here) and my husband gave me rudimentary driving lessons before the real big day (he is a fantastic driver, even in the US). I didn’t do great with the directions and my mind kept making me take reckless left turns and long right turns. We practiced parallel parking as well. I read and memorized the ‘Illinois – 2014 Rules of the Road’ guide by heart. And then came the test. My documents were verified and after furnishing two solid address proofs, came the vision test. I cleared that with ease. Next step was the written test which also, luckily, went well. It comprised mostly of identifying road signs and answering some questions about road safety (it’s always safest to select the most secure option). In my preparation, I had learnt amazing things like how everyone stopped their cars each time they saw a school bus boarding/unboarding children. Things like the ‘right to road’ and ‘yield’ were all very important lessons for the long term. I learnt that white lane lines meant one-way traffic and yellow center lines denote two-way traffic. Solid yellow lines mean no overtaking and broken yellow lines mean that one can overtake with caution. These learnings from carefully reading my road guide helped me sail through the written test too. And then came the third and last leg of my driving test travail. The actual driving test on the road with an instructor. The instructor was an old, quirky guy (nothing like my gentle lesson-giving husband) and after observing me drive for 15 long minutes, he failed me. Yes, for the first time in my life, I had actually failed a driving test. His reason – I was too slow. Obviously, I was gutted beyond belief. We chose to keep the car for another day and give it one more shot (only one trial is allowed per day). When we reached our parking spot the next morning, the car had a parking ticket stuck to the windshield. Fine of $150. The spot didn’t allow parking from 3am-6am. And obviously, because such a regulation was counterintuitive, we were surprised but ended up paying the fine anyway. Anyhow, my instructor was a friendly and warm young fellow this time who was more than happy with my driving and didn’t even make me do the complicated garage-reverse test. ‘I have seen enough’ is what he said. I was issued my driving licence instantly and voila, I was now a licensed driver in America, registered in the state of Illinois!

And thus started our most adventurous driving chronicles ever. My husband and I decided to undertake a cross-country drive from Chicago to New Jersey for the 4^th of July holiday weekend. It involved 776 miles of driving (1249 kilometres) and cut across five states (Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey). This long adventure required us to drive for 13 hours, one-way. We started off early in the morning and switched the driver’s seat every two hours. Leave alone driving on an expressway in America, I had never even driven on a highway in India! The roads though turned out to be extremely smooth and the cruise-control feature on our automatic sedan was a god-sent. We made three pit-stops for gas (I had packed food for the journey in advance) and were able to make it to New Jersey by midnight (you lose an hour when you go from Chicago to NJ because of a time-zone difference. Even within the US, four different time zones operate. Such is the magnitude of the land monstrosity in this country). Our 10-hour drive in the day was a cake walk. Long easy sweeps of seamless roads. Right-most lane reserved for trucks and the remaining lanes for cars. After my initial hesitation with the speeds (you can get a ticket if you go slower than the minimum speed limit too), I was able to gain firm control on the wheel. The minimum expressway speed limit is set at 45mph in most cases. The maximum is set between 70-80mph in most states too (rules and laws changes in every state). It is however common practice to reach a speed limit of 10mph over your permitted speed limit and set your car to cruise control, the auto-pilot. Once you set the speed, you are almost sure that you won’t over speed and hence save yourself the trouble of being caught by a state trooper (term used here for a traffic cop). The state of Ohio had a state trooper parked after almost every five miles, reading people’s cruising speeds. The state of Pennsylvania had deep gorges and was beautiful to drive through and click. The last three hours of our journey, however, involved driving through the night. Those were probably the most taxing moments. Craning our necks to follow the yellow lines blindly on the road. We passed a fog-zone too where the windscreen totally fogged up and we had to stop to clean it up. Deer zones were crossed too, where actual deer can actually jump out into the middle of the road and sometimes ram into your car. Finally after both of us had rendered stiff unbearable necks, we made it to our destination. The weekend with family was sheer bliss. For the drive back, we made full use of the daylight (summer days here stretch from 5am to 9pm) and didn’t have to drive at all at night. Crazy story to tell our kids… check.

The next drive happened between Houston and Dallas on a trip to Texas. This time our car was a hatch-back and the drive was just 4-hours long. It almost ended too soon for us and we got just 2 hours each behind the wheel. The roads were the same stretches of butter (metaphorically, of course) and the drive was as big a joy as the last one. Except that it was much hotter, because this was scorching Texas.

We now occasionally rent a car to drive around Chicago and get chores done. My fear of driving in America has evaporated progressively through this one year. I now find it easier and much more enjoyable than driving in India. People are civil and no one flouts traffic rules (mostly). 911 is at your service in case you ever meet with an accident (which we haven’t, thankfully) and the non-geared automatic cars are a delight. I have finally made peace with right-hand side driving and having the driver’s seat on the left-hand side of the car. I am amazed at how the road network has been so evenly laid out all across the USA. At some places, I have seen as many as seven fly-overs stacked one on top of another. The word ‘urbanization’ had swirled in my head several times. My new worry is an upcoming trip to India and how I would adjust back to driving on unruly roads with violent traffic and geared cars. But at least I feel elated with the realization that I am now equipped to drive easily anywhere else in the world :) A little bravado goes a long way in liberating you from your fears. Always make the extra effort!

(With this post starts a series of write-ups about life in America, from an Indian’s perspective who recently moved to this country)

It all started with the advent of the Coffee Mania. From the day I arrived in Chicago almost a year ago, I have constantly been baffled by the number of coffee mugs consumed by each person, per day. Across colleges and offices, the day starts with either a strong Espresso (black coffee), Cappuccino (espresso, milk and milk froth), Americano (a single shot of espresso added to a cup of hot water), Caffe Latte (single shot of espresso added to three parts of steamed milk), Caf au Lait (traditional French drink similar to caffe latter, except a weaker form), Caf Mocha (cappuccino or caffe latte with chocolate syrup or powder) or Caramel Macchiato (combination of espresso, caramel and foamed milk). On almost every desk is a steaming mug of coffee, exuding delicious aromas every morning and enticing you to buy a mug of your own.

As you down your first cup, it’s time for a refill in a couple of hours. As the day progresses further beyond noon, out comes the post-lunch wake-up coffee. This coffee keeps you alert and restrains you from falling asleep on your desk or work station after a hearty meal. As evening approaches, come more mugs of coffee to keep you focused till you wrap up and get done for the day. And there is no dearth of coffee shops to appeal to all types of tastes. The most famous ones are of course Starbucks, Peet’s Coffee & Tea, Caribou Coffee Company Inc., Tim Hortons and Dunkin’ Donuts. Office-goers go here because of the ease of accessibility. Students are found thronging these chains too and lots of coffee is consumed over chat sessions that last several hours. Extra points go to Starbucks for making coffee ‘cool’. Free wi-fi availability at some of these locations make them even more appealing. Gloria Jean’s Coffee, Lavazza, Panera Bread, Aroma Espresso Bar, PJ’s Coffee, Tully’s Coffee, Port City Java and Coffee Beanery are some of the other chains that see mass following from daily coffee consumers. Non-traditional coffee outlets like McDonald’s have gone the extra mile to aggressively brand and sell their coffee as well.

To me, it sometimes feels like drinking coffee is not merely a hobby, but a sport in America. Like all sports, people have staunch loyalties about taste and source. Some sophisticated elite who only have their coffee with butter and attend coffee-tastings (the regal aura of this activity would put wine-tasting to shame) throw a distasteful scorn at Starbucks. Their coffee preferences reflect their cultural and social persona. For others, coffee means social get-togethers and they are fully capable of enjoying a simple mug of Iced Coffee and Lattes at Dunkin’ Donuts. Whatever coffee might mean to anyone, the irrefutable truth about living in America is that you love your cuppa.

I and my husband were in New Orleans for Christmas last year. A family member introduced us to a new form of coffee – the Cold Brew (marketed by the New Orleans Coffee Company). Cold Brew basically refers to the process of steeping coffee grounds in room temperature or cold water for an extended period of time. This liquid form of coffee needs to be kept frozen and can quickly be mixed with some water or milk to render some lip-smacking coffee. My husband took a real liking to Cold Brew and now my freezer is jammed with its various varieties, including one in hazelnut flavor! Cold Brews can also be found in popular food chains like Trader Joe’s but are a tad bit more expensive than regular coffee.

Another coffee find in New Orleans was America’s most popular coffee shop – Café Du Monde (800 Decatur Street at the French Market in New Orleans, LA). We made multiple visits to this café during our trip and invariably always ended up waiting in queues before being seated. The joint was forever teeming with hoards of eager tourists and coffee-lovers. Everyone wanted a chicory-laced caf au lait and the addictive sugar-dusted beignets. Beignets are pastries made from deep-fried choux paste (made of butter, water, flour and eggs). They are served as a dessert in the US and come with heaps of powdered sugar mounted on top. Warm beignets make perfect companions with hot coffee and can taste good at any time of the day!

A survey was conducted by Live Science, Coffee 4 Dummies and Coffee Research and released on July 12^th, 2014. It presents interesting facts about coffee consumption in the US. The survey reveals that 54% of total Americans (over the age of 18 years) drink coffee every day. The average size of a coffee mug is 9 ounces. The average price of an expresso-based drink is $2.45. Almost 35% of the total coffee drinkers prefer black coffee. An average coffee drinker consumes 3.1 mugs of coffee daily. 65% coffee-drinkers added cream or sugar to their coffee. The total amount of money spent on importing coffee to the US each year is a whopping $4 billion!

According to the Huffington Post, Chicago tops the list of America’s Ten Most Caffeinated cities. It is followed closely by New York, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Washington DC, San Jose, Portland (Oregon), Miami and Minneapolis. The ranks were decided by analyzing average household spending at city coffee shops, based on data from 20 million anonymous Visa and MasterCard holders. The larger pictures that I am trying to paint here is that coffee consumption in America is a serious business. Surveys are conducted to gauze coffee spends, extensive research is undertaken to stay abreast of people’s changing taste preferences and Starbucks remains the third most popular food chain in America (after McDonald’s and Subway).

I somehow still haven’t caught on to the trend. But my husband seems to have mounted the coffee bandwagon with gusto. At work and in school, he is a loyal Starbucks patron. At his business school, one can get a coffee refill for just $1 if they carry their own coffee mug. Each time I sit with him to audit a class (spouses have the liberty to do that here), students all around us have their proud coffee mugs mounted on the tables. Breakfast can be skipped but skipping coffee is a strict no-no. Professors sometimes have coffee mugs of their own perched perilously at the edge of their lectern. My sense of wonder and amazement refuses to die down. I still relate more easily to cup of tea than I do the addictive mug of coffee. But that hasn’t stopped me from looking up and experimenting with creating different coffee tastes in my own kitchen. I am far from good at being a competitive coffee chef, but I do hope to catch on one day. Till then, Starbucks zindabaad.

Nandu didn't know how it felt to have a full stomach after a sumptuous meal. Life was not very kind to an insignificant washer-man in a small city like Lucknow. And Nandu's life had been spent first helping his mother wash other people's clothes (while his alcoholic father spent all their money on his addiction), and later taking on the job full-time when his mother's bodily strengths had given way to illness and old-age. He tried to stay mellow and that had now become a habit. Nandu had learnt to smile in the face of adversity because growling had never seemed to help anyone in his situation.

His marriage has turned out badly too. His wife, still in the trance of her old lover, had not birthed him a child and left him when he tried to coax her into having one. His second wife was a divorcee herself, and thankfully, they hit it off as seamlessly as a round roti fits perfectly on a circular black tawa. Nandu and Kanta had built a happy life together. After delivering one girl and two boys, Kanta decided to help Nandu with his work as well.

The couple would set off each morning (Kanta would carry their kids with her) to the various households that had employed them. Nandu would attend to half of them and Kanta would attend to the other half. Scores of unwashed clothes from the previous day would first be soaked in water plus detergent in big buckets typically found in all Indian homes. While the clothes got soaked, Nandu would wash cars for extra money and Kanta (in her own other separate house of work) would make small-talk with the lady of the household. Then they would wash the clothes and hang them out on clothing lines to dry. Both would meet to eat the lunch that Kanta would pack for them and then disperse again to return to their respective houses and iron out the bundles of clothes from the previous day. In the evening, they would set out together to go home and prepare their meals.

On a particularly warm day on a June afternoon, Nandu had to attend to his sick mother. So Kanta decided to manage the day's workload alone. She dressed up in a plain red cotton saree (a proud sign of her happy marriage), put a big round maroon bindi on her forehead, cooked some rotis for lunch and headed out to wash clothes with her youngest son on the hip, and another boy and a girl (her two older kids) walking behind her holding her saree pallu. Kanta was a strong-headed, sharp woman. Instead of feeling pressured by the rigours of daily routine work, she enjoyed the time away from home. She also enjoyed making some money of her and helping out her husband, and had learned to treasure her conversations with the primary women in the houses that she worked in. These women were her window to an affluent life that she could never afford. Their stories about their children's troubles in school, the tiffs with their husbands over money matters and their concerns about nosey relatives were Kanta's staple food for thought. She liked these conversations perhaps much more than any other aspects of work and with that motivation, she continued to make long strides towards the houses.

Midway during her morning work, Kanta realized that today was her and Nandu's wedding anniversary. It had been 5 long years since they had tied the knot in a quiet ceremony attended by only a few relatives (Indians are known to exhibit lukewarm, squirmish feelings about second marriages). And yet, Kanta held the day close to her heart because it had made a huge difference to her otherwise sullen life. Her first husband used to beat her and pushed her out of the house after returning home drunk one night. In the scuffle that followed, he had hurt Kanta so bad that she had to be hospitalised later for a dislocated shoulder. It was then that she had decided to do something about the situation. When she threatened him with a police complaint after getting home a few days later, he had poked her with cigarette holes and revealed having an affair with someone he knew for several years. A heartbroken Kanta had then filed for divorce (after much condemnation from her relatives) and her subsequent marriage with Nandu had been a god-sent. Unlike her previous husband, Nandu was jolly and looked forever happy, no matter what the situation. Leave alone hitting her, he never even raised his voice to scold her. Having finally attained a marital bond worth nurturing and a husband who treated her well, Kanta deeply valued her relationship with him.

She wanted to make the anniversary special for Nandu. So after washing and ironing what felt like truckloads of clothes (the domestic banter did help her immensely in passing the day. The regular tea that people offered to her in the evening helped too), Kanta went to the house-mistress of the last house that she had ironed clothes in and asked her if she had any leftover food from the day. Luckily, the woman had huge quantities of food left in her fridge from the meals of today and the day before, which she was more than happy to offload on Kanta (people generally liked Kanta for her affable and friendly disposition). The leftover subzis made Kanta very happy. In reality, with the responsibility of three young kids, the couple could barely make ends meet. On most nights, they would just eat raw onions with roti because buying vegetables was expensive. Nor did they own a refrigerator to save the produce for the next day.

At around 7 in the evening, Kanta tied the tiny polythene bags containing the left-over subzis in a fold of the saree at her waist and picked up her three kids to make her way back home. The sun was almost down and the sweltering hot ground had now turned partially cool in the wake of the evening breeze. Kanta knew that on days like today, Nandu would only come back after putting his mother to sleep at around 9 pm, and so she had plenty of time to bathe, put the kids to bed and set out the food for him. At home, when she finally opened the tiny polythene bags to look at the food that had been doled out to her, she was happy to see small portions of residual shahi paneer, butter chicken, dal palak and some rajma in a thick creamy gravy. The last subzi looked like a left-over from a restaurant meal that the family must have had together sometime on the weekend. The others looked home-cooked and were still a bit cold from being extracted from the fridge.

Kanta did as she had planned. She took a quick bath, fed her kids and put them to bed. Then she made some fresh rotis for Nandu and lay them out on the floor with the now-heated subzis. The family didn't have much furniture besides a bed which all five of them shared. They often just dined on the floor with a newspaper laid out as a mat. Their 'house' was actually just one big room with a kitchen stashed on one side and a bed on another. The toilet was a dingy small room outside and they took their baths behind a small wall partition alongside the house and the toilet. It wasn't much, but the family could make do.

True to his habit, Nandu returned at five minutes past 9, looking tired and worn-out. Taking care of his mother was not an easy task and it drained him off all his energy every time. He first cooked for her, then bathed her, took her to the doctor, bought her medicines, fed her and finally put her to bed. She lived in an even smaller house in the same locality and was now alone, after her alcoholic husband had passed away two years ago from severe liver damage.

The sight of Kanta sitting on the floor, waiting for him with food , instantly cheered Nandu up. He did love this woman who would wait each night for the kids to fall asleep to share dinner with him. Kanta looked clean and fresh, dressed in a new pink saree that she had recently bought for her sister's engagement. Nandu approached her, cleaned up quickly in the kitchen sink, and sat down next to her. They both finally shared a hearty meal together and talked about their respective days. Both shared details of their work and conversations, and after finishing the meal, Kanta slowly reminded him of their fifth saal-giraah. Nandu blushed a little and kissed her gently on the cheek. He wished her and slowly began to help her with clearing up the dishes. He was happy because his wife had remembered their anniversary and made an effort to put together a nice meal for him. He wore a smile too because his stomach was finally full with delectable food after months of eating just onions and rotis (with achaar) for dinner.

As the couple returned to bed to squeeze in alongside their three sleeping kids, Nandu turned to face Kanta and slowly pulled out a small package from his trouser pockets. It looked like a newspaper wrapped around something small. Kanta removed the crumbling paper slowly to find a dozen bright, red bangles staring back at her. They were plain in appearance and wore the hallmark of simplicity that she now associated with her husband. Her eyes welled up when she realised that Nandu must have sneaked out quietly after the doctor's appointment to visit the marketplace nearby to buy her this gift. With tears dripping down her cheeks, she wore the bangles on her wrists and wrapped her arms around Nandu as a sign of loving gratitude. The couple held on to each other in the stillness of the night and quietly repeated their vows in each other's ears. After that, they slowly drifted back to peaceful sleep... knowing that the circle of life was now complete with their companionship and their three beautiful kids...

The sun was still up when she left the office. Summers in Delhi were brutal and the sunlight was still sharp well past 6 in the evening. Dressed in a simple lilac chooridaar suit, with a white silk dupatta around her neck, Lakshmi walked in slow, tired strides towards her car. Her jaipuri jootis felt clammy under her feet and she had already broken into a sweat from the short walk from the office to her vehicle. With bulky files in one hand and car keys in another, she finally settled down into the driver’s seat and revved up the engine.

Grooooom… started her silver Honda Civic like an obedient servant. As Lakshmi slowly steered her way out of the crowded parking lot, she shot a quick glance at the imposing office building. Amidst the several floors and cubicles that it encompassed, she occupied a small desk as the Marketing Associate for a leading FMCG company on the 10^th floor. Lakshmi liked her work, but on days like today after several meetings and a multitude of tiring conversations, she felt drained and completely bereft of energy. This, despite the knowledge that it was the earliest that she had left work in months.

At home waited no one in particular. A rusty apartment in a crowded locality in Delhi – Lakshmi’s house by characterized by crummy walls, chipped paint, stained curtains, an empty fridge and a hardly-used kitchen. She lived alone and her kaam-wali bai came to clean and wash every morning before Lakshmi left for work. The apartment was once plush, but the lack of maintenance had reduced it to its sad state of unkemptness.

The relationship that Lakshmi shared with her bai was one of the few that she could sustain at this point in her life. At the age of 32 years, without a husband or a child, life anyway didn’t come easy for Lakshmi. When she had graduated from business school several years ago, her parents had dreamt big dreams for her. But when the pressures of rigorous jobs (and living alone) consumed her, Lakshmi had found solace in the company of a man. A man who had later got her pregnant and then refused to share a part of the blame and responsibility. After he broke her heart on a rainy winter evening and left her to fend for herself, Lakshmi had decided to build a life alone. But an abortion had became imminent, and after wilfully losing her child to a callous surgical procedure, Lakshmi had lost a part of herself too.

She no longer wished to engage in the daily mundaneness of regular life. Nor did she make friends, continued to stay wary of men and falling in love, refused to engage in household work and seemed to have lost all interest in even cooking square meals for herself. Directing all her efforts towards her job, Lakshmi had found a vent for her simmering rage through the way of work. And on days like today when she could leave office earlier than usual, Lakshmi slipped into glumness and dark contemplation. Her mind would travel back to her poor lost child, and with it the lost opportunities, and she would start judging herself through the prism of a miserably failed motherhood. She thought it was the hardest burden to carry, and consequently, she occasionally lapsed into brief spells of depression and severe self-criticism.

As she drove her Civic for a few kilometers and entered a busy market area of the city, she looked around on a red traffic signal to distract herself from her dreary thoughts. Her eyes fell upon a mother scolding her two children for demanding ice-cream each time they saw a vendor. A part of Lakshmi’s stomach churned with over-bearing longing and she thought about how different life would have been if she had decided to keep the baby and raised it alone. But Lakshmi knew that she didn’t have the courage to brave the constant sneers of the society, and she tore her eyes away from the angry mother and looked ahead, waiting for the light to change to green. And thankfully, with the signal, changed her pathetic mood.

After 30 more agonizing minutes of weaving her way through the crowded market traffic, Lakshmi hit the expressway, but was still half hour away from home. The subsequent easing away of the brief spell of road-rage gave way to a pregnant silence, and soon Lakshmi was sucked again into the melancholy mood that continued to gnaw on her insides. No more traffic jams or car horns were around to distract her from succumbing to her now persistent inner unrest.

She knew that deep below, she was very upset. Still hurt and dejected by the betrayal of the man that she once loved with all her heart. Three years had passed since the tragic events, and he was even married to someone else now. What was worse, was that his wife was expecting a baby in just three months. Lakshmi knew all this because she had never stopped stalking him. Sometimes on social media and sometimes through her friends, she knew where he lived and what he was up to most of the time. Even though he made much less money than she did now, he at least appeared to be happy. And that tore Lakshmi apart because she felt alone in bearing the brunt of hardship stemming from the loss of their child and relationship. She constantly lived with the guilt of having exhumed an innocent life because of her cowardly lack of options, even as the man of her dreams who was responsible for the loss continued to live like nothing had happened. She felt tortured and slighted by his ignorance and according to her - his cold apathy.

Something turned inside of her at the thought of her past lover’s unborn child, and the bright future that lay ahead for the baby, and the unfairness of it all screamed out at Lakshmi & ran its pointy fingers on the walls of her fragile heart. The pain in her gut became unbearable to carry and out of nowhere, she decided to turn the car and give a piece of her mind to the unassuming scum-bag. While her purple jhumkas made slight chiming noises along the small bumps in the road, Lakshmi made a rough change of gears, and suddenly steered right to make a U-turn.

And then it happened. BAM!

Aftermath:

When an eye-witness was asked for his testimony about what he had seen, he narrated that a furious looking woman had suddenly changed lanes at high speed on a dangerous express-way, and had been hit by a truck coming from behind her car. The hood of the truck had rammed straight into Lakshmi’s car door, and the light of life had almost immediately been sucked out of her as a rod of steel tore through her brain. Her frozen face now wore an expression of frigid horror, like it had never recovered from the sight of the approaching truck. The grotesque creases on her body almost told the story of a life full of disappointments and injustices. Her story of loneliness and betrayal seemed to have come to a sudden, but fitting end, in the savage accident.

The eye witness, of course, had only seen an ordinary woman die in an unfortunate accident. But on a deeper level, fate had dealt its final blow to Lakshmi and taken away whatever little remained in her puny hands. Her struggles with life had come to an abrupt end and maybe her soul had finally been reunited with her unborn child. The child - that was the only source of light (and darkness alike) in her now extinguished life.

The next day when the bai knocked on Lakshmi’s door to clean the house, no one answered. The forever grieving and lonely Lakshmi didn't live there anymore...

After several discussions with friends about Indian General Elections 2014 and the rise of the ‘chosen one’, I obviously realized that people had their own strong views about governance. For the people who supported our next PM (which was a majority), I heard several arguments about why he was the man for the moment. While I gave a patient ear to all that they had to say, I wasn’t particularly convinced about a lot of other things that were being said. Being a journalist, I stuck to my stand of objectivity. But to my utter surprise (and not a pleasant one), some close friends came out and said that I shouldn’t be concerned about India while I enjoy my ‘comfortable’ stay in the US. This post is for those people who lost the debate the minute they brought up this argument.

I am an Indian citizen with an Indian passport. Till I renounce my citizenship and take an oath to be a US citizen (or any other citizen for that matter), no individual has any business telling me that I shouldn’t have opinions about India. Whether I live in the United States or Timbuktu, I will always have a stake in what’s going on in my country because it will always affect me directly. Whenever I decide to return to my country, and ‘my’ is the keyword here, I will have to face the political going-ons that would affect my life on a daily basis. Even if I live elsewhere, I have a sense of ownership over India. My family lives there. My life exists there. My bearings lie there. And I shall have as many opinions as I had back when I lived there about politics, leaders, elections… and whatever else happens under the big blue sky in India. Don’t tell me that it’s not my business. I give credence to your arguments for as long as you give me rational ones. The minute you say I can’t have opinions because I live abroad, you have crossed the line and stepped into my personal space. And you can then expect barbed attacks back about your pettiness.

I also worry about Indian politics because I am a journalist and that is my sphere of work. After spending years bringing election results and political doings to you on your television screens, I have developed a big appetite for governmental opinions. An even bigger appetite for showing the correct place to people who sound brainwashed by one political party and forget all objectivity and thrust their views down your throat – was an obvious aftereffect. You are the people who bring the country down. Your blind faith voted the UPA 2 to power five years ago. When you now scream allegiance to the BJP, I see you as a loser who knows nothing better than backing the winning horse. You have no sense of direction and no barometer to check the feasibility of your politician. You pick up one issue (economic growth this time) and chose to turn a blind-eye to everything else (including a politician’s past). You close your eyes to reason and give all types of arguments to glorify your point of view and vilify anything else that stands in your way. You try to look sorted, but you are not. Hence you raise your voice and find solace in being rude. You try to look selfless (‘my candidate will work to improve my country’s economy’) when actually you are very selfish (do right to equality and expression not matter in your books?). And when you run out of all your little arguments, you start attacking people’s personal space.

Third argument, my global image. Anywhere I go in the world, I am branded as an Indian. Which I am and which I am proud of. First, no politician will tell me that I should move to Pakistan because I care for a certain group of people (its called humanity). Secondly, no person should forget that whatever happens in India today will affect the way people perceive me (or you) living (or travelling) anywhere else in the world tomorrow. When the horrible attacks of 9/11 happened, the Muslims living in the US had done nothing to abet them. And yet, these were the same people who had to deal with stone-pelting on their houses, death threats to their children, sporadic arrests by the authorities for 'questioning' and 'random' checks at airports for all brown people (the malice still continues). So yes, I am concerned about what happens in my country. Because it affects me more personally more than it affects you. Because that becomes my identity the minute I step out of the country. I am seen as an Indian everywhere I go in world and so all matters Indian are very much my business.

And lastly, I shall not have my own countrymen treat me like an alien. It’s unacceptable. No one tells me where my heart lies. You only show age-old stereotypes by saying that I lead a ‘comfortable’ life here. You know nothing about my life, so save the branding. And maybe upgrade your world-views and step out of that narrow alley you call your mind. It’s not doing you any good and it certainly seems to have no grey matter in it.

So YES, I will continue to have as many views about Indian politics as I want. Close your eyes and ears if you don’t like them. Run away and never look back like an ostrich if it bothers you. But don’t try to smother my views on the pretext that I don’t physically live there. Because honestly, where I live is none of your business.  Maybe find more solid arguments for your debate next time and don’t harp on your own insecurities and stoop to the extent of making personal attacks.

As a woman trapped in a quagmire of no job or kids, you learn to find solace in the softer pursuits of life. Vanilla things like apartment decoration, shopping to expand your clothing (and shoes) wardrobe, being an extensive part of other people's lives and happiness... and of course, being in the supermarket. The allure of those grandly-lit, bright and inviting shelves stocked up with a huge variety of utilitarian products and produce. Every time you feel the urge to spend, but don't have enough cash to splurge on fashion, you enter - the supermarket!

For me, its a mid-way option between not shopping at all and spending excessively on fashion that will (as the name suggests), go out-of-fashion soon. Grocery shopping is the fence-sitter's vent to spending without feeling guilty (because the purchases will eventually be used around the house). It still allows you to swipe that credit card, without feeling like you just burnt an unnecessary hole in your husband's pocket.

In my household, grocery shopping is a task specifically reserved for me. Primarily because of two reasons - one, it lets me be in control of the products and brands that enter my house. And two, because it fulfils my basic need of shopping as a lady. Multiple trips to the supermarket to pick up one item at a time (like a $2 carton of milk) has kept me from spending hundreds of dollars on fashion. That would be a selfish buy to temporarily excite my inner-demon who always wants to look good.

America is a very consumer-centric market. If you have cash, the economy will give you at least 2000 ways to spend it, without even leaving your house (phone servicing, smartphone apps, Amazon, virtual online showrooms). Ever since I have arrived here, my mailbox (real AND digital) has been overflowing with discount offers from my favorite stores (Francesca's, Victoria's Secret, etc. - guess they found my address from my Cosmopolitan subscription). Sales seem to go on throughout the year and the allure to purchase is almost impossible to resist. Models wearing smashing pastels and sunglasses are thronging my vision through the spring catalogues and brochures that have already found a way inside my mailbox. Given all the incentive, I have to resort to grocery shopping to curb the natural instinct to buy.

In retrospect, my biggest fashion binges have centred around the years that I have spent working. If its my own money, I don't think twice before buying that LV bag that looks so crisp and professional. Problem starts when I am playing the role of a dependent. With a husband that barely even raises an eyebrow to my impulsive shopping, my inner moral instincts kick me harder each time I decide to please myself with shopping.

So all you women out there, if you have limited depth in your pocket (which would be most of us - considering you also worry about 'menial' things like savings and retirement) but an overriding impulse to purchase, try the magic formula of grocery shopping! It will keep you in the market, you still get to experience retail therapy by browsing the huge shelves and working to get to your item, you also still get to spend a few bucks and swipe that card - WITHOUT the flood of guilt at the end of it all. This arrangement works all too well to postpone that next big, expensive fashion buy. Until a sunnier day!

Minister of State for Human Resource Development Shashi Tharoor’s wife, Sunanda Pushkar Tharoor, was recently found dead in Delhi’s posh Leela Hotel. The incident happened after a public spat between Sunanda Tharoor and Pakistani journalist Mehr Tarar over the latter’s alleged ‘stalking’ of Shashi  Tharoor. After the war broke out on Twitter, and between the day that Sunanda allegedly committed suicide, she gave a bunch of television interviews about what went into the making of the all-out spat. Clearly upset over the accusations of spoiling her husband’s career with her constant shenanigans, Sunanda might have decided to end her life (and I say ‘might’ because whether it was a suicide still hasn’t been proven and the needle of suspicion hangs on her influential husband Shashi Tharoor).

This is not just Sunanda’s story. Scores of women have given up their successful careers and bright lives to play accomplice to their husband’s achievements and success. Some are fortunate to have men who do not stray, but alas, some others bear the brunt of the indiscretions of their men. I am not, however, suggesting that Sunanda did the right thing by committing suicide. I mean why rid the man so easily of his crimes by ending your own life? Heard of nasty divorces and hefty alimonies, anyone? Remarriage too and living a normal life. But the larger point that I am trying to make is that women seem to get the rough end of the deal in case a marriage falls apart due to infidelities (committed by either side). If lord forbid their husbands decide to cheat on them in a ‘weak moment of temptation’, some take it so hard that it ends the way the third-time marriage fairytale ended for Mrs Tharoor.

The saga leaves no strata of women untouched. Talking about the rich and the famous – the category to which Sunanda Pushkar Tharoor belonged to – former players include Hillary Clinton (survived the Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky sex scandal), Huma Abedin (wife of American politician and infamous ‘sexter’ Anthony Weiner), Elin Nordengren (Tiger Wood’s wife) and most recently Valerie Trierweiler (the French President’s wife). The list includes many more and goes on to prove that wealth and fame are no safeguards against the feeble minds of men. Further, there are more layers of women involved in this mental form of injustice. Think about the category of the bored middle class. Tired of their routine lives, they seek solace outside their home with the petty premise of jigging up their world. When their indiscretions come to light, someone has to pay the price. And this price is most often paid by the women. In the poor world, these things are more commonplace and rampant. In some cases, wife is the sole breadwinner too and still faces adultery and constant verbal & physical abuse.

So why do Sunanda’s of the world have to lose their lives? To put it narrowly, why do smart and intelligent women wrap their lives around their husband’s little finger? Why do they seek joy in their joys and sadness and in their sorrows and forget what defines them as individuals, separate from the logistics of their husband’s life? Why do they cover up their husband’s crimes (the IPL scandal in Sunanda’s case) and why do they decide to pick up fights with other women wrecking their marriage instead of first sorting out things at home? Conversely, another way to think about this is, why do men give acknowledgements in the form of ‘To the love of my life, and the life of my love, Sunanda’ on the first pages of their books (Tharoor’s Pax Indica) to their ‘beloved’ wives and then give them so much reason to worry? They are fully at fault for first leading their wives into believing that they are ‘the one’ and then letting their interest get weaned away by the endless lusts of the world.

How difficult is it to stay faithful anyway? And if for some reason, the object of your affection changes, how difficult is it to call it quits before jumping on to your next bandwagon of (flimsy) trust? Why do people not see the merits of simplifying and de-cluttering their lives? How do some women manage to stay in rotten marriages for the sake of their societal status or kids? When did the world we live in get so hostile and unbearable? And why do poor Sunanda’s have to exist and then suddenly cease to exist at a whim?

Her demise probably came down the hardest on the one person that she clearly forgot the accord some thought to - her son. To lose a mother and then face the public humiliation after the former loss of his (real) father is a bruise big enough to shade the rest of his life. Do women who choose to end their lives over men realize how much they hurt the people around them who actually love them and value them for who they are? It’s always easier to leave the path when the going gets tough and to take the easy exit out. But the path of righteousness, resistance and resilience is far more rewarding than what’s easy in the moment. History seems to suggest that once a man is proven to be a cheater, that side of his personality never seems to go away. One girlfriend after another and one wife after another, all are subject to the same callousness as the previous, disguised in the politely camouflaged excuse of ‘the charm of love wearing off’. Kings and queens and prime ministers and presidents and sportsmen (sadly these are the only people whose stories stick around long enough in public conscience) have proven by means of their lives that infidelity is an affliction - an incurable disease. Then why do women choose suicide over the drama of seeing their men break the hearts (in due course) of the women that they once picked over them?

As we lament the demise of another pretty face (and in India, it almost feels like a crime to be above average in looks – cause people then see you as a picky, narcissistic, dumb human), we also realize that women seriously need to rethink the choices that they make. Nobody asks you to leave your previous lives in the charms of that one new man who has swept you off your feet. If you are incapable of reading your man’s intentions in advance and subsequently ill-equipped to deal with the collapse of your union, please at least hold your careers and family close to you. Because when one door closes, another one can fully absorb your being (like soft cushions softening blows and shocks). If only you give them a chance.

P.S. I like Shashi Tharoor’s writings and liked his tenure at the UN. I rooted for him as he contested for the post of undersecretary. I still like his views on India and the world. But I would be lying if I say that the whole Sunanda Pushkar Tharoor episode hasn’t taken away some charm (and maybe respect, but who am I to judge) away from the old man. The situation could have been dealt with better. If it had been, then one innocent life (even if a little extra emotional and attached) could have been saved. We lament and pray in unison for the innocent departed soul.