About 10 minutes ago, one of my co-workers strolled in with an impressive Styrofoam container, filled with something pungent.
“Hey…is that Moby Dick?“, another asked. Seven of us are on this team; we share a decently sized office which is cube-free and thus collaboration-ready.
“Nah, it’s curry.” Â…annnnd my ears are pricked.
“Oh, really? From where?”
“Lunch buffet…place across the street.”
At this point, my eyes slightly bulge. He’s referring to a place I went to once, an establishment which left such an awful taste in my mouth that not only did I hate my lunch, I couldn’t even enjoy complaining about it afterwards, because my then-BF scoffed, “What were you thinking? Food from restaurants named after mausoleums NEVER tastes good. Don’t you know that only gora eat there?”
“Man, I love curry. Wish I had gone there instead of Cosi.”
“Yeah, it’s great.”
At this point, I’m engulfed by weirdness. I’ve mentioned to them in the past that the restaurant in question is blech-inducing. Hmm. Did they not believe me? Wait–is there some issue with my brown credibility? I trust my Lebanese friends when they advise me about which hummus sucks like a Dyson, what gives? I shake my head to clear it, but the discordance is rotting my brain.
The room spins a bit; did I hallucinate that entire conversation with them last week? The one in which we discussed the very difference between these two eateries? No. We totally had that talk. They know I vouched for Heritage India, which is a whopping two doors away from the hole from whence this styrofoam came. I start to feel a bizarre dissonance and I calmly attempt to explore it. Perhaps IÂ’m viewing this improperly. Despite my slight discomfort, maybe we’ve come a long way, baby, if I’m not automatically looked at every time someone utters the word “curry”. Yet oddly, I’m not thrilled. I know. Impossible to please.
This reminds me of Nike’s “Vamp like an Egyptian“-shtick. Is half-assed brown better than no brown at all? I vote “no”. Still, why do I care so much? Who appointed me Ambassador to Brownland? I watch co-worker number two dig in and I almost cringe, I canÂ’t get over my sororal proclivities, my innate bossiness. If he likes to eat sub-par desi food, why should I give a shit? I have work to do, which I attempt to lose myself in, but then…“So how was it?”
“Great.”
“Hey, did I tell you I just saw Musharraf?”
“Who?”
“The President of Pakistan. He was at Brooks Brothers with his entourage.”
At this point, I whip off the noise-canceling-phones which don’t cancel anywhere near enough annoyance to really make a difference and I hold my breath. This is a matter most mutinous. Maybe I can run over and snap a picture, tell him I know Sin, something.
“WHAT?”, I blurt out spastically.
The Mushie-spotter disinterestedly turns my way and mutters, “yeah”, right before showing me his back again.
Co-worker One: “Dude…you should’ve asked him where Osama is…”
Robust laughter. The conversation turns to the Daily Show and how it takes news so much more seriously than actual news programs. The other four people in this room are discussing the Pakistani dicator-in-chief, IÂ’m obviously interested in what they have to say and instead of being included, I’m sitting here, feeling more foreign than I’ve felt in a while.
Actually, I have felt like this before. This reminds me of the time I was in college and on my way to a wedding. It was well over a decade ago, on a Saturday morning and I had asked my Dad to stop by my sorority house briefly so that I could run in and check my cubbie for “mail” (as well as for more candy from my big sister). I was expecting something important regarding our upcoming Formal and I hadn’t been able to visit the house the day before, when it had been delivered.
Trussed up in six yards of Kanjeevaram, my earlobes dipping from the weight of bright yellow gold, arms shimmering from the magnificence of all those diamond-cut bracelets Daddy brought me from Dubai when I was six (in anticipation for a wedding which should occur twenty years later), I swept through Delta GammaÂ’s french doors, past three of my “sisters” who were in gym clothes, post-Saturday-morning athleticism.
“What’s up?” they asked, before returning to their MTV. Not a single double-take, raised eyebrow or moment of “hmmm” to be found.
Suddenly very conscious of the clattering of my heels on the hardwood floor, I started mincing about so lightly, I was nearly silent, which is exactly when I was overtaken by the weirdest sort of thought: “now I’m not here at all”. They hadn’t seen me, now they couldn’t hear me, either. I smiled bitterly. I was the only girl to ever walk through those doors in a mantrakodi; what, that wasn’t noticeable at all? I’m not saying I wished to be gawked at, but I definitely wished forÂ…something. These were the days before I was “Brown”, so all those years ago, I just wasn’t sure what it was that I wanted.
I picked up an envelope and a fat bag of sugar tied with our colors and walked out without saying a word. Daddy looked at me impatiently as I gingerly held my pallu with one hand while simultaneously securing my pleats with the other. I got in the backseat gently and off we went. I had never felt so capriciously invisible.
:+:
There’s a middle ground between painfully obvious otherness and invisibility, between being singled out and ignored; it’s a sacred space for me which I rarely get to visit and it’s one of the concepts which inspires me to Mutiny. Partly because of my involvement in our fabulous never-ending cocktail party, I know exactly what it is that I wanted so many years ago and it’s the same thing I wanted 15 minutes ago– I want to be seen accurately, clearly, entirely.
Flashback to1994: bronze, pink and blue ribbons tied lovingly around gifts from my big, hand-made for a pledge with a sailor hat on her hair and angular letters on her shirt– that was me. A kumkum-based pottu, keshava-bordered silk and the same 22k choker my Mother left India with over three decades ago? Also very much me. That strange cocktail remains potent to this day; it still threatens to slosh over my rim. Sorority girl in a sari: even now thatÂ’s my steez, yo.
:+:
Let me pre-empt the flaming comments some of you are arming your bows with right this nimisam– IÂ’m not requesting or requiring that all South Asian-related conversations which occur in my ear space include little ole me. I wrote this post because I experienced a moment of utter, preternatural dissension and I just had to bore you with it. IÂ’m not a twit who couldnÂ’t deal with being the odd kid out—thatÂ’s been my role since pre-school and I relish it, sathyam.
I’m just articulating how it would be nice to be seen for exactly who I am, to have the multitudes I contain be recognized. My iTunes spins M.S. Subbulakshmi more often than the Pixies. The International Delight Irish Cream-flavored coffee goop I brought to leave in our kitchen was accompanied by a jar of hot lime pickle and some random frozen dinner which featured chawal and chole (which got JACKED I might add…someone on the sixth floor has good taste in other people’s lunches). The pictures of me getting carded at Chuy’s nestle next to images of my Mother and sister, resplendent in silk at a cousin’s wedding. My notes from meetings are decorated by a border of squirming, wiggling shapes which are my attempt to scribble “la”, “tha”, “va” and “na”.
ThereÂ’s a dichotomy at my very core, and I may get mocked for stating this, but to have that be ignored stings a tiny bit. IÂ’m not an either or a neither; IÂ’m a both. And I am just as vexed by bad Indian food as I am by jerky, thudding approximations of bharatnatyam.
IÂ’m a sour, slightly bitter drink, I know.
sweet post.
i know exactly what you mean and can relate to how you felt.
Gotta run to dinner, but even I – 6’3″ tall, bearded, turbanned with a new yorkers voice – know what you mean about invisibility.
I’d take the invisibility, anna. Indian food has arrived! We don’t seek out Italians to ask about where to find the best pizza in town. It’s very nice not to be looked at anytime someone mentions anything Indian.
About your sorority, could it be because they don’t get that your dress on that day was special? Maybe it’s expected of you?. During my first year in this country, my host family (very nice people) wanted to see pictures of my family and home etc. One of the pictures was of an elephant walking past our house. I’d taken the picture because it was a rare thing and I thought it was something very special. But my host family thought it was totally normal. You know, India, elephants, all that. They expressed no surprise at all, they treated it just like the picture of my uncle outside our house. My uncle is rather elephant-like, I must admit :-).
Awesome post! Could really relate…
Anna, it’s posts like this that have made me fall madly, madly in love with you. 🙂
The way you express your frustration so pointedly and eloquently – after reading this story I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I had to sit back and catch my breath.
I don’t know what else to say. Maybe simply: thank you for sharing this with us.
On a Mushie-related note, I got penned in by the NYPD with a bunch of nattily attired fifty-something señoras from Spain Tuesday night, as Musharraf and his motorcade returned from the Jon Stewart gig to his hotel.
The Madrileñas, who were guests at the same establishment, chattered happily to each other that the least he could do, since he was delaying them from their night out, was to invite them all to dinner!
What happens in Nueva York, stays in Nueva York…
Anna, I don’t know how else to say this so I am just going to come out and say it and hope for the best. I didn’t like the food at Amma’s.
Abhi runs away as fast as he possibly can, praying that he had the power of invisibility
🙂
Abhi, surely you don’t mean the midtown Manhattan Amma?????
What didn’t you like?
Granted, it’s a bit pricey, but I thought they did “authentic” enough food with some interesting twists, without being too gimmicky or fusiony.
I’ve NEVER been happier to be your ex-. 😉
filmholic, i think abhi is referring to ammas in DC… which abhi, i also admit i wasn’t too impressed with.. madras saravana bhavan here in atlanta is much better in my foodie opinion.
What’s more important for a meetup venue: five-star food or NOT GETTING KICKED OUT, ever? 🙂
They have been a little off lately, but when Barmaid and I go by ourselves and only speak Malayalam, for some reason, everything’s awesome. 😉
Wow! What a post. A very brown moment out of time. Anna analyzes the minutia like Franz Fannon doing a Seinfeld bit. Truth is in the small things. I wonder if her co-workers and friends were in truth equally self-conscious, trying hard not to notice that which is so insignificant, but looms so large.
one time, in elementary skool, in art class the teacher mentioned ‘india ink.’ a couple of kidz looked at me.
Also, if anyone else has something mean to say about my beloved Amma’s (my maniacal devotion is so not about the food), the restaurant that kept me alive during grad school when I lost 15 pounds b/c I hated the food in DC and had nothing to eat, the place my mother personally made a pilgrimage to, to thank the owners of when she visited, for keeping her baby fed then and able to blog for your pleasure now…well, I’ll ban you. 🙂
I’m loyal like a dog, y’all.
exquisitely written
You were a Daughter of God? interesting…
Actually, not to belabor the point, but I am curious how many of you who were Greek in college. I only knew of 2 desi guys who were Greek in college (around A N N A’s time period)…
Barmaid was a Theta.
nice blog..
LOL..
anna – you are one beautiful girl! whoever, (bf, gf, spouse) he/she is/was/will be is one lucky mother/father lover.
Great post, Anna!
I belong to a lot of different groups that really don’t mix themselves. I’ve felt like this as a girl among mostly male scientists, and then as a science major working among mostly humanities-major colleagues. I’ve felt like this as a religious person among mostly atheists, and as a modernist among traditionalists. You don’t want to be the singled-out, labeled, stereotyped, go-to person, but neither do you want your expertise to be ignored, your unique voice drowned out. And my sneaky suspicion is that this happens to everyone, all the time, but is less obvious when the obvious group labels are homogenous. I am reminded of a story about the four Beatles. One day, about mid career, John told George–I don’t really belong, you three are a group. Ringo told Paul: I don’t really belong, you three are the group. George told Paul: I don’t really belong, you three are the group. And Paul told John: I don’t really belong, you three are the group. And somehow they untangled it all and realized they all felt the same way and they all belonged and they were all just having a crappy day, and that was that.
Not a problem you are ever going to have to deal with, my callypyzzle…
Hmm. That sounds serious. Well, why don’t you go into exam room one, get undressed, put on one of those flimsy robe-thingies and I’ll send Greg House in to see you.
Speaking of flimsy robes, what’s with hospitals? Like being sick isn’t humiliating enough, you also have to make me dress up like Quentin Crisp pretending impersonating Florence Nightingale?
Rock star blogger, you. The whole post had me cracking up, ruefully. Fanon does Seinfeld is just about right.
Great post. You have yet another fan-for-life here. And the first pic is absolutely gorgeous.
Did they put sugar in the thair, ;)?
Great post… I’m a long-time Anna admirer, but this has to be one of your best posts ever
Amma’s is OK. Its biggest shtick is the “TINA” factor. The best South Indian in the DC area is Madras Palace (Germantown/ Gaithersburg). If not for the commute, this idli-sambhar lover would be there every day.
I’m with you 100% about the cruddy food at that monstrosity in Du Pont. Actually, except for Heritage (decent) and occasionally Indique, all the Indian establishments on Conn Ave in DC suck — from Du Pont all the way up to Van Ness. Those places are vile. Today, and for the last ten years. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d probably rate them -1 🙂
This pragmatic libertarian has prayed more than once for the power to arbitrarily shut those joints down. I’m a free-marketer but I’m also Indian, and those sorry excuses for Indian food are a disgrace.
it was only slightly better than that.
.
Preach on, my brother!!!!!
Prashantji, so nice to see you again. 🙂 Pardon my obtuse inability to discern it on my own, but what is TINA?
Geez, all this hating on my Amma. That does it, I’m not taking ANY of you there from now on…one restaurant has a few off months and I get TORTURED for it. There may be “better” in the metro area, but I’m NOT renting a car to get to east bumblef… a.k.a. Gaithersburg just to eat a damned dosa. Amma is fine. Maybe they only cook well when it’s just me. 😉
One day, A N N A, one day…you and Barmaid are going to have your minds blown by the majesty that is the weekend buffet at Madras Palace.
And I still have that standing bet w/ Msichana and El Capitan.
Ninnike orru car ondo?
Yup.
Then BRING IT, big drummer boy. 😉
Thems fightin’ words. This will be moved off-thread.
It’s MY THREAD. I can fight if I want to, got that? 😀
Geez, you feel a guy up a few times after engaging in illicit three-way behavior on the back porch with him at his housewarming party and all of a sudden, aforementioned guy feels like he can just BOSS you around!
The nerve!
TINA = There Is No Alternative…
Amma’s is the only goddarned South Indian place in the entire District… what gives?
BOSS!!! I would never BOSS anyone (I’m too meek for that). I’m just trying to spread the light.
Did you click the link? We are SUCH A CUTE COUPLE! Not trying to C-block or anything. 😉
Honestly, I think any pic with you and a dude in it, regardless of the dude, would constitute a cute couple.
Awww, that’s so kind of you, Sriram. Now that I’ve typed that, TAKE A FREAKIN’ COMPLIMENT, why don’t you, and keep it for YOURSELF. 😀
There’s no need to deflect sveetness just b/c I’d totally fail your hiking-dating test, as elucidated at the last DC SM meetup. 😉
Damn, playa.
That is a line I will use.
Yes, I feel the force flowing through me, 😉
what about the madras palace in ghettobelt(greenbelt)? woodlands? udupi palace? mango grove in columbia?
a. I think that the only location of Madras Palace is in G’burg (unless one has opened very recently). b. Udupi, woodlands don’t hold a stick to Madras Palace. c. Never been to the other place.
If anyone from Madras Palace’s ownership is reading this, I demand compensation for my advertising services.
Sriram “Todos Locos” on your myspace rockz, teensy bit of Bud Powell there? Gotta CD?
Pardon the total threadjack, but Hellz yeah!!! Visit http://www.cdbaby.com/duologyband. We’re also on ITunes and most other on-line services under Duology Band.
yes, there’s a madras place in greenbelt.
Wow, just bought the album on iTunes. I love it!
Word, AKKA.
My experience has been a bit though…I’ve always been defiantly myself. And now…I find that I don’t have to be. Weird.