A few hours ago, when I left my new apartment for dinner at Heritage India (Connecticut Ave), rain was escaping the night sky with such fury and speed, my golf umbrella was barely adequate and my mukluks were soaked. They are lined with sheepskin, which is now wet and disgusting. My toes are miserable. I’m barely cognizant of this though, because I’m on the phone, having the most important conversation of my day. I’m so involved with this voice, I barely notice the mile which I’ve walked uphill, the road I’ve made a right turn on, the periodic hordes of people on Adams Morgan’s 18th street, on this dead-because-it’s-wet-and-miserable night.

I should be at my new home, snuggled in my, um, Aerobed, but I have no internet access yet, so Tryst (a much-loved haunt of our Manish’s) has gone from third-place to first place in my life, for the moment. I don’t want to go inside and be the idiot on her cell phone though, so I’m hunched over my umbrella handle while I shiver mindlessly right outside the giant picture window, directly across from “my table“; practically on the sidewalk, it’s close to an electrical outlet and the perfect size for one. It’s also almost exactly where I sit when I’m at Greco. Some call me boring, I prefer consistent.

I’m in the middle of responding to a worrisome revelation when a group of frat-tastic retards lurches past, reeking of sweat and bad alcohol. I’m less vexed by such roving stupidity than some of my friends, mostly because unlike them, I was “Greek” and thus constantly around similar. I turn away from them slightly as they stagger by, wishing Maisnon were here; one of the last times we were together in the Morg, I was grabbed so violently, you could see marks the next day. Well before THAT sickening reminder of ickiness manifested itself in my flesh, our girl became Our Lady of Terrifying Rage. Approximately two minutes after Filthy McNastyman’s fingers defiled my arm, she accosted the pulayadi mon who startled and then offended me. “You do NOT do that”, she ranted, right in his face, as his innards liquefied in the face of her wrath. Ah, good times. But why was I thinking these thoughts? I had no need for such big guns. Nothing was going to happen to me…

“Jewugingglut”

Wait, what? Immediately, I hit a mental rewind even as I strained to listen to the voice currently inhabiting my cell-phone. WAIT. OMG. No. He. Didn’t. I dropped the phone right then from ear to hip and shouted in to the bastardÂ’s wake.

“What the hell did you just say to me??”

He turned back, the look on his face scaring me so much I think I whimpered for Deepa, my Mom and/or my ferocious, late German Shepherd Rani. Continue reading →

I am a native New Yorker, both born and bred. I emerged into this world in St. Vincent’s Hospital, the same hospital whose emergency room treated 844 patients (a record for a NYC ER) in the aftermath of the attacks.

My relationship with the Towers goes way back. My high school prom was actually held at Windows on the World, although I didn’t attend. My reasons for not going didn’t quite fit the typical desi geek narrative. In a high school where most people went stag, there were actually four women who wanted to go with me, the apex of my high school popularity! Nor did my parents forbid me from going. However they wanted me back by midnight (they were concerned for my safety) and wouldn’t budge. Given that the prom was going to cost around $200 (just for the tux and ticket, no limo, and this was a lot of money back then!), I demurred.

Still, while I may not have had memories of my prom at the Towers, I have plenty of others. Every time some relative or friend would come through town, I would be dispatched to show them the sights. I didn’t go up to the top that often – I was too jaded and too thrifty for that. Instead, I would wait below, in the plaza between the buildings. There I could lie on my back, look up at the hulking masses that stretched far into the sky and contemplate my own insignificance, wallowing in adolescent angst.

The Towers were like Niagara Falls, a must see destination for uncles and aunties. There was always a sari squeezing into the elevator, excited to go up to the top of what may not have been the tallest building in the world, but which was at least the tallest building at the center of the world.

Continue reading →

Five years ago last night, I was on an American Airlines plane between San Francisco and Boston. I think I was on the penultimate journey of AA Flight 11, the plane that was hijacked the next morning and was the first to hit the WTC, although I was too shocked to check my ticket stub to make sure. [AA 11 was an LA bound flight, my flight was LA to SF to Boston].

I remember waiting for the flight at SFO very vividly. It was delayed, so I sat patiently, nursing a novel. There were three wisacres in the padded reception seats facing mine, and they decided to pass the time by making remarks about how I was a terrorist, as if I was somehow deaf or couldn’t comprehend what they were saying. I lowered my book long enough to glare at them, and then went back to my reading.

That was in the good old days, back before such behavior was criminalized, back before I learned to shuffle, shuck and jive, to grin broadly like an idiot and look at my feet, back before passengers counted the number of times you went to the bathroom to pee. It was a long time ago.

I took a cab back to my place and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. Because we had arrived late, I decided to sleep in the next morning and was awoken not by my alarm clock but by my father, calling on the land line (back when I had roomates and no cell phone).

“Beta, turn on the TV,” he said.
I did. And I saw. But I did not yet comprehend.

I stayed in the living room all morning, watching events unfold on television, and talking to my father in NYC. I was lucky, I never had any trouble getting through. I didn’t realize then how much everything would change. How much, even five years later, things would not be the same as they were just 24 hours before.

Continue reading →