Shock to Shanti, page 3
And when it rained it poured the life out of my mother’s driving skills. She would immediately go to the right most lane, without a care that other cars had to slam their brakes to let her pass, and reduce the speed until the needle almost touched zero, then continue at that speed with her eyes squinted, until she reached home.
Because I observed her driving for years I was nervous to let her take my friends and I to school one year for an early morning activity. Unfortunately the other moms were busy and I had no choice but to ask my mom, who in return became stressed. Nonetheless it was a sunny morning and luck was on our side while it was just the two of us for most of the ride.
The turn of events began shortly after all my friends were in the car, while my mother was backing out of the last driveway. Suddenly the sun was in her eyes. She pulled the shield in front of her face while weaving wildly. As science would have it, this didn’t alleviate the glare from the rear window as she hoped.
‘Oh, the sun is reflecting off the glass and I can’t see,’ she said.
My embarrassment paralysed me from providing any assistance so she was left to her own devices. She started pushing random buttons in the car to alleviate the glare; instead liquid squirted on the front mirror and the windshield wipers started at a rapid pace both in the front and rear. My mom didn’t give up, she kept pressing buttons while backing out of the driveway, at a much faster pace than usual; and inevitably we felt a thud. She drove over my friend’s beautifully manicured flowerbed, hit and pulled the mailbox out of the dirt, and smashed the plastic into pieces.
FRUGALITY
While we were toiling away in school, my mom got down to business and went full force into organizing her coupon collection—coupons for food, coupons for clothes, coupons for trips, coupons for events, and coupons for restaurants.
My mom and her Southeast Asian friends could have wallpapered their homes with these precious pieces of paper that were stuffed into every drawer and purse they owned. They were usually meticulous with the Sunday paper coupon section and any additional inserts sent in the mail. If multiple coupons existed for a store or item, they knew all the permutations and combinations to maximize their discount.
In case one of the aunties missed a deal, they could easily barter with one another at what seemed to be a coupon exchange. These women bought something at a discount or not at all, and if that sacrificed fashion, so be it.
The Western clothes they wore never quite matched or fit. The shirts were a little tight from their expanded bellies and the trouser styles were always a few seasons behind because the blue light specials never had the latest trends seen in Bazaar or Vogue. Their purses were purchased from the deep discount table and the haircuts were either a deal of a lifetime else most likely cut at home.
To them it was frivolous to keep up with the Western trends; the money could wisely be saved for their kids’ education to become a doctor or an engineer, as well as spent on gold jewellery, which would be saved for distribution at their children’s wedding ceremony.
KITTY PARTIES
There were other rituals, although not pursued on a daily basis that made an impact on me. My mom and her band of Indian friends would meet every few weeks for what they called a kitty party. The party would fall in our house about once a month. It was their time of grandeur, when they could surround themselves in whatever luxury they owned. When the kids and husbands were away, it was time for the kitties to play. The luncheons didn’t happen often so they made the most of their gatherings. They would flaunt their newly acquired gold jewellery and ethnic clothing from their recent trip to India, while feasting on each other’s homemade meals. The Westerners wouldn’t understand their twenty-two carat gold, five-pound necklace, that was only slightly intricate, in order to preserve the value when passed to their children. It was only at the South Asian kitty parties that this sense of style would be appreciated.
By the time I would come home from school, they would be in the middle of their second act. The dishes and dining table were cleared and cleaned and the party was transferred to the occasionally visited living room, where we were rarely allowed to enter.
They would all be seated in close proximity, sipping chai in fancy teacups, catching up on the gossip about who was becoming too influenced by the Western ways and what every child’s SAT score was. Then they would huddle together, and discuss their gruelling lives. They all raised their children with no help, they endured their in-laws’ taunts silently, they hardly went out for entertainment, date-night was not in their vocabulary, and they endured cracked feet and rough overworked hands so they could make the appropriate amount of sacrifice for their kids.
This is what I remember. It may not be entirely fair to generalize all the aunties in one bucket, because they had diverse cultures and upbringing in their homeland. But with my limited exposure, most of them fit neatly in the mould. It was a simple conclusion in my pubescent days to dismiss any thought of morphing into one of them.
Now I’m suspicious that I’ve become what I promised never to be; I walk around in old ill-fitting wrinkled clothes with a protruding stomach, searching for online coupons, occasionally trying to spray freshener in my curry infused home while I complain to the kids, with a cup of tea in my hand, how I have to do all the work around the house. And why do I sacrifice so much to build their education fund if they just run around like monkeys?
To confirm what I secretly already knew, a random teenager of Indian descent calls me Auntie in the midst of my walk from the grocery store.
‘Auntie, can you please walk on the sidewalk? You might get hurt walking in the middle of the road.’
I look everywhere for an overweight old woman to move but at last, after much searching, I realize this rude boy is speaking to me.
My hypothesis has crystalized into fact.
Missing Trains
It was one of my husband Manish’s biannual treks from his apartment in Brooklyn, New York to Jersey City, New Jersey. At the time I was a newbie to the city with no plans of my own, so I tagged along to visit his friends.
The ride was long and painful; driving across Brooklyn through the Battery Tunnel, north on FDR highway along the eastside of Manhattan, then cutting across Midtown to the westside, and finally driving south to Holland Tunnel, which eventually landed us in Jersey City.
The process took nearly two hours and was precisely why Manish avoided Jersey trips like the plague.
‘I hate driving crosstown in Manhattan.’
‘The traffic is atrocious.’
‘Is this party really worth the trip,’ Manish lamented as he clenched the driving wheel and looked for signs to FDR.
‘Wait. Isn’t that a sign for Holland Tunnel? It’s only three miles west of here,’ I asked. That was the first sign of trouble.
‘No. I’ve been doing this for years. I know where I’m going,’ Manish spoke confidently; the second sign of trouble.
I was born directionally challenged and had a 90 per cent failure rate when making suggestions from the passenger seat. So I picked Manish’s confidence over the clearly visible sign, and conceded to Manish’s tried and tested route.
That night I learned my husband’s internal compass was as deranged as mine. Indeed, if done correctly, a trip from Brooklyn to Jersey City is only a twenty-minute commute; instead Manish took a ninety-minute detour by circling half of Manhattan.
Together, we were lethal. Our combined sense of direction led us down many rat holes and added 25 per cent to our commute time before we stumbled onto our destination. After all, that was a time before smart phones and GPS apps.
‘I think we make a left ahead at Bowery Street to reach the restaurant.’
‘That sounds right.’
‘Hmm … it’s been twenty minutes and no sign of the restaurant.’
‘Oops, it was a right instead of a left at Bowery.’ That’s how our conversations transpired in the car, where only the street signs and location changed on each drive.
The charm of our handicap eventually wore off and we happily sold our car to become full time consumers of the MTA (Metropolitan Transportation Authority), which controls the subways and buses in NYC. It saved us time, money, and helped the environment all at once; and they were kind enough to provide free entertainment at stations while we waited.
In 1985, the MTA started a programme called MUSIC, whose purpose was to ‘increase the attractiveness of transit facilities for customers.’ Artists auditioned and continue to do so every year at Grand Central Terminal for 350 slots to perform at different locations; their skillset ranging anywhere from classical violinists to jazz ensembles.
Thanks to MUSIC, I could happily listen to a song while someone accidently poked me in the stomach with his or her umbrella.
But with the good, comes the bad, and sometimes ugly, of incorporating public transportation into an already hectic schedule.
I can hear a subway train approaching the station, convinced it’s mine. From experience they always arrive when I’m furthest from the tracks, never when I’m calmly waiting on the platform. With a hint of guilt, I search for my metrocard smack in front of a turnstile, creating an angry line of mumbling commuters behind me. It’s not a lie, New Yorkers are angry, and specifically become raging bulls during commuter hours. After rummaging through my pockets only to find gum wrappers and kid toys, ducking under the turnstile is my only option if I want to catch the train. Jumping a turn style is a Class A misdemeanour for ‘theft of services’, which has a consequence of one night in jail. I look around with squinted eyes and a hunched back as if this action can successfully hide me from government officials.
Luckily I make my way to the tracks free of police intervention, but the train sitting at the station isn’t the one I committed a felony for. I walk over to where Duayne has set up his keyboard and large neon sign that reads ‘Duayne’. He winks at me when I look his way and waves. I feel loved, and happy to be where someone’s glad I came—where I can take a break from all my worries; stolen lines from the theme song of a 1980s hit show Cheers. Duayne begins singing Stand By Me in his deep, beautiful voice. Just a few minutes ago, I felt claustrophobic on the overpopulated Columbus Circle station. Now I’m standing in front of Duayne, smiling at his enthusiasm, feeling lucky to have him perform. What his song can’t help with, though, is the urine stench jamming into my nostrils. Anyone and everyone seem to use the platform as a commode.
The Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority (MARTA) rolled out a programme in late 2013 for catching perpetrators relieving their bladders in Atlanta stations. They installed urine detection devices (UDDs) in transit elevators, which would immediately alert police of the culprits who couldn’t hold it in. After a month in trial, only one man was caught tinkling. Unfortunately, the MTA isn’t inspired enough to cough up millions of dollars to install the UDDs in NYC.
I pass the time by throwing pocket crumbs at the fat rats walking around the rails. They scurry along for a while then run as fast as their obese legs allow them when my beloved B-train finally arrives. As I’m about to enter the train, an announcement fills the station.
‘Sorry for the delay but we are experiencing train traffic ahead.’
No details or alternatives are provided but the train remains stationary.
Duayne continues with his songs, ignoring the air filled with irritation and winking at anyone who drops some money in his tray. I look nervously at my watch and can feel the tension building in my shoulders.
The station appears to have reached its maximum capacity but the train doesn’t budge. This causes an old, thin woman to stand from her seat in the train, walk to the door and look around.
‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON,’ she yells. The intensity and strength of the frail woman’s voice made us all take notice.
‘TELL ME WHAT THE HELL TO DO.’
Now her head is scanning the platform. Does she want an answer from one of us?
‘DO I GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS TRAIN OR JUST SIT HERE FOR ANOTHER HOUR? I HAVE A JOB YOU KNOW.’ Although I find her a bit too intense I agree with her sentiments; should I also run out and hail a cab? She does another scan of the station.
‘AND SHUT THE HELL UP. MY HEAD IS HURTING,’ she points at Duayne. She had me on her side until now.
‘YEAH, YOU,’ she points at him when he looks at her. Duayne just winks at her, smiles, and keeps playing.
‘SHUT UP, YOU ASSHOLE!’
And with that last outburst from the woman comes another loudspeaker announcement: ‘Please stand clear of the closing doors.’ Not a moment too soon.
We all make a mad dash into the train, someone hopefully forcing the woman to sit down again. It’s a crapshoot whether I can squeeze into the cart, since I’m at the edge of the crowd surrounding the door. Although after pushing through the mosh pit, I miraculously find an available seat.
This is the jackpot of subway commuting, sitting on a rarely available plastic orange chair. But along with the glory seems to come a little pain as my weight challenged companion is forcing me to balance on the edge of my seat.
I offer a friendly nod to the man next to me, trying hard to engage in happy thoughts, but sitting in this quasi-squat position is starting to make me feel unlucky. Standing might be less painful but this prized possession came to me after using a range of skills like pushing with brute force and weaving like a basketmaker through the crowd. Slowly, with determination, I push my way back to make full use of the chair.
Ignoring the rude glances from my neighbours, I start the process of my favourite subway task. I open the free newspaper a Metro worker gave me while I made a mad dash to the subway station.
At the time I seethed in anger as he nudged the paper near me, essentially slapping me in the face and shocking my body into a standstill position. The anger was quashed quickly by my fear of missing the train so I grabbed the paper, muttered some unintelligible words and ran.
Now I am secretly apologizing to him because I love this paper, just a smattering of solid news throughout a dozen or so pages, and the rest filled with pictures and gossip.
I have taken a sabbatical from any formal news outlets, be it papers, media, or magazines for now. This is not because I am protesting the quality of news delivered nowadays, which sincerely is questionable, but instead that my brain is currently rejecting any intellectual facts; instead preferring pretty photos and a few rudimentary sentences, rendering this free leaflet a work of perfection.
Just as I start to read the celebrity section, Tiger Woods apologizing for not being perfect, the woman sitting next to me, scratches her throat loudly. Wow, this is almost as irritating as sitting like a contorted pretzel to read my paper. So Tiger Woods is sorry but he won’t talk to the police about the accident.
OOHHH my goodness, she makes the same alarming noise in her throat again. At this point I have my hands clenched ready for a showdown, but I can’t because then I’ll lose, and the people sitting on either side of me will be winners. I must remain calm and show strength in this time of adversity.
That’s right, I would rather suffer and keep my prized seat than let everyone be comfortable.
I switch to another section because it is like starting afresh. I flip to the careers sections. This woman explains how most people believe if they do something they love they won’t make any money; therefore they just remain in their current day jobs. She is describing me! She goes on to say one should just take the plunge and delve into what they love, but do it with a business mind. For example, this woman loved and knew a lot about penguins. What could she do with that? She started giving lectures in schools and environmental forums. She went on journeys to Antarctica with classes and she received a six-figure salary to report on CNN.
‘AAAHHAHAHHH’, the throat woman has just pushed me over the edge. I’m done. I get out of my chair and walk incredibly fast to the other end of the cart. The devil on my shoulder says to dump my lunch on the shriek master but luckily good conquers evil, temporarily.
I remind myself how lucky I am to live in a city with such wonderful public transportation; so many letters and numbers worth of trains to select from. The stop near my apartment alone has the A, B, C, D, and the one lines.
My mom still remembers the 1980s when the graffiti covered trains were filthy and unsafe. ‘Very nice,’ she says admiringly nowadays when she visits, as if the seats are made of crushed velvet and the floors are fitted with Carrara marble.
As the train doors open at my stop, I almost fall onto the platform as the horde quickly pushes through and runs to their designated buildings. One simple distraction like the loud throat woman and I almost break my leg.
I enter the office building feeling exhausted before the workday has started. I wipe my two-week lingering runny nose with an old Kleenex I find in my purse because work doesn’t provide tissues anymore and head to the kitchen to wash away my subway germs. I try to manoeuvre my way to the path ‘less travelled’, avoiding any eye contact or interaction with colleagues until my mind has calmed from the morning chaos and I have settled into the fact that the next eleven hours will be spent within the confines of two floors.
The day passes with a frenzy of meetings and once again it’s time for the trains. At 6.30 p.m., I shut off my computer and run for the door. After taking on the role of an adult, I am in a constant race with time. The babysitter needs to leave at seven; my husband works for the godfather of life-sucking financial firms, which by default means I must reach home first. I walk at top speed on the boardwalk to the PATH station, pants rolled, and tennis shoes on. The beautiful views of Manhattan and river waves swishing over the rocks to my right go unnoticed. I have my blinders on.
(Wikipedia: Blinders—a piece of horse tack that prevents the horse seeing to the rear and, in some cases, to the side. Many racehorse trainers believe these keep the horse focused on what is in front of him.)
