I'm Kiran, I'm a dreamer. A writer. A singer. A mother. An ugly crier. An Indian-American. Who loves Gandhi. My stories are full of truth that is sometimes hard for me to say out loud. This blog is where I overcome my fears and live (and love) out loud.
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How honest are your friends?
“And this wasn’t lying, not really. It was leaving out.” – Stephen King, Hearts in Atlantis
A few years ago, I wrote a post about how good friends know what to say to each other in tough situations. They know the difference between being painfully truthful and kindly, gently delivering a message. Other times, they might even tell little white lies to help you get the message. Well, I called it lies, but I realize now what I meant was not necessarily lies… more like, omission?
What do you mean? I want someone to tell it to me straight, you might think. Yeah, I say the same thing, but when it comes at me too fast, too hard, I realize I’m not always ready for it. Let’s just walk through a few scenarios and see how this might work.
Letters to Myself: When I Have a Teenage Kid
When I was a kid, I used to write “Letters to Myself.” This may seem odd and no, I don’t have multiple personalities. I just wanted to make sure that as an adult, I didn’t forget about all the “horrible” things my parents did to to embarrass me while I lived under their roof. I figured if I could warn myself in the future and help prevent my children from suffering the same kind of embarrassment that I had been through, we could potentially break the cycle. Thus leading to less money spent on counseling sessions, which would be a win-win from any perspective, because even my parents would agree that we shouldn’t waste money. I didn’t start the letters until I was in middle school, but I think I covered my bases pretty well.
So without further ado, let me present you with the teenage Masala Chica’s list of parental “Dos” and “Don’ts.”
On Loyalty
This post is a departure from my normal shit. Sometimes I need to get serious. Curses have been kept to a minimum (don’t worry, I will still find a way to insert them). Oh and hoo hoo = vagina. Enjoy.
When our son, Nico, was born, John’s best friend, Craig, and his family bought Nico several gifts the day we returned home from the hospital. One of those gifts was a beautiful, plush blue dog blanket that looked so lush I wanted to rub it against my own cheek and fall asleep. What can I say? I was tired. Pushing a baby out of your hoo hoo can be exhausting.
I thought it would be bad form to steal one of Nico’s first gifts, especially since he was only three days old. Let him develop his motor skills first, I reasoned, so he at least has a fighting chance of defending his belongings.
Knocking, but Nobody Answers
This is a hard post to write. It’s about something that has bothered me for a while. It’s been in my head, but I haven’t unlocked the door on my thoughts to fully get the words out here until now. I get upset every time I go there. My heart hurts, I get a little achy, my throat gets choked up and the tears well up in my eyes. OH. FUCK. I’m losing it already. See what you made me do? Now I have boogers all over me. I never cry pretty. Where are the damn tissues?
Got ‘em. Anyway, at this point, I will vacillate between drinking and crying, so I decide to make it easy on myself. Do a little bit of both. If I am lucky, I won’t write a dumb ass Facebook status that makes no sense to me (or anybody else, for that matter) in the morning (See Rule #4 of Facebook Rules.)
Moving on Up? Or Laterally?
Oh – you don’t think I can? Oh because I never have matching socks? hmm. You are right. But can i STILL have a cape? I would really like a cape? Bueller? Mmmm, Bueller?
Not quite sure yet. What I do know is that if you “follow” Masala Chica through the wordpress.com “Follow” functionality, the nifty button that I used to look at with nary a glance and you still want to follow? Well – if you want to continue to follow the blog – can you manually add http://masalachica.com to your reader or subscribe through the feeds.
They say you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Hells, yeah. I miss you guys. Come back! I got this snazzy new site – seriously pimped it out hardcore – and nobody is showing up. It’s like having a party and sitting around and eating all the cake by yourself because nobody came. Then you go home and drink more because you feel fat which makes you feel fatter.
Facebook Rules!
Do you like me? Do you really, REALLY like me?
The other day I read a great post by blogger and author, Tim Venable about why he shut down his Facebook account. If you haven’t read it, I highly suggest it. Tim’s realization of the version or representation that we create of ourselves on Facebook brought with it an understanding that, well…
It’s not real.
Not all the time anyway. And the need for validation and the brief stamp of approval we may receive through Facebook is fleeting and impermanent. I think he says it best when he writes, “…the messages we receive, the comments on our comments on our comments, the pictures we see, are all part of the air we breathe, and it doesn’t sustain us.” He says a lot of other deep and profound things on his post, so hop over there and read it, because I can’t do it justice.
Normal
When I was pregnant with my first child, Shaila, I had no idea what pregnancy would be like. My symptoms didn’t seem to fit the bill for what most of my friends went through.
For example, instead of gaining weight, I lost it. The day she was delivered, I actually weighed less than I weigh today.
I fainted frequently. Once on a plane going to a business conference. They almost landed the plane for me because they thought I needed immediate medical attention. I assured them that they didn’t need to, so they booted out the people sitting in my row so I could lie down. Little kids would come up to me and poke me to make sure I wasn’t dead.
I couldn’t walk straight for months and without pain. I heard about things like – ok – this is embarrassing – hemorrhoids - and stuff – but I mean, this was ridiculous. I could have sat in a vat of Preparation H and I would still have been miserable.
Lean on Me
On Sunday night I had dinner with some of my closest friends. They are the kind of friends I don’t talk to everyday or see all the time but when we do see each other, we can talk about anything and everything. I think for the most part, we do a really good job of being there for each other. Not being too “judgey.” And when you have been friends for as long as we have and know as much as we do about each other, it’s easy to be “judgey.” But to our credit, we work on focusing on each other, giving of ourselves what we can.
Minimal judgement. Refreshing, right?
And I love them a lot, not because of how amazing they each individually are, but also because of the way they love me, forgiving me for my many faults. One of which is that I am really, really bad about returning their calls.
My Blanket From Brooklyn
A warm blanket. Your favorite sweater. The jeans which could be called fashion catastrophes, and you just KNOW instantly qualify you as a Glamour “DON’T” if anyone ever caught you in public with a camera (especially when combined with that comfy but not quite trendy sweater) which you just can’t throw away. They comfort you in their yielding softness, how they give to your every step and move and have been with you for so darn long.
These are all things of comfort. That bring me enormous happiness.
A few weeks ago, I saw one of my oldest friends, Danielle.
Danielle and I have been friends since we were in the third grade. When I first saw her enter the schools of my elementary school hall, I was a bit awestruck and perhaps a little jealous. She had this long dirty blonde hair that went all the way down her back and miracle of all miracle, no frizz. I self-consciously pushed my own hair back off of my forehead, trying not to focus on the random curls springing all over my head that could hardly be called pretty at the time as I went to introduce myself.
(I would later come to learn that my hair could, in fact, be pretty, but I had not yet discovered that running a brush through spiral curls 100 times a night might work for Marcia Brady. Not so much for me.)
As I drew closer, I observed her big blue-green eyes which boasted the longest lashes I had ever seen. I had already begun to question how fair God was at the age of 8, and this just created a whole new list of questions. My girl crush could have ended there except that when I heard her voice, it cinched the deal. It was like listening to an exotic bird.
“Are you new?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said. Except when she said it was more like, “Yeyah-uh.“
“Where are you from,” I asked.
“Brooklyn.” Except when she said it, Brooklyn sounded like the coolest place in the world because when she said it there were at least three or four additional OOOs in the word Brooklyn.
“Broooooklyn.”
That borough of New York City lost its anonymity at that moment and I realized what a special place it must really be. Staten Island had NOTHING on Brooklyn, I realized.
To solidify our friendship I tried to sometimes mimic my new friend. When she had to go to speech lessons because she couldn’t say the letter “r” at the end of her sentences, I also decided to go on strike against the letter preceding “S” in the alphabet.
“Four” became “Faw.”
“Year” became “Yeay.”
We also cursed a lot. But I don’t remember whose fault that was. I think that one was mine, but I’ll blame Brooklyn.
Danielle had a sophisticated taste palate. This meant she tried all the Indian food I put in front of her. I thought it was normal for kids to bring things like sesame breadsticks, fresh mozzarella, prosciutto and genoa salami in for lunch because that’s what came out of her brown paper bag.
I went home and complained to my parents that I just wanted to be “normal” like my other friends. Danielle was not the only one of Italian heritage in the group and I lamented the fact that I couldn’t have normal dinners like them. You know, like pasta e fagiole or homemade italian gravy. (Gravy is what real Italians call sauce. And it tastes NOTHING like Ragu).
As Danielle and I solidified our friendship over the years, I was often exposed to the wonders of her mother’s amazing Italian cooking. I learned how to twirl spaghetti with the help of a spoon and it eat it the proper way under the tutelage of her Irish father. She was there to help my through my first crushes (always unrequited). I was there for her every time (it was frequent) a guy liked her.
I was a nerd. She was a cheerleader. I was a runner. She didn’t like to sweat. I still hadn’t gotten a hold of my hair. She could still walk out of the shower looking perfect.
It just added to the Brooklyn mystique.
I spent many a summer day cavorting in her in-ground pool (Could she BE any cooler?) and some of my best childhood memories are intrinsically tied to her. Some of my saddest as well. Some of my most embarrassing.
She saw boys call me terrible names. Names that sometimes made me cry. Tell me that I was ugly and brown, a nerd and that they would never date a Hindu. She hugged me through those and was my rock when I needed her.
I saw her have the worse nosebleed of her life as we were on the school bus one day with nary a tissue in sight and only our nasty ass gym t-shirts to stop the blood-flow. (She was 13 – no we did not do coke, although we had a preference for Coke Classic).
She has wiped my tears for me. I have wiped hers. At some point her tears are mine and mine hers.
I guess that’s the best way to think about friendship.
She is my blanket in a lot of ways. My comfy sweater. The pair of jeans that always make me feel like a million bucks, no matter what fashion is in that year.
But don’t get me wrong, she is not an outdated pair of Levis. She is ‘still’ smoking hot.
I saw Danielle a few weeks ago when I really needed an old friend. Seeing her and feeling the comfort from her hugs lifted me up on a day when I really needed to be lifted. When I saw her face that day, my emotions were free to come to the surface and we talked and talked – about everything, nothing and so much that means nothing to anyone but us – all at the same time.
She brought her two daughters with her and as I watched our children playing together and hugging and laughing with reckless abandon, I felt enormous joy in seeing both me and Danielle in the eyes of our children.
I felt a tug on my heart as I realized how special my bond is with her and how lucky I am to still have this friend in my life.
I hope that one day, our kids know that kind of friendship and that kind of unconditional love and support from a friend in their life. The friend who knows you knows your voice well enough to know when “I’m fine,” is anything but. The friend, who no matter how much time goes by, is there for them.
Thanks for being my blanket, Danielle. I love you, old friend. No matter the distance between us, you are always in my heart. Your like a sister, from another mother (aw Fran, you will always be a kind of mother to me. You’re just my italian mama 
.
.Thank you for always being a part of my life.
Love,
Kiran
P.S. I wrote about Danielle a year and a half ago when she was going through a time where she needed to be lifted. I used an alternate name at the time to respect her privacy, but would like to let everyone know who read that post at the time that her youngest is doing immensely well and is just as precocious, lovable, independent and beautiful as we all prayed she would be. Thank you for your prayers at that time.
The following is a photo montage:
Our friends, Monica, Danielle and Me. Notice how she is still my friend despite the inappropriate use of camouflage as a fashion statement. She REALLY loves me. Monica? Not so sure – that’s maybe why she stood on the other side.
Some of my favorite high school friends are in this picture. Gwendolyn, Karen, the one who is about to take flight in the center is none other than ME, Danielle, June, Becky.
Danielle and I are in the top right. Notice that the volume of my hair (naturally) is about 4 times the volume of hers. Its like I stole her supply of mousse for a year and decided to use it for that shoot.
The ties that bind.
I have not always been a good friend. In fact, I would say that I have been fairly selfish at points in my life and unable to relate to grave situations that my friends were in. I would stick it out until my emotions went past a comfort level I deemed acceptable before I responded in the only way I knew how.
Retreat.
My close friend in college, Lauren, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer as we were moving into our Senior Year apartment together. She had to move back home while the other three roommates got used to the fact that one of our party was missing, for all the wrong reasons, as she battled aggressive, progressive and every possible form of treatment back home in Boston.
I'm Kiran, I'm a dreamer. A writer. A singer. A mother. An ugly crier. An Indian-American. Who loves Gandhi. My stories are full of truth that is sometimes hard for me to say out loud. This blog is where I overcome my fears and live (and love) out loud.
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