Public Display of Affection

You must have been either ogled and gaped at by Indians during your PDA sessions or you must have seen Indians ogling and gaping at other couples involved in PDA sessions.    

That is because we are PDA-deprived people by law (According to Indian Penal Code Section 294 (a): Whoever, to the annoyance of others does any obscene act in any public place, shall be punished with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to three months, or with fine, or with both). Therefore Public Display of Affection (PDA) is a subdued form of porn for us.

Smartheart tells me when he was single, how envious he used to feel seeing twosomes cuddling (before the paunchy policeman arrives) while he jogged every evening by Bandstand. That was when he decided he would take his revenge one day. Now that he possesses a female companion, whenever he spots youngsters around, he blurts out, “Let’s make them jealous.”

Then he would neck me and I would feel like how a westerner would feel in a saree: nice but awkward. The paunchy policeman must be on his way but my cultural conditioning whacks me first.

Recently I had been to a poets’ conference in which humorist Surendra Sharma remarked: “Because Indians love economically and privately, they save enough love to last them for half a dozen more lives. On the other hand, in the west, people love their significant others at all times, everywhere: in the subway, at the restaurant, waiting in a queue, at the pedestrian crossing... . That is why they exhaust the quota of their love in two years after which they file for divorce.

Consequences apart, I had an opportunity to love like the latter when smartheart and I lived together in the forward west for two years. On seeing couples snuggling and nuzzling, I would feel, “How cool! These people are so free.” And like how when in Rome, one should do as the Romans do; I would suddenly peck him at the restaurant with half a noodle hanging out of my mouth. I would address him -- the person I have trusted my life to -- as “baby” in a conversation at a friend’s place.  I would be shrieking mutely to passers-by, “Did you see/hear that?” 

There was no paunchy policeman in sight or Indian uncle-aunty wagging their index fingers at us. Yet I somehow felt like how a westerner would feel in a saree.

I read that young India is advancing in its PDA forays.  I’m sure somewhere deep down they know they are not from Rome. Only ogling and gaping at Public Displayers of Affection can come naturally to them like it does to me.

Good news?!?!?!!!???

“Good news?” agog strangers unabashedly ask me first thing on knowing I am married.

Very soon, I realized that in India, “good news” is the euphemism for “Have you been f***ed and more importantly, are you going to produce tangible result of the act?”

Being an inquisitive Indian that I too am, I made a few faux pas in the US on this subject as well. Then my husband taught me: “You don’t ask people if they have or are expecting a baby. It’s considered rude here because people value privacy. They’ll offer the information themselves if they wish.” I bobbed my head like an obedient school girl.

When we returned to India after two years of our marriage, every other woman of varied acquaintance level with me, of varied age, of varied (mostly zilch) stake in the query asked me if I was a carrier of “good news.” I would reply with the no-but-hope-to-be “not yet” and they would assume the role of infertility experts: “How long have you been married?” they further investigate.  I tweak 43 months a bit to palliate the offense: “Three-and-a-half years,” I say. Still I almost hear them tut-tutting under their breath.  “Both of us were studying for two years,” I justify involuntarily. They are not satisfied.

I can understand why our mothers and grandmothers would inquire (subtly most times) into our “planning.” They would tell me to eat more of Indian sweets and to do more of prenatal yoga saying, “It’ll be useful for the future.” They would stare at me until I assure them by nodding that I understand their connotation of ‘future’.

I can also understand why toddler-hauling friends of friends we meet at friends’ parties ask if we have kids. They want to know if we could be their friends in case the answer is in the affirmative or we would just remain friends of friends.

But I don’t understand why a cousin who makes it apparent that she doesn’t like me and who knows I don’t like her either would be nosy about my “good news.” Or what a friend of our mother would have to do with my “good news” at a society party.

With a chip on my shoulder, I now tell them “If you are referring to my developing paunch, you must be joking. It’s the sign of post-wedding prosperity you see.”

As hard as I may convince myself that “when is the baby popping out?” is not having any effect on me; I found myself telling my husband before couple of days: “I think it’s time we have our baby.” “Why,” he snaps back, “because people want you to have a baby.” “No,” I drawl unconvincingly. He interrogates me further as to why I (with emphasis) want a baby. The biological clock argument doesn’t appease him. I struggle to introspect for an answer. Finally I come up with a creative reasoning: “For how long can I blog about you? A baby will give me perennial topics to write about.” I tell him about all the popular blogs of Mormon women who just clip a picture of their cherub in diaper and get thousand likes. I also tell my husband about how I sweat out about the structure of my dissertation on him and still manage to get handful of readers.

He sighs. I tell him, “Do you still think I want a baby because I want people to stop pestering me?”

Best and worst of both worlds

When I came to know that my fiancé got admitted to Harvard Business School (Oh ya H-B-S), I admit my respect for him shot a little higher. I felt reassured that I had proposed the right guy, at least in terms of intellect.

Preparing to come to the US, I thought, nothing better could have happened to us. After the prestigious school, his career and our lives would be set. We did not know where his business opportunity would take us after graduation. May be we would not return to India immediately after.

However that was acceptable. In India the general perception is that Indians living out of India, especially in the US and UK are privileged for some reason. When these “foreign-return” folks visit India, they are held high in community get-togethers in terms of respect with which people talk to them. Even our families seize every chance to flaunt that their children go to HARVARD. To be truthful, I occasionally brag too.

How much I love celebrity-like attention.

Although I tell them that the US is as great as they think, I keep cultural dissonance to myself. In America, I try to be like Americans and all internationals like me who have succeeded in becoming like ‘cool’ Americans by echoing ‘like’ several times in a sentence.

My sub-conscious is programmed to blurt out “great” instantaneously when encountered with “Howz it going?” I have learnt that the answer should remain constant (because nobody cares if you say otherwise) irrespective of “it” in the sympathetic question referring to my B grade in the class assignment or my recent quarrel with my husband or my health down with fever and cold.

I make deliberate, painful attempts to show utmost enthusiasm in biotechnology study or management job that people are doing even if I may have zilch understanding and/or interest in it. This trick serves several purposes: You do not appear dumb; you do not let the other person know what they’re doing is absurd; and you get brownie points for pleasing them with your listening ‘skills.’

Also, I broach the topic of weather with people because it seems that’s the norm here. “It’s a gloomy and depressing day,” I tell them when I see an overcast sky although I love rain and think it’s romantic.

I wonder why then do I Indianize sandwiches and pastas I make by spicing them up. Why do I discuss only the good things about India with my non-Indian friends with such fervor as if I am the ambassador of my country? Why do I find peace in yoga after shaking by butt on “Single Ladies” in the cardio-dance class?

Before coming to the school, I had the image of HBS as a group of nerds who would be concerned only about learning. But the scene on the ground turned out to be much more versatile. From my on-campus apartment-window which looks down (no pun intended) on the path leading to classes, athletic center and the outside world, I always see students going somewhere; hear girls’ heels making sound akin to microphone attached to seconds ticking in a clock. At 8 AM, I watch them rushing to their classes with coffee in their hands and schoolbag on their shoulders. At 4 PM, they hit the gym and workout “efficiently”-read case-studies for the next day along with running on the treadmill. At 10 PM, however, altogether new creatures come out, get wasted in pubs to de-stress. The following day, same jig.

While our families back home are in the same laid-back rut and girls my age are in the baby production phase; I challenge myself everyday-taking classes, attending seminars and meeting the brainiest people from across the globe (and enthusiastically listening to their esoteric talks). Last summer when we went to India, we wanted to run back to school. We were addicted to deriving satisfaction from our eventful lives here. Although our families would wrap the same advice that we should eat, sleep and rest well in several creative fashions, it would still sound mind-numbing to us.

My husband has decided that he would be pursuing social enterprise in India post-HBS (no six-figure pay-checks at least in the short-term). Knowing that we are going back for ever at least makes us take a grateful sigh of regaining 'royalty.' No more laundry, dishes and cleaning (we get ample domestic help in India). And not to forget the support system (our families) to produce babies.

Nevertheless, I will regret not having enough intellectual stimulation. I will miss my dance-exercise class. How would I live without Bounty and Charmin?

But when the time comes, I think I’ll be ready to go home, to people who look like me, to people I can actually tell what is going and what is stuck, and to people with who I do not need to create a façade.

Arranged love

taking circumambulations at my wedding

Our third and decisive meeting in the arranged marriage process took place on 18^thMay, 2008.

I saw my husband for the first time when he came to my house as a marital prospect. He sat in a perfect straight-spine posture; gave me a warm, close-mouthed yet wide smile- the kind you wouldn’t expect from a stranger. He was not a Brad Pitt lookalike and it was definitely not the cliché love-at-first-sight. When I asked him, what it was that he was looking for in his would-be bride, he was clear. “A good heart,” he said unlike my list of 2,918 characteristics in my prince-charming.

In our first two meetings, I subjected him to essay-type questions and he did justice to them by answering with vivid, thoughtful descriptions. I gave short and diplomatic answers to his questions, leaving them to his interpretation. This was not some evil strategy but my natural disposition towards inexpressiveness. At the end of two meetings, I was almost sure that he was a good human-being and that with him, life would be an interesting and evolving journey. I was still a sweet, harmless mystery to him.

A month later, we met on the 18^th of May, 2008. We did not communicate during the period between the second and third date. This gave both of us some time to retrospect- for him to do his consultant sort of research and analysis (He was working with Boston Consulting Group) and for me to weigh costs against benefits (I had just completed my MBA, so I thought I might as well put theories into practice). All said and done, only a few issues needed to be clarified on both sides and if nothing went drastically wrong, it was probably going to be a yes-yes situation.

After half an hour of the ‘question and answer session,’ there was silence. Impatient as I am about getting “work” finished, I blurted out, “I am ok, if you are ok.” Again there was silence, this time a more awkward one. He was looking at me in amazement coupled with a grin. It was then that I realized I had actually proposed to him. He looked at his watch. It was 5:45 PM. How rude, I thought to myself. Why on earth was he not saying anything? Was he laughing at me? I was feeling stupid about my ‘brave’ act. After 10 minutes he said he was “honored”. Was it a euphemism for saying no, I thought? As the clock struck 6, he took out a ring from his jacket, knelt down on his knees and slipped it onto my right hand finger (then, neither of us knew that engagement ring is worn on the left hand- a mistake we corrected later).

I was expecting a ‘Will you marry me?’ only to realize I had already done the honors. He apologized for the wait and explained that his family believed in mahurat (holy time-window for doing important tasks) which began after 6 PM.

I liked him in our courtship for the irritatingly righteous person that he is but began to love him after we got married. He looked extensively into my study options at Harvard while we were in India preparing to come to the US four months later for his business school. He makes sure I eat enough protein every day. And he surprises me just to see my eyes sparkle.

Three months after our “official” wedding was our engagement anniversary. He had told me that he would have to go out of town for work. I was pissed at him. But I knew something was amiss when my in-laws insisted that I see him off at the airport. My suspicion grew stronger when the car passed the airport. After a couple of hours, we reached a palace hotel in Rajasthan. I was indulging in royalty-swimming in the pool attached to our room, being gifted with Swarovski ear-rings, and being served with seven-course dinner. And then he wished me, “Happy Anniversary, Darling.”

Somehow my husband knew I was thinking why celebrate our engagement day in such a lavish fashion. He said, “It was the day I married you in my mind.”

(I contributed this story to Chicken Soup for the Indian Bride's Soul also)