US and Them

“Bob! Tall white soy mocha with no whipped cream for Bob!” the barista called out. As I walked to the counter and picked up my drink, a girl waiting for her order took one look at me and smiled. I smiled back sheepishly. I had taken to giving my name as “Bob” at restaurants and cafés that felt that knowing their customer’s name made service more personalized. It’s not that I am ashamed of my name. It saved me the trouble of having to spell out Kothandaraman each time and them the embarrassment of butchering my name. At my regular haunt downtown they just call out my drink, but I guess it wasn’t the smartest move to assume they would do the same here. I slink back to my table, thankful for The Times and bury my head in an article about Rahm Emmanuel. Just as I learn that Rahm’s brother Ari is a Hollywood heavyweight, the phone vibrates indicating I received a text. “About 5 minutes away” it said, “just getting gas.”

It was a similar vibration that had brought me to this suburban Starbucks. As a 27 year old single Indian straight male I was beginning to suffer from a common affliction, giving-in-to-your-parents-wishes-itis. The symptoms were fairly easy to spot – I was tired of coming home to an empty apartment, the channa masala that tasted divine after the third experimental trial in grad school just didn’t cut it any more and watching the end of When Harry met Sally actually left me with a lump in my throat. It wasn’t by choice that the apartment was empty though. I’d been on my share of dates and sowed the occasional wild oat but it had become increasingly clear why birds of a feather flocked together. I had no explanations for Susan when she asked why I would rather go watch a movie where a middle aged cop romanced a young divorcee in song and dance while hunting possibly homosexual serial killers than come to her sister’s daughter’s bat-mitzvah. Elle couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea that I could listen to some dude called Sikkil Gurucharan elaborate on a single letter, aaaa, for 15 minutes straight and term it delightful music. It was a cop out, but I had decided that it might be easier to convince a ThirunelvEli girl to shop at Victoria’s Secret. But my ever-enterprising parents had a middle of the road solution. Apparently they knew a single ThirunelvEli girl who lived within a 50 mile radius who did shop at Victoria’s Secret – Ok I’m exaggerating that isn’t exactly what they said in the phone call that brought me to the café. (Boy would that have been an awkward conversation) So I gave Priya a call and set a date, today, to grab a cup of coffee. And now I wait as she fills up her car.

When she walks in 20 minutes past our set time, I still have my head buried in the Times. I jump a little when she taps my shoulder but recover when I remembered the picture I had on my Gtalk profile. We exchange the usual pleasantries, bash our respective bosses in moderation and talk about how opportune it is that gas prices fall during elections. The election being recent and fresh in our minds we dwell a little. “I’m so glad we could finally erase the race barrier. Electing Obama is a big step. Do you realize Bobby Jindal might actually have a shot at being president?” she says. I nod in agreement. “Not politically inclined?” she asks sensing a lack of interest. “No I’m just a good listener” I deflect. She smiles and continues, “I don’t think we should bail out the auto manufacturers in Detroit.” “We?” I say. “Well I mean the U.S. Government. What kind of free market economy socializes banks and then bails out its industries? They ought to die their rightful death if you ask me” she opines. I continue smiling and nodding. “Still being a good listener?” she jibes. “OK I won’t drone on, lets talk about something else. I just saw Burn after Reading. The Coens are hilarious, right? What was the last movie you saw?”. “Devar Magan” I say. “It has been so long since I saw a Tamil movie you know, very little access around here. You probably have Indian stores close to your place huh?” she says. “Nope I own a pirated copy; I can send you a link for an online version if you’re interested” I offer. “Sure. But I doubt if I’ll get time to watch it. Anyway I prefer watching movies on the big screen. What kind of music do you listen to, mostly Indian film?” she assumes. I don’t feel the need to go over how I had played Dark Side of the moon in concurrence with the Wizard of Oz to verify the legend or how I had shelled out a large amount of money to see Radiohead live just a few weeks ago. “Yup!” I confirm and the conversation swings into shutdown mode. We go through the usual lets-stay-in-touch-but-not-really motions and she gets up to leave. As I get into my car my phone vibrates again. This time it’s my parents. “Enna aachchu” its says in English alphabet. I control my urge to diffuse a serious conversation by replying “kozhanthai azhuthuthu. Please buy Woodwards Grape Water”. I don’t know whether to laugh or get mad at how involved they are in this process. I begin to type “I think she is a little too Americanized Maa…