I first heard about speed-dating on the Oprah show eight years ago. At the time I thought it was a bit ridiculous– get to know someone in seven minutes or move on? Really? Trust Americans to make even courtship an efficient, pleasant assembly line. (Note to my US readers: don’t you hate it when furriners made mass generalizations like that about your culture? Although to be fair, you do ask me about the caste system and arranged marriages, so I guess I have some right to make absurd generalizations).

But I digress.
Then, about a year ago, when I graduated college, I realized that I had no life whatsoever (acknowledging this is the first step). I signed up for listservs and mailing lists for events in DC; aka the list for people who don’t have a life. I was hoping to acquire one.

I frequently saw the speed-dating announcements in these e-mails but dismissed them because why should I pay 15 bucks to meet a bunch of guys.

But this past week, a friend told me about a free speed dating event in a northern Virginia bar. As she was going along with a group of other friends, I reluctantly agreed. After all– it was free. And people I knew were going. And there might be free food and drinks involved.

Two things about this whole thing made me very nervous. First, I do not enjoy being the token source of color in a room, and in the one other NoVa bar I’d been to (an Irish one), I had served as just that.Even though I went to a university where 90 percent of my peers were white, I always get unomfortable when I’m the token source of color in a room. Especially if the caucasians in the room are all of one type, i.e. all hicks or all preppy popped-collarish or whatever. Then it’s a special inside set.

The second thing that unnerved me is this: I live in fear of being that girl with the “nice personality.” Which as we all know is code for plain Jane. So I did whatever I could think of that would make me feel attractive: I wore a dress. I attempted to brush that unruly mop known as my hair. I wore my favorite pair of dangly earrings.

Now that I think about this, it was a ridiculous outfit choice for a bar. Dear Mishri: please don’t wear a dress to a bar. It’s a bit like Jackie O going to a NASCAR event– the cultural incongruity can make the universe explode.

Anyway, at 6 p.m., I met one of my friends, A. We took the train in to Virginia, ate a light dinner, found out that her two other friends were bailing on us (!) and then headed in to the bar. The group, which should have been five people, had now shrunk down to three– me, A and P, the token guy and source of constant amusement for A and me.

Before we went in, we decided we needed a code word that meant exit/ escape. I suggested “hot dogs.”

Entering the bar was easy enough. Finding the actual speed dating room took a little longer, and I won’t deny I felt a little jittery as we walked in. Then I froze. There were TEN men in the room and four women. I was one of the four women. The men were mostly young-ish, nearly all were white. A couple of men were older. I felt my stomach lurching. I didn’t know what to expect, but this didn’t look good. I spun around and said to A and P: “Guys– you know what I love? I love hot dogs. Because hot dogs are SO great. Hot dogs are soooo delicious. Mmmm hot dogs.”

They laughed. And stayed put. Leaving now would be unfair to the hosts, seeing as how most of the women scheduled to attend, had bailed. I admired the sentiment, but I kept yammering on about those damn hot dogs because Oh my god, hot dogs are so delicious.

We waited well over 20 minutes for the event to begin, in part because the hostess was scrambling (and failing) to get more women. So the ratio stood: four women and ten men.

What happened next? I’ll write about it tomorrow. Right now, I’m tired.

Yesterday I watched “Before the Rains.” It’s a movie set in southern India about an English spice baron who tries to develop (and exploit) a spice-rich area. Along the way he gets entangled with his married maid, encourages and patronizes his Indian foreman and more.

I’d heard that the movie was panned by critics, but I decided to avoid reading the reviews and go anyway. After all, I’m a sucker for inter-racial romances, especially anything involving Indians.

I thought the movie was pretty good. The director, Santosh Sivan, did a really nice job of steering clear of easy stereotypes– the callous, brutal white man, the servile native, etc. It’s funny how a lot of the reviewers called the acting stereotypical, because I thought it was anything but. There was no grand message or great big theme– there was no big message about the important of Indian independence or what the true meaning of the word “development” is. The movie just aired everyone’s perspective and enabled the viewer to sympathise with each character in his or her moment of woe, fear or uncertainty. As a result, I had a hard time condemning or hating any character.

The acting overall was good. Rahul Bose does a good job of being the conflicted assistant– stuck between the world of his traditional family and his English boss. Nandita Das was surprisingly effective in her minescule role of paramour. Linus Roache was good, but the actors who played his wife (Jennifer Ehle), son and the banker, were just as good if not better. The British characters weren’t cardboard “Sahib” cut-outs. They had more heart and concern and conflict than one would associate with people from this time period.

That said, it’s not a movie I’d recommend to a lot of people. I think it would come off as insipid to a lot of people. The kind of movie that would make them wonder “why should I care?”

Fact is, you don’t have to. In fact, I think the reason I appreciate it as much is because I’m Indian, and I can appreciate what a departure this is from other narratives about colonialism in India.

Aside from the Indian-ness.. as I said earlier, I have a weakness for inter-racial romances. That’s why I loved Mississippi Masala, Bhaji on the Beach and of course Bend it Like Beckham. (I also liked the Namesake for similar-ish reasons).

If it’s possible to take a banal activity and turn it into a full-on dramatic re-telling, then I’m the one to do it.

I moved yesterday. Not far from where I used to live– about 20 minutes. Closer to a metro, great amenities, etc etc.

Like a lot of people, I hate moving. And I hate transitions. They force me to confront stuff that I got to ignore like items I never threw away–  greeting cards and mementos from an old relationship for example.

Do you carry that stuff or do you throw it?

I took it.

Then as I unpacked, I looked at it and instinctively turned away. I stuck it in a drawer so I wouldn’t have to look at it.

Any sort of transition makes me jittery. Whether it’s flying to India, or flying back here after such a trip. I feel instantly vulnerable and desperately in need of comfort for something that doesn’t really hurt.

It’s times like that that I’m on the phone with my parents seeking the comfort of familiar questions and inside jokes. It’s moments like that when I think of my parents’ mortality and it makes me more frightened and miserable than I can adequately describe.

Then three days later I feel better and it’s all gone.

Cousin #2 giving my 17-year-old sister wise advice about men.

Me: So S, you should NEVER EVER stay with a guy who hits you. Those guys are total jerks. Walk out as soon as possible!

Cousin # 2: Remember what I told you to do to a guy if he ever hits you?

S: Hit him in the groin?

Cousin # 2: Yes, because the pain there is undescribable. Not just hit– knee.

S: Oh yea, remember that scene in Casino Royale? (Describes Casino Royale torture scene involving testicles).

Me: *gags*

Cousin # 2: Yes, exactly. Every guy in the theater groaned at that. Because let me tell you– you hurt a guy there, and he’ll never forget. Ever. So if a guy ever abuses you, be sure to hurt him there. Then leave.

(Later, on the topic of clothes)

Cousin # 2: Make sure you wear fitted clothing, especially tops. Because if you bend over, EVERY straight guy’s gaze will just shift downward.

S (nods wisely): I understand.

—-

A week ago:

Aunt: Is your bedroom window open?

Me: Yup, the weather is great!

Aunt (dubiously): Well.. close it before you sleep.

Me: Why?

Aunt (ominously): MS-13.

Me: The gang?

Aunt: Yes.

Me: You think they’re going to come to our backyard? Why would they come to our backyard?

Aunt: They’re not that far away.

Me: They’re at least two miles away– infighting! I don’t think they plan on coming to our backyard. What would they do anyway?

Aunt: You never know.

——-

A blog post about how to do a good podcast: “Tip # 12: If you’re doing interviews, don’t be Charlie Rose. In other words, shut your stupid face and let your guest talk.”

Ohh Charlie. Mishri still loves you.

So I’m going to India in three months. Well, a little less than three.

Normally when I go to India, I feel major major trepidation. Sure I lived there till I was 18, but I lived in a bit of a gilded cage. I don’t really like going out too much, I don’t like beings stared at, and the poverty, pollution and chaos drive me crazy.

I’m not a very good traveler. Once I get to a place, I like staying there. It explains why the only vacations I really seem to take are my trips to India, where I stay home for a couple of weeks, spend  part of the time in quality time with the parents and some friends (which is fun) and the rest of time feeling morose.

The last time I went, in 2006, I threw a royal tantrum about it, much to my parents’ chagrin.

I feel bad about that.

This time may well be better. For one, I’ve extracted a promise from the parents that there will be a constant flow of things to do– vacations in Goa and Darjeeling, visits with the few relatives I can tolerate, etc. Keeping busy will keep the re-entry shock down to a manageable (hopefully non-existent level).

On the plus side, I get to spend time with the family, which should be fun.