If you haven’t, clever you. But if you have, here’s your chance to find out.

Amrita, from the now sadly silent Indiequill, asked to take a peek inside my marriage of 13 months and got me talking about what it is to like to live with The Modern Indian Man.

In one word: socks.

For more, head to http://www.womensweb.in/articles/modern-indian-marriage-1/ and listen to Episode 1 of the Modern Family podcast.

I love how sane she’s made me sound.

Maybe someday I’ll even believe it.

I only thought about her.

I didn’t cheat on him.

We only touched.

I didn’t cheat on him.

Her soft, pliant skin.

I didn’t cheat on him.

Quivering under my mouth.

I didn’t cheat on him.

Legs wrapped around waist.

I didn’t cheat on him.

The arching of backs.

I didn’t cheat on him.

The moaning of names.

I didn’t cheat on him.

I’m seeing her tomorrow.

I didn’t cheat on him.

Can hardly wait.

I didn’t cheat on him.

We’ll do this over and over.

I didn’t cheat on him.

I didn’t sleep with another man.

I didn’t cheat on him.

Women don’t count.

OJ (peering suspiciously at a blob): Is that potty?

4-year-old K: No! It’s cake….

…..that just smells bad.

Horny teenagers should be put through my work life.

Free birth control, wheeee!

I hope for your sakes this blog amuses you guys as much as it sometimes tickles me.

***

At the precise minute the earthquake struck, Silloo Damania was perched on the potty, making a mental checklist of the tasks ahead of her that morning. Must be the Chick Van, she muttered, as the floor began to quiver, but five seconds later, Burjor, newspaper and choy abandoned, was banging on her door, demanding she cut the crap and quit the shit. (Not that she recalls his exact words, but she wasn’t one to let go of some good word play if it were served to her on a ses.)

They gathered in the children’s playground, women in hurriedly wrapped shawls, the men still in their sadras, watching swings sway ominously and the ground rumble like an ogre’s belly. So animated were their numerous opinions on geophysics, that it was several minutes before any of them noticed the tremors had stopped. Of course, not all of them blathered on about the Day of Judgment. Some, like 14-year-old Sanaeya and 16-year-old Daraius, gainfully employed themselves by making eyes at each other and blushing furiously, but let’s turn a blind eye for now, shall we?

They trooped home and a gaggle of the most opinionated voices congregated at the Pardiwalla home to watch the news.  Scenes of devastation sprang to life behind the anchor, who announced in near-frenzy that an earthquake in Kutchh had wiped out villages and many of their denizens. A hush descended on this usually noisy group. Shrieks and cries of despair rent the semi-arid land and home to thousands now meant only the endless sky with its benign January sun. Nature had taken a bite of earth and snacked on it with Marie biscuits at breakfast.  You could see its teeth marks where the ground had split. The residents of Soonawala Colony, like the rest of Bombay, hung suspended between horror and disbelief, with the occasional tear cruising down an unaware cheek.

After an hour of repeat telecasts and frequent switching between Star News and Doordarshan  that drove Banoo’s glaucoma-accursed eyes batty, the phone rang and Homyar Pardiwalla walked over to answer it. A 5-minute conversation that 12 neighbors intently listened in to ensued.  Homyar ended the call to announce that Jamasp Patel, chairperson of the colony association, was rounding up a group of able young men to accompany trucks of supplies to affected areas. A cheer went around the room as the men, who had hitherto ventured only as far as Udwada for their annual pilgrimage, welcomed the idea of rumbling off into nebulous clouds of dust to assist their countrymen.  A round of tea was eagerly accepted and “Planning the Mission” began in right earnest.

In the midst of the chatter and raised voices, sat Dolat from the ground floor, listening silently, a knob of discontent growing ever larger in her throat.  Never married and in her early fifties, she shared a flat with her younger sister Persis, cooking and keeping home while the latter went to work. It was a quiet existence, but not a lonely one, surrounded as she was by friends and neighbors from her childhood, but lately, Dolat had begun to get a sense of having missed out on life. Satellite television was her bridge to the world beyond the colony and she wanted a taste of the action for herself. “I’ll go too,” she said evenly, her voice belying the burbling she felt in her stomach’s pit, and drew a deep breath in anticipation of a response.

The clamor continued. They hadn’t even heard her. Food packages, antibiotics and warm clothing were being zealously discussed, and you’d have to be a foghorn to be heard. “I will come too,” she tried again, and this time they turned. The Wall of Voices collapsed on her slowly, brick by dissenting brick, logic and reason crumbling to dust under its red onslaught and Dolat stared in seeming resignation ahead of her.

The day of departure dawned all too quickly, and after two days and nights of ceaseless activity, in which every man, woman and child played a part, the trucks and their occupants were ready to roll. Leading the pack of do-gooders was Jamasp, with Homyar and Dara as his able assistants. Khushroo, Feroz and their “gang” that hung out until the wee hours, racing bikes on Marine Drive and risking the ire of police and parents alike, provided back-up support and muscle power, as they searched the crowd for the impressed faces of Soonawala Colony’s waifs. Packages and sacks had been hauled on to the trucks the previous night, the men cursing quietly at the heavier loads. Saying their goodbyes and waving to adoring fans, they climbed on, and engines roared to life. The convoy edged out of the parking area, winding onto the street and as the men settled in for a long ride, no one noticed a tiny corner of a rather curvy gunny sack lift itself up and take a quick gulp of air before subsiding into the potatoes again.

2011. The Year of Beginnings. The year of a new home, new job, new life and new friends. World events swirled outside our little bubble as the Boy and I delighted in our time together, savoring the joy of basic couch-and-movie time, cooking delicious meals, exploring parks in the brilliant sunshine, reconnecting with old friends and establishing new relationships. We introduced each other to our family here and were warmly embraced, developed a circle of friends, and settled into the area quickly and comfortably. We rediscovered home in each other (go ahead, barf at the cliché), in the fabricated rituals that emerge from non-religious, bi-cultural cohabitation, and I even found a desi waxing lady and this was the high point of my year. Just kidding.

2011. The Year of Exhaling. The year when my screeching train wreck of an existence finally became a gentle chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a. Last year was hard and in saying that I’ve made the most understated remark I ever will. It was a year filled with memories that would torture me if I let them, but uh-uh, I’m Dalai Lama-ing instead, bubbling over as I am, with contentment and gratitude. This year was for lying on my buttery soft couch and breathing. For listening to the icemaker go clack. For straightening the bows on the back of my dining chairs. And for chucking all that meandering  for 12-hour workdays involving kiddie poo.

2011. The Year of Review. The year I stand amidst its final days and marvel at how far we’ve come. How loved we feel. How thankful we are. How blessed. Our family is mostly well, we’ve traveled and socialized, lived it up and loved it, we’ve been healthy, at peace and have new lace curtains on the living room window (What? I had to share that with you!) and this beautiful respite has provided us with strength to grapple with the curveballs that life will eventually throw. Some folks I know can’t wait for 2011 to be over. It’s been the worst year, they complain. I can’t either. But only because I’m greedy and want to see how much better this life thingy can get.

Happy New Year, lovely people. Thank you for sharing this one with me.

The Boy and I have never met so many of you who visit here, but we do want you to know we wish you well.

Merry Christmas, all!!!

I leave you with a picture of our tree this year as we head to L.A. this afternoon to celebrate with family. What are your plans? Where will you be? What do you hope for in the days ahead?

[Credits: The Boy and his Nikon D-5100. That I didn't realize had replaced the Olympus. But then again, I didn't notice he has dimples until we'd dated 2 years.]

Never mind the techie terminology, people, I’m just glad I broke out of the restroom I was trapped in and managed to meet the man for the first time.  Four long and crazy years ago.

Someone somewhere owes the Intercontinental Hotel a door latch. But you don’t know anything about that. Right?

Cousin B (jubilantly): I always knew you had it in you to be in the intelligence field!

Family. Gotta love the way they love you.

Come undone crawlingly, raise its hydra head.

Sit by raging waters, let your dark side churn.

Toss back imaginary curls and wade into lines.

To write poetry, something must give.

A singleness of being, the dizzying freedom of time,

A torrid landscape and

anguish of heart.

To write poetry, something must fold.

Silently, dangerously, beckon you

inward

To play.

Darkened rooms, burning spirit, the severing of all ties

Momentarily.

Solitude, restlessness, the non-mundane

Let it storm tonight, like

I’m nobody’s wife.

To write poetry, something must shift.

If I can locate the gear

Of my charmed Californian existence and

Reset happiness, calm, to baseline with

the edge of my

words.

Until then, love

me still,

As a being

of peace.

While the phrases float

away, on

paper boats of

my own

making.