Bombay

Happy New Year. I brought in the New Year in Bombay, India with Danoosh and his family. A month earlier, just about three blocks from where we dined on moo shoo duck rolls and brought in 2009 terrorists killed nearly 200 innocent Mumbaikers. Many of them dining with their loved ones just like us. I wrote this the the twenty-four hours following the attacks on Mumbai.

People don’t just love Bombay—they worship her. Every Mumbaikar will vehemently claim that Bombay is the best city in the world—more vibrant than New York, more lavish than London, and more distinctive than Tokyo. As a first-generation immigrant with Bombay pulsating through my veins, I can’t deny it—they are right. Bombay is much, much more than a city. Bombay is luxurious ambitions, heartfelt antiquities, and joie de vivre.

My parents and grandparents were married in the Taj. My mind is salted with cherished memories of the Taj and Oberoi—a chance encounter with friends from a past life, a favorite pair of shoes, a surprise piece of jewelry, the most succulent kabob I ever bit into. These hotels were not just places for dignitaries to rest their heads; they were the arteries and aortas of this city.

In twenty-three days I’ll be landing in Bombay and inhaling her muggy, life-filled air. Am I scared? Yes. Will this stop me from going? No.

I’m scared of the gruesome, bitter, heartless, cold-blooded ignorance of these attackers. I’m petrified that people this inhumane exist in our world. I’m fearful that Mumbaikars may think twice before gallivanting across town to three weddings in one evening. I’m anxious that these bastards and their friends may still be out there. Above all, I’m scared of the scar a catastrophe like this may leave.

However, I will get on that plane. I will not let evil breathe fear into my life’s plans.


I did get on that plane. I was safe. I saw with my own eyes that nobody, no matter how filled with hate, violence, and methamphedamines can destroy a city with a heart as big as that of Bombay.

Obamanation!

Dear President-Elect Barack Obama,

On the Fourth of July, 2005 I wore all black. When the national anthem played at ball games, I remained seated. When I lived abroad, I ensured people first recognized me as a Californian, then an Indian, then lastly … if at all … an American. For the past eight years I refused to stand up and say, “I am an American.” On Tuesday, November 4th, 2008, for the first time in nearly a decade I said—loudly and ever-so proudly—“I am an American.”

Your election created a mammoth shift in American politics—especially in the younger generation. We are no longer looked at as the lazy, apathetic, and ignorant. We texted, you-tubed, facebooked, phone banked, and worked it to create change in our country. The adult generation has wrecked havoc in our environment, economy, international reputation, and so many facets of American life. You gave us a voice that we never had. You gave us hope when we felt hopeless. You gave us change when we needed it most. Thank you for helping us help you create history.

President-Elect Obama, you represent a clean slate—a fresh start at a critical crossroad. I know you have a daunting task in front of you. I know it will take time for us to feel the profound impact you will ensue. However, rest assured that your legacy and impact have already been written in history. Every minority in this nation—myself included—now knows that they genuinely can achieve anything. All it takes is a dream (and perhaps a remarkable spouse and two irresistibly adorable children).

Thank you, President-Elect Obama. Thank you from the bottom of my heart,

Shyla Batliwalla

Bitter Betty Becomes Happy Harriet

A friend of mine shed light on the fact that my last post was entirely too bitter, pathetic, loserly, and just plain sad. Sigh ... I fear I may have turned into a Bitter Betty. I do own the book The Secret in fact, it sits on my bedside table every night. I may not read it, but I know what it says about the power of positive thinking. Manifest your dreams. Visualize $1 million and you will get it. I mean, give me a break? Really? Come on now. I actually did try that tactic for a few job interviews and it didn't pan out so beautifully. Jobs Searched=around 500 Jobs Got=exactly none.

However, I do not want to be a Negative Nancy. No more brooding and steaming negative energy. I'm done with that! From now on I'm a Positive Polly. Here are my new daily affirmations:

1. Scarlett Johanson, is that you?! No silly body, it's me Shyla! I know, I'm so sexy and skinny!
2. What a wonderful job I have to wake up for everyday! I make so much money! I am so lucky!
3. STOP

Ok, I realize I was not taking this exercise seriously. I had a bit of a real, secret-esque epiphany yesterday. Basically that situations in your life are really all about your outlook. I know how lucky I am. True, I may have no job or friends in Houston, but there are many things in my life to be grateful. Here it is, my Oprah-inspired gratitute list, November 11, 2008:

1. I am grateful for my family. I'd be lost without having my mom, dad, and sis a phone call away during every instance of my life.
2. I'm grateful for my boyfriend. I know that no boy would put up with my crap and still love me as much as he does--even with amazon jungles on my legs.
3.

... Unfinished ... to be continued ... browncurryloving

A Bizzare Jealousy

Being unemployed is extremely bizarre. It's strange to wake up without a plan, agenda, or anything I really have to do. Sure, I should exercise, job-search, work on my non-existent novel, and set up some informational interviews. Somehow I end up doing less of that and more of feeling sorry for myself.

I feel like I'm in high school and my parents are out of town. I can sleep in how ever late I want, watch as much TV as I like, and toil an entire day away on the sofa. The difference between being an unemployed adult and a teenager with parents out of town is that my parents always came back. This time there are no parents around to wipe my sorry ass up off the sofa. This time it's my responsibility to get my own life together and back in the real world.

The other bizarre part of being unemployment is the bitter, seething, blood-hungry jealousy I face every time I engage in a conversation. I often will call a friend to vent about how much of a loser I am. I'll whine about how I'm a reject and hope that they will offer encouraging words to mop up my sorry ass and ensure me that I'm really a winner. Oddly enough, these friends don't say that, the just project their own loserness onto me. They say with utmost emotion, "Ugh. I hate my job, I wish I didn't have to go to work. You're sooooo sooooooo lucky. I hate you."

I'm like, bitch you try getting fired and then job searching as a fledgling newbie writer in an economic recession. Then tell me how happy and gleeful you are. It's like, eat shit. What they fuck are they so jealous of? Perhaps the fact that I no longer include a bra as part of my daily wardrobe. That's pretty kick-ass.

Ode to MY San Francisco

... but first, a quick caveat ... I'm housebound in Houston. Hurricane Gustav is demolishing the Gulf Coast. It's windy and cloudy. I'm slightly spooked. In my city by the bay all we have is earthquakes, not 120 mph winds and 15 foot waves. It makes me wonder, in the case of a natural disaster, would you rather have days to prepare and freak out or just a surprise shake, rattle, and roll? I'm not sure just yet. I'll let you know my thoughts when Gustav finally rests in peace.

This month's National Geographic Travel cover story is an ode to San Francisco. When we opened our mailbox in Houston and I saw the golden gates on the cover, my heart started to race and my eyes started to well ...


As I sat on the potty and read the article, I was far from impressed. I was downright disappointed. National Geographic is a highly esteemed publication--my expectations are high. The piece was superficial, predictable, and lame. San Francisco cannot be summed up in 3 pages and hotel, restaurant, and club reccomendations. It's just so much more.

My San Francisco is more than adorable vintage stores and fabulous hidden spots to eat. While I do dwindle away countless hours eating delicious food in the Mission and Hayes Valley and walking in and out of over-priced boutiques, that's not all my city has to offer. My San Francisco is secret grassy nulls, the personification of style, surprise views, hidden neighborhoods, and lazy soy-latte and deep conversation filled days. San Francisco is the type of city where it's ok to be alone. The city is your best friend and lover. On a sun-filled day there is nothing that I take with me when I step out the door. No ipod, no book--just a few dollars and some comfy shoes. The city, the people, the smells, the colors, the countless festivals will keep you entertained. The city will force you outdoors and off of your sofa. It will make you feel cultured, satisfied, and creative. At least that's how it makes me feel ...

My San Francisco is acceptance. While we are the homosexual center of the modern world, we are also brimming with ethnic diversity and intense culture. It enrages me that the second you step out of the city and you mention you are from SF people say, "Aren't there a lot of gays there?" I'm like, uhhh ... yeah ... aren't there a lot of ignorant people where you're from?! While Market and Castro do fly the rainbow flag high and proud, it's just a symbol of the diverse texture of our community. My brown curry self seeks refuge in the fact that the first thing people see when the look at me is not the fact that I'm brown. It's the fact that I am me lost in a sea of color and individuality.

I remember one day recently when I was dropping something off at my sister's house in Cole Valley. It was a typical summers day--windy, cloudy, sunny, and beautiful (depending on which turn you took and which neighborhood you landed up in). As I drove from Cole Valley back to Hayes Valley I was drawn to signs pointing up a curvy fog-covered road. I winded up the mountain not able to see more that eight feet in front of me. I landed up on top of twin peeks. The fog was so think that all my eyes could see was the ghost of the outline of the city. It was windy. I didn't have a jacket. I got out of my car and sat on the ledge. I blocked out the tourists, wind, and fog. I just let myself be alone with my thoughts and the hint of a view hidden beneath the clouds. In twenty-five years I had never been to twin peaks--a picturesque escape only about three miles from my apartment.

That's my San Francisco. Fascinating beautiful hidden sights that one wrong turn will take you to.

So take that Nat Geo. Take your Harlot Ultralounge and Fairmont hotel and eat shit. While I appreciate you paying homage to the most beautiful city in the world I wish you would get it right.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

Spain is magical. It changes people. Trust me ... it changed me.

Last night BF and I went to see Vicky Cristina Barcelona. I longed to be back in the country where I felt most at home, most happy, and most me--Espana. I lived, studied, partied, and found myself in Spain during my junior year of college. It was el tiempo mas feliz de me vida ... the happiest time of my life. Call me cheesy, say it's a cliche, but let me tell you brotha man, es la verdad.

During the movie I got quiet. I became involved. I saw myself in Vicky. I saw myself in Cristina. I saw myself in Maria Elena--Penelope. I burned with jealousy when they toiled the balmy nights away sipping on glasses of red wine and listening to Spanish guitar. That used to be me. That used to be my life.

I've always been afraid to go back to Spain. I've always thought a vacation won't be enough. I won't attain the same level of happiness that I felt when I lived there. So I haven't gone back. Now I'm older ... five years older. I'm settled ... in a serious relationship. I won't go party with Antonio and Gustavo (my gay Spanish lovers--the hottest men I have ever laid eyes on) until 8 am. I won't spontaneously travel to San Sebastian for the weekend. I've changed. I'm not sure if Spain has changed, but I'm longing. Longing for who I once was and the life I once led.

Shhhh .... don't tell.

From Hayes Valley to the Heights

As I sat in the lobby of a potential employer this morning I wrote the following in my moleskin:

I'm sitting in the lobby of Company X. Leanne Rymes circa 1999 is softly playing the the background. The rather robust secretary is singing along. The song is "Can't Fight the Moonlight." I'm overcome with images of High School. Coyote Ugly was our favorite movie, this song was the theme ...

My interviewer finally came out. I put down my pen and wrapped the elastic around my little black notebook. A few hours later back at home (now, 1:23pm, Texas, 12:23, California). It intrigues me that a contemporary, ultra modern office in Houston would play Leann Rymes circa 1999. My hypothesis is that the same office in San Francisco would be playing Nouvelle Vague, Feist, or even some Katy Perry. I mean haven't we all kissed a girl and liked it?

From San Francisco, California to Houston, Texas ... From Hayes Valley to The Heights

I love my boyfriend. I love San Francisco. My home is San Francisco. His home is Texas. As you can imagine, this created problems. Gas prices rose, jobs were lost, and apartments were rented. I am now officially a Texan. I traded in my Camper boots of Cowboy boots. (NOT!) Anyhoo, its been about forty-eight hours of life in Houston and so far so good. I'm trying to be positive and not snobby but I'm not gonna lie, its a bit tough. Let me break it down for you:

PROS: Getting to see BF everyday, burns a smaller hole in my $$, pool in our apartment complex, cheaper yoga, their lack of stylishness makes me feel uber hip, their lack of skinyness makes me feel like Penelope Cruz (on a fat day)

CONS: I can't walk to Blue Bottle, Hayes & Kebobs, or La Boulange, I have no friends ... yet, It is HOT. (not hot as in sexy, hot as in muggy) but, the biggest con is that it's just not San Francisco.

Last night I cooked Chinese chicken salad--Meghan's recipe--it was bomb. Then we watched What Happens in Vegas. It was a perfect Wednesday evening. Morale of the story, who needs Boulange croissants when you have someone to cuddle with during a movie? Not me.

More from the land of open space, not-recycling, and juicy steaks to come.