Subcontinentals (and the women who love them)
A couple years ago, the most interesting phenomenon occurred. Entirely independent of each other, three of my friends and I were all affected at the same exact time. Dropping like flies we were. And now that’s it’s all over, we fondly reminisce about that crazy, crazy time. 2005. The Year Of The Indian.
Yes, in 2005 all four of us all were positively mad about Indian men. It made no sense whatsoever. Defied logic even. Look at my case. What could I possibly have had in common with an Indian Muslim boy 8 years my junior who I had strong suspicions was a virgin at the time?
Apparently everything is the correct answer, if our constant phone calls 3 times a day for hours at a time were any indication. Our romance was very slow to progress though. He fought it tooth and nail since he knew telling his family he liked a (gasp!) American white (Jewish to make matters worse) girl had all the makings of an international incident. “Son, you gots some ’splaining ‘ta do.”
He did finally acknowledge his feelings, but then we had the problem of him not knowing how to make a move. Marriages are arranged in ‘his country’ (you know how foreigners start every sentence with ‘well, in my country… ;0) ), so he wasn’t exactly an expert on dating and making moves and love marriages and things of that nature.
His dad was no help either, since all he’d basically had to do when it came time to order his mother was just put an ad in the local Mumbai paper. So mines had to learn how to operate outside his traditional operating system all on his own. Easier said than done.
His first ‘move’ consisted of shaking my hand after we had dinner one night. It was hilarious. Later, when we were actually seeing each other, he was like, “Wow, do you remember that handshake? There was so much chemistry!” ;0) I was like, “Yeahhhhh, that business-like palm touch was just electric.”
Now I don’t mean to sound like a cultural asshole, and I’m not condemning arranged marriages as the worst thing in the world either. I’m sure they have their perks. I can’t lie either, I’ve been at rock bottom before with no men in sight and thought to myself, “Can someone just arrange something ’round here!” Sure would make things a lot easier.
But then of course I wouldn’t be happy, blah blah blah, even though sometimes I think us Americans are so busy in our constant search for happiness that we forget to actually be happy along the way.
Lately I’ve been thinking that semi-arrangements like my Armenian friend gets just might be the way to go. Basically, she lays out her specifications to her ‘people’, and they run around like little love personal shoppers finding her that perfect fit. All she has to do is sit there looking pretty until they bring her one she likes. “You, not so much. Escort him out please. Now YOU on the other hand, I see something. Check back early next week. I’ll have my decision then.”
And the fact that these guys are introduced to her by people ‘in the community’ is a plus as well, since they can’t really act out what with their family name is at stake and all. They’re held accountable for their actions, which is good, because let’s be honest, a lot of people when you give them an inch will take a yard.
But lets get back to my Indian Muslim, shall we? Interestingly enough, the anticipation and buildup to our relationship lasted a lot longer than the actual dating part did. I blame myself too. I started acting out pretty quickly once I realized that no matter how much he liked me, I would never be marriage material in his eyes. I was fine to date, but he would never risk taking it to the next level and being shunned by the fam.
Never mind that we live in the 21st century; I was an Untouchable as far as being a wife was concerned in that little caste system of his. (I love it, now that it’s long over I can make snide comments freely.)
Seriously though. Why do we all live together in cities if we weren’t meant to mingle and interact and even fall in love and get married sometimes? I don’t get it.
It was really upsetting actually, being the stand-in girlfriend until the Muslim Indian wife (Sunni even, don’t let her be a Shiite now) came sauntering in to invoke her religion and race cards and ruin everything. I was nothing but her understudy. The stunt girlfriend who puts in all the long hours becoming an expert on Bollywood and ‘the subcontinent’ and learning how to make 3 types of naan, but sees none of the benefits. Whatever happened to ‘you reap what you sow’, that’s all I’m saying.
There were other problems too; we started arguing about the time constraints that his being a Muslim put on our romance. Because everything had to be based around the Muslim calendar. And I do mean everything. Ramadan can seriously cramp your style if you let it. And if the head imam was in town? There went the weekend.
We kept having it out over animals too. Anybody who knows me knows I love my dawgs, and Muslims, well as a whole they’re just not big dog people. So you see the problem. I constantly tried to change his mind, until one day he got sick and tired of it:
Enough. Stop, Cherie. We like dogs fine. It’s just that we don’t dress them up in turtlenecks and make out with them and cuddle with them in bed at night.
He was funny; I’ll give him that.
I actually ran into him the other day with his wife and baby daughter. He looked really happy too. Good for him. (Juuuust great. ;0) j/k, it’s fine. I’m over it.) Their arrangement seems to be working out really well too. He says it’s a love marriage, but I have my suspicions. Whatever. No judging Cherie. Different strokes for different folks.
He successfully ended my Indian obsession too, so some good came out of the whole thing. It was just unhealthy how we were all so caught up in those beautiful Indian men. Wasn’t right. One of my friends who came of age during The Year of The Indian actually ended up marrying hers though. And Prem is the absolute sh*t. The best guy ever. So you just never know.
One of the other girls wasn’t so lucky though. She’s still smack dab in it, and every time we try pulling her out, she just points to the fact that the only sperm that’s sold out at the sperm bank (which she checks regularly because 8-5 jobs make us do such ridiculous things) is the Indian sperm as proof of how special they really are. She’ll come around eventually though; she’s got to. Nothing lasts forever. Everything is fleeting isn’t it. And I do mean everything.
