Kenya - Hakuna Matata!

Here are a few memorable moments from my trip to Kenya:

1) The street vendors. In Kenya, a stop at any traffic light meant dealing with the street vendors. The street vendors will surround you like flies surrounding a carcass and try to make you buy a circular piece of aluminum wiring for 20 dollars. Or worse, once he realizes you won't pay anything for it, he will try to trade you his supply of goods for the elastic rubber band around your wrist. This makes you suddenly wonder if your 2 cent rubber band may actually be more precious than, say, a gold bar. In the end, however, you are so adamant about not giving into these pushy vendors, that you wouldn't trade that damn rubber band in for a diamond bracelet.

However, I did give in to the vendors who appealed to my keen business sense (which consists of Chapter 1 of 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad' and season 1 of the Apprentice). The following street vendor tactics impressed me the most:

• No matter what they're selling, from paintings and figurines to bottled water, they will claim that "they've made it themselves".
• Some of them argued that buying their goods would bring about social change and promote the culture. When they paired that line with "I made this myself", I folded like a deck of cards and bought that piece of wire for $5.00
• Some of the tourist shops would have attached workshops where the local artists seemingly carved and sanded half-made sculptures to further lure you into the idea of hand-made crafts. In a candid moment, when they had thought all the tourists had left and they hadn't accounted for my overactive bladder, I watched them promptly drop the sculptures and have a loud debate about FC Barcelona vs Manchester United.

2) Lion King. During the entire trip, the "Circle of Life" and "Hakuna Matata" took turns playing in the back of my mind. The fact that my entire knowledge of Kenya peaked at Disney's Lion King was, both, acutely embarrassing and unforgivable.

3) The red-colored cocktail that I drank, which (unknown to me until later) had beets in it that proceeded to stain the next 3 days of my bowel movements an angry red, which, in turn, resulted in one of the most dramatic showdowns between me, WebMD, and the local medic.

4) Remembering the exciting Cheetah chases and violent kills that you watched at the National Geographic channel, and then comparing those to the dozing, half-bored/half-annoyed cheetah lying 4 feet from you and wondering why this magnificent creature reminded you of your grandma's house cat.

You patiently wait for the cat to wake from its nap. Twenty minutes later, when the most active part of the afternoon was to watch the cheetah yawn and pee at the nearest tree, you wonder if that cheetah would give a damn if you had thrown an impala right near his paws.



I'm a vicious killer, but the sun can hurt my eyes



Sleeping with paws up in the air...nice

 

5) People and their cameras. I had already been warned that I would get camera envy, especially since most of the tourists carried lenses as long as my leg. Meanwhile, my camera was a digital point-and-shoot. When I realized I was more concerned about capturing a great picture than enjoying the scene unfold in front of me, I put my camera away and just watched everything through my binoculars.

Later, I exchanged email addresses with the guy who had the longest lens (Yes, I intentionally worded it this way) and asked to exchange pictures with him. At first, he regarded my camera with skepticism, but then agreed when I told him I had some exciting, albeit blurry, shots of Big Foot. The joke's on him of course, since not only is there no Big Foot in Kenya (we all know Big Foot lives in the Himalayas along with the Dalai Llama and Brad Pitt), but these pictures of Big Foot that I took were actually images of my mom at the buffet table during lunch. The camera's shutter speed was no match for her greed.

6) "Kill-Butt", the friendly hotel manager at Samburu. "Your name is Kill-Butt?" I asked him, instantly admiring everything about him, and he smiled in acknowledgement.

I went to Kill-Butt for everything, from setting up a fan and an extra bed in the hotel room to breaking down and weepily admitting my debilitating addiction to the "Hot in Cleveland" TV series. Later, when I wanted to mention Kill-butt on the hotel's feedback form, I asked him to spell his name. He nudged his jacket aside to reveal a name tag that said "Gilbert". I secretly nursed my feelings of 'dumbassyness' for days, thereafter,

7) The women. From the cheerful waitress at Samburu to the dignified Gift Shop lady at Nakuru, the women of Kenya displayed a wealth of knowledge, wit and potential that far surpassed their male counterparts.

8) Lake Nakuru with its stunning plethora of birds, white rhinos and black water buffalos. My van consisted of six women, including me. When the van took the final turn to reveal the lake, we broke into excited exclamations and jabbering that rivaled a noisy hair salon. Eric, our exasperated driver, had to actually say "Calm down, ladies, just calm down."

Lake Nakuru with its pink flamingos

9) My new Group On friends. Our entire group consisted of 30 people, from honeymoon couples to aunts and nieces, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, and a few lone rangers, who were all put together because of their common, impulsive decision to buy a vacation package through Group On.

10) The leopard. Leopards are impossible to spot during game drives. We looked fervently for 7 days and then we decided to give up. On the last morning, when we were driving out of Masai Mara, one of the girls in the jeep, Jessica, suddenly said "Wait. What's that on that tree?"

"It could be another log, like last time," one of us chimed in.

Then the log turned its head towards of us and we realized it was a magnificent leopard. We all screamed in delight, which was enough motivation for the leopard to effortlessly jump down 30 feet and slink away into the forest.

It all happened so fast that only one of us caught his picture. It's a faraway shot and we can only see the cat's silhouette. But it was apt, because the leopard is just that elusive.

The Art of Commenting

In today’s day and age, it’s easy to share your unwanted opinions with the rest of the world. From online news articles to YouTube to retail product reviews, the world wide web wants to know exactly what you think and feel: your uncensored, honest opinion is in demand even if it's interspersed with misspelling and grammatical errors.

Often, the reader’s comments are more interesting than the product or news article, itself. Especially, when the comments get personal!

Today, I read an article about why Sanskrit should not be declared a dead language in India. The most popular comments and arguments for not shelving Sanskrit with Latin and other dead languages were:

- Sanskrit is the mother of all Indian languages

- Sanskrit is the language of GODS.

You can tell right away that people take this shit very personally because they capitalized “God”. I thought to myself: “So what if it’s the mother of all languages? It can be the fucking great-grandmother of all languages in the world but if it’s not relevant to today’s day and age, who gives a shit?”

But it doesn’t matter, because, as someone else said: Sanskrut is the mother of my Mother toung!

“Mother Toungs” aside, my favorite comment of the article was:

 All the glorious literature is in Sanskrit. As such, for all Yoga practitioners and teacher around the world, Sanskrit is milking cow.

This comment is fantastic because the analogy is so over the top: you learn to appreciate the fact that speaking Sanskrit can actually somehow relate to milking cows. Who knew?

My favorite comments usually have to do with Indians and Pakistanis bickering over who is better. The said video or article will have nothing to do with the ancient animosity between India and Pakistan, but just like a flurry of Justin Bieber comments, an India-Pakistan frenzy can result from the most mundane of videos. I was watching a trailer of an Indian movie called “Delhi Belly”, and a passionate Pakistani commented, no doubt in reply to an Indian's equally colorful comment:

1)      we pakistani fuck ur indian moms then u indian comes .... Pakistanis r ur fathers bloody indian fuckin ass whole ...

 It’s such a convincing argument. There are definitely no ‘wholes’ in his statement.

Then a proud Indian replied in comparable eloquence to the thoughtful opinions of his neighbor:

2)      Listen up you asshole......you and your fucking terrorist infested country is of no use to this world and hence can go to hell......Pakistan is more likely to be called Bullshitistan.....dipshit.....­..get a life loser....if you are a son of a single father, then dare not to speak another word about our country....for its our country who is mercifully sparing you thieves constantly...any other country would have Nuked your bloody soil and send all you crap bastards to hell !!!....

The Indian’s comment is studded with creativity: to rename Pakistan as Bullshitistan is, both, genius and pragmatic. Makes me wonder why it hasn’t already been done.  

 And this is, by far, my favorite:

3)       u fukin pig shit eater , eat my shit . u son of a whore go search u r father . u r mom a whore who can take an elephants dick in her filthy ass . fuckin joker how dare u talk shit like this . i will naked u r mom and sister and make them run naked on the streets u tick of my pubic hair .

This is brilliance. I can’t even tell if this guy is an Indian or a Pakistani but, either way, he is my hero. Since the first time I encountered this comment, I always wanted to use the line “You tick of my pubic hair”. But this insult is much better delivered by a guy than a girl for reasons I don’t want to get into.

However, I remain optimistic and hopeful that I may, one day, get to use a part of the above comment in my everyday life. Perhaps, during a job interview or even in the happy moments of a close friend getting pregnant, I can offer my heartiest congratulations by saying:

“U fukin pig shit eater, eat my shit. U son of a whore go search u r father…”

A Day in the Life of Carnegie Mellon

My friend, Aash, requested I write about some moments from undergrad because going to CMU, in itself, is an experience that begs to be blogged. So here goes...

There are two kinds of people at CMU: the geniuses who truly belong there and then…there's the rest of us. Similarly, there are two kinds of classes: the easy A courses like “Engineering and Public Policy”, or “Science, Technology and Ethics” that students clamored to get into in the false hopes that it would offset their Fs in other courses. Then there were the rape-your-ass engineering courses that would keep you awake for 57 hours straight, and starve you for 14 hours before your unshowered, tired body pushed you to the only place that would be open at 3 am and stuff greasy French fries down your throat, only to have you vomit it out an hour later at the nearest bathroom.

A 2nd year Mathematics course was, surprisingly, an easy-A course. The professor couldn’t be bothered with the undergrads so he would use the same tests, with the exact same questions every year, for the last 5 years. We would memorize patterns of answers, like “AABCDBBDBACBBADDDC”, from our practice tests and hope those questions came on the test, which it always did. The hardest part of the exam was to not be the first one to submit the test. In an auditorium of 250 students, when you’re taking a final exam that’s five pages long, it would raise a few eyebrows to hand the paper in under two minutes. So you ended up looking up and scanning the crowd, and notice the others also scanning the crowd, because most of us were done taking the exam, but nobody wanted to be the first one to hand it in.

Then there were the rest of our engineering courses that fell under the ass-rape category. 211 was one such course. The “Fundamentals of Data Structures and Algorithms” had nothing fundamental about it. Of the people I know who took that final exam, not a single one of us have forgotten that experience. For these courses, you spent months studying and attempting to understand concepts like data abstraction or modular program composition. But it never helped. No matter how much you studied, it never fucking helped. When you received the test paper, you’d scan the questions and every single one would look like a foreign language. Accompanying the realization that you don’t speak this language, is a sickening, sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach; time slows down and your entire life flashes in front of you, including the future where you foresee being kicked out of college and your home. And after wasting 60 minutes out of the 80 minutes just staring at your paper, you start writing furiously, forcing your elementary understanding of math, physics, logic, and language to come together to form some coherent response that will perhaps get half credit and maybe even result in a decent score after the curve. You maddeningly hope that all your friends fail. You want those fuckers to fail so the test is curved up!

After the 211 exam, five of us walked out like we would in a funeral procession and sat down on the snow-laden lawn. It was dark and easily 0 degrees and one of my friends started sobbing. I touched her shoulders and said it was going to be okay only to realize she was laughing hysterically. “Dude, I bombed that shit,” she said. “I’ve never failed anything so fucking spectacularly in my entire life.”

I burst out laughing and the rest of us joined in and there we were, lying on a foot of snow, laughing with tears in our eyes. It was either that or go hang ourselves.  So we laughed, astonished at our resolves to continue living normally, instead of ripping our hair out, stripping our clothes off, yelling expletives and running our naked asses straight into an asylum.

One of my favorite professors (and I’m deliberately not mentioning his name for the sake of privacy) was a sweet-natured, French man who students loved to take advantage of to get an easy A. Rumor had it that if you went to his office hours and had a few conversations with him, you were guaranteed a B. If he remembered your name, you were guaranteed an A.

My friend Aash and I decided to try our luck and went to his office.

“Hi professor,” I said, “Here are our thesis papers, but we wanted to drop it off in person because myself, Shilpi, and over there, Aashni, wanted to chat with you for a few minutes!”

“Oh really?” he asked in a thick, French accent, “Vot eez it that I can help you weet?”

“Oh well,” Aash replied, “we just wanted to say hi really and wish you happy holidays!”

He looked at us skeptically and replied, “Vel, eez a good theeng you girls are here…I am very perplexed by sum sing and vonted khonfermation on eet.”

“Oh shit,” I thought as we sat down and furiously started recalling what we had learnt in the past year.

Then the professor opened his cabinet, took out a small figurine and placed it on his desk.

All three of us quietly stared at a Lingam, a symbol of worship in India and of Shiva’s male creative energy.

“Ees it true,” began the professor, “of vot they say? Ees it really…a…?”

I saw Aash quietly look at the professor. “Um…” she began, “What have you heard?”

“Well,” the professor blushed, “I’m too embarrassed to say, really…”

“Preposterous!” I heard myself say, already offended about whatever nonsense he may have heard. “That,” I yelled, “is a symbol of worship in India and Hindus around the world pray to it! It is a symbol of destruction.”

“Shut up Shilpi,” Aash cut in. “Professor, I think what you heard is…true. It is, indeed, what they say it is.”

“What the hell—“ I began, but stopped as the professor nodded his head and shuffled us out of his office.

Outside, I turned on Aash. “Dude,” I said, “What was that all about? Why did he show us a damn lingam?”

Aash looked at me and was like “Dude…you don’t know what it is, do you?

“Of course I do! It’s the symbol of dest—“

“Shut the hell up about destruction. It’s Shiva’s dick, okay.”

“…Wha -at?”

“The lingam is Shiva’s di—”

“Why the HELL would we worship that?”

“Beats me. Dude, how did you not know this?”

“It’s not exactly something my mom can tell me,” I yelled. “Btw, Shilpi…that thing that you’re praying to…it’s a penis”.

“Yeah, well you learn this in school, you idiot. Not at home.”

“What the fuck…this is horrible. Hinduism sucks.”

Chapter 1 - Dad and the Lady in the Rain

A lot of people have requested a blog post on my dad, or 'baba' as I call him. Here's one to start of with:

I observe my dad at work; at home; and with his friends—his life is full of light humor that frustrates the people who live with him, but amuses everyone else around him. I would describe my dad as a socially lovable, perpetually confused, workaholic. An odd combination I know, but you will understand if you read on.

I remember once we were returning from my friend’s, home that was maybe a ten minute drive from mine, and we got lost. He took a wrong turn and we ended up in a strange neighborhood that dad insisted was the correct way to go home. After a few loops in the neighborhood, realization dawned on him: this was not the correct way. “Don’t worry,” he said, “We’ll ask for directions.”

It was hurricane season, and that night it rained like any stormy night during a scary movie. He spotted a person slowly walking a dog. In this weather?! I thought. My dad drove up to him screaming “Sir! Sir!” at the top of his lungs, trying to get his attention. The lady walking the dog wasn’t too pleased at being called 'Sir'. She replied “Yes?” with venom dripping down her mouth. My dad stared straight into her eyes and said, “Sir, can you tell me how to get to Cranberry road?” The lady paused looking a bit startled, but then started giving directions. With that, my dad said, “Thank you so much, sir”, waved goodbye to the lady and drove away.

I looked at my dad then and said, “You know, she was a woman, right?”

“Yes I know,” he replied. I didn’t ask him to elaborate. We drove the rest of the way home quietly.

            My dad is like that. Once he makes up his mind about something, nothing can change it.

Once, dad tried to book a one-week cruise for us. He called the travel agent and asked what cruises go to the Caribbean. The travel agent listed ten cruises ending with Norwegian, Princess, and Carnival.

“Ah yes,” said my dad, “I want the last one; Liberty cruises.”

The travel agent said, “You mean Carnival?”

Dad: “Yes, that is what I mean. So what does the Liberty cruise have other than pool and spa?”

“Um,” the agent began unsurely, “Carnival cruises,” he said emphasizing the word, “has several things to offer.” He then listed the amenities.

My dad: “Excellent. We’ll go for Liberty travels!”

“Sir, it’s Carnival, not Liberty,” said the agent as politely as he could.

Dad: “Excellent!”

A small pause, and then the agent started again, “Alright, well how many passengers?”

“Three,” replied my dad.

“Two adults and one child?” the agent inquired.

“…Yes, two adults and one very small child,” replied my dad.

“How old is your child?” asked the travel agent.

Dad: “21”

That was the end of the conversation. A long pause. A little static. And then, for the first time in the history of customer salesmanship, a travel agent hangs up on the customer.

            Like I said: once dad makes up his mind, you cannot budge him: just as it didnt matter to him that the 'sir' in the rain was a lady, it didn’t matter that the actual name of the cruise was Carnival; dad had already decided that he wanted to go on Liberty travels with his wife and his very small, 21 year old daughter.

The Graphical Nature of Relationships

When you’re right in the middle of it, reasoning is muddled. But math can help in understanding the different progressions of relationships! You can actually plot it. I realized this in a JK Rowling-epiphany-while-riding-in-a-train sort of way. Ok fine, I lied – I was traveling in a plane and I don’t think my discovery will go on to become an epic 7-series book and movie blockbuster, but let’s not get stuck on details.

In Physics, there is no such thing as an instantaneous object. An object can have a certain width, breadth and depth, but it cannot exist until you actually introduce the 4^th dimensional aspect of time. Given a certain time frame, that particular object exists! Relationships, similarly, are not quantifiable at an instantaneous moment, or what we call the present. In the present, you might think things are perfect, but you both may either be converging into a perfect marriage or diverging into a sticky breakup.

 Just like a 3-dimensional object cannot exist without the passage of time, the 4^th dimension of a relationship is the amount of enthusiasm each person has in the relationship. If this is not making any sense to you, it’s cuz I’m totally making this crap up.

Anyways, let me explain with a graph:

If you plot your enthusiasm versus your partner’s enthusiasm over time, its best that your slopes don’t intersect, because that generally means you guys are starting to feel differently about each other, which could mean a potential break up in the future. Take a look at the graph above:  you start out undecided while the guy is pretty enthusiastic in the beginning, and after some amount of time, just when you start to get intrigued and comfortable with the circumstances—BOOM! Your ass has been dumped. Or your ass is not working out anymore. Or your ass has been replaced by somebody else’s ass.

Of course, an intersection doesn’t necessarily mean a breakup! If you fall under either of the two graphs shown below, you guys will be fine!

         

Here are a few others, with explanations. Which category do you fall under?

A.      On-and-Off

You guys can’t make up your mind and take turns liking each other. Hopefully your emotions will stop yo-yoing and you guys will realize that ya’ll can’t live without each other. This stuff makes for excellent romantic comedies.

B.      Not good

Yeah, you need to break up with him/her. Like right now.

C.      Incest

You found the man or woman of your dreams until you go to a family reunion and find out you’re related. That’s bad luck. But, looks like your cousin is still interested. …Awkward…

D.      Hanging on to the past

Ah yes, this is where the other person doesn’t like you anymore and you want to go back to the time when everything was perfect, so you build a spaceship and travel back in time. You think this is a totally rational plan to fall back on but, really, you need to stop living in the past.

Seriously though, don’t ever take my advice because the only thing these graphs reveal is my nerd-at-heart mentality. So, yes, PowerPoint decks can make anything look official, but we also know it’s just another way of putting lipstick on a turd. Good luck with your relationship or the lack thereof! J


© Copyright by Shilpi Chakrabarti 2011

España

Spain was a whirlwind. Spain was everything I desired and more. Ok fine, I wouldn’t go that far, but it was bloody fantastic. Let me tell you about it.

My friend Aash and I landed in Seville and decided the first thing we should do was something crazy. So we spotted the sole Indian girl on the bus and made friends with her. She had been to Spain several times before and she offered to show us all the local and hidden treasures of Spain in the next few days. She promised us the best food and drinks and fun and friendship. We waved goodbye to her as if we were childhood friends. We texted her later that day and she didn’t reply. We called her later that night and she didn’t call back. What a bitch.

That night we went to a Flamenco show. By the fourth glass of wine, Aash and I were caught up in the drama and anger of it all. “She,” I slurred, “is very passionate.”

“Why is she so pissed?” inquired Aash.

“I think she found out the guitar player is gay. I’m pretty pissed off about that myself. So frickin cute...I swear, if he wasn't gay, I would...”

Anyways, let's keep it PG. Aash was all about Spanish food for the first few days. She wanted only authentic tapas – patatas bravas, huevo y jamon, paella, sangria. Unfortunately, coming from the land of spices, Aash found almost everything bland including my company. “Hot sauce!” she would yell as she flung her fork and knife towards the waiter. The waiters had no idea what we were saying. One brave young waiter did try to figure out what the hell we wanted.

“Sal?", he inquired.

“No, no” we replied in exasperation.

Waiter: “Jamon?”

Aash: “…Jam?”

Me: “No, not jam. Ham.”

Waiter: “Vino?”

Me: “After this conversation, yes dammit. Bring four.”

Waiter: “Pimiento?”

Aash: “Pimi….yes! Those are those spicy green peppers right, Shilps?! Yes, damn you, bring me pimiento!!”

We high-fived in triumph, as if we just decoded Caesar’s cipher, when the waiter came back with some black pepper.

We stared at the black pepper, depression settling over us in thick, heavy blankets.

“Let’s go to an Indian restaurant tomorrow,” said Aash without preamble.

“Fuck yeah. I’ll be snorting the garam masala from the kitchen floor.”

Food aside, we saw some of the most brilliant architecture in Seville. In the middle of cobblestone streets, dotted with romantic street lamps, stood a Cathedral holding paintings and carvings of stoic Catholic beliefs and the remains of Columbus’s genitalia. Oh yes, we were different people in the romance-infused air of Seville. We got lost amongst the gypsies that insisted on selling rosemary twigs to Aash as if they were precious diamond bracelets; amongst the street musicians that played a heart-wrenching tune while we walked through quietly-lit streets; amongst the Plaças with street vendors selling balloons, and lit tops that would fly high into the air, and a whistle that made you sound like you inhaled helium, and many, many other essentials.

We took a train to Cordoba to experience more Moorish architecture and it was truly enthralling. We went to see the local Cathedral there, which had started out as a church and was converted to a mosque when the Muslims had conquered the Christians in that region. The mosque had then been converted back to a church after the conquered Christians re-conquered the conquered Muslims. The final architecture of the Catedral, today, is the result of layers and layers of testosterone, resembling a set of Russian dolls, with each doll built slightly bigger, and better and overshadowing the previous one.

We left the beauty and elegance of Seville, and were confronted by the blatant promiscuity of Ibiza. Ibiza was a beach town with a contrasting landscape: of quaint, quiet villages and large, glittery clubs. For a moment, I felt bad for Ibiza and its gradual progression from a pretty peasant towards a garish, gaudy prostitute. But make no mistake, this prostitute was by no means cheap. We ended up spending more money there than we did in the rest of our trip combined!

That night we went to David Guetta’s closing summer party. It was the epitome of fun. We were right there, staring at Guetta work his magic as neon glowsticks, heart-shaped balloons, lasers, smoke, and huge robots swayed to the rhythm of “I gotta feeling!” We were so deliriously happy walking out that we didn’t even realize a bunch of guys had felt us up on our way out. Or maybe that was the reason we were deliriously happy? Don't quite remember the exact order...

Anyways, we went back to the hotel room from the club, changed, took a ferry to an island and biked for an hour to a beach. Then we fell asleep on the sand like newborn babies.

Finally, we landed in Barcelona. I looked skeptically at Aash and said, “Listen Aash…I know you…we have two and half days in Barcelona, ok? We can’t spend it all shopping.”

“No, I know, we’ll go shopping on Sunday. We’ll spend all of Saturday doing the tourist stuff.”

We woke up on Saturday and walked into the streets of Barcelona with our tour books out, sneakers on and baseball hats snug on our heads. We were going to see Gaudi and the Sagrada today, but before that we were going to get breakfast. I took ten steps when Aash already disappeared into the nearest Zara. Shit.

I dragged Aash out of the store and decided to go for breakfast. We went to Pita Inn and our ‘breakfast’ consisted of falafels drenched in tahini and hot sauce.

“Jeez”, I said walking out, “if people knew the crap we were eating while in Spain.”

Aash giggled, “So far, Indian food, Italian food and, now, Middle-Eatern!”

That evening, we relaxed with a glass of wine on Vincent’s balcony. Vincent was the person who owned the apartment that we were renting. He drank his white wine with ice, which apparently is the norm in Spain. Aash and I also learned how to pronounce David Guetta’s last name.

“Who?” said Vincent.

“Goo-ate-ah,” replied Aash, “the DJ?”

Vincent: “Ohhhhh, you mean ‘get-ta’.”

Aash: “Oh, is that how his name is pronounced in Spain?”

Vincent: “….No…that’s how his name is pronounced everywhere.”

“Not true,” I replied, “In India, he is Goo-ate-ah. Jai Sri David…”

“…Balakrishnan Goo-ate-ah,” Aash finished off, completing the ridiculous lie.

Vincent never facebooked us like he promised. But Aash and I were fine. We were more than fine actually. We were happy and relaxed and delightfully free from the ties of real life. Here in Spain, as we walked the musician-lined labyrinth of streets, as we strolled and sipped Sangria next to a river, as we ate in a candle-lit café while watching women dance flamenco; we bonded, reminisced, and rekindled a friendship as ethereal and blissful as the enchanting region of Andalusia.

How they became my sisters...

I was going to write about how, with the advent of smart phones, it has become creepy to people-watch. But it’s 2 am, and I’m thinking back to the past few years of my life and the people who have made it so full and vibrant. And, though, my parents and my best friend, Amy (who are really my constants) deserve their own blog posts each, I've decided to dedicate this blog to my sisters from another mister. God dammit, 'brother from another mother' works so much better.

Anyways, I have 8 of them. I am an only child, but I have 8 sisters that know me better than I know myself.

Let’s start with the youngest. Sushmita. My first cousin; it was only a few years back that I used to carry her around in my arms. She would follow me everywhere, and do exactly what I did. She hated eating the malai, or the cream, that formed on top of our grandma’s home-made yogurt until she saw me eat it; then, as she had herself said when she was four: “I suddenly started liking it.” Now she’s all grown up, traveling the world and going on cruises; when asked what her favorite parts of the cruise were, she replied “James and Nick.”

Then there is Nikita. She has the prettiest face and the foulest mouth. We once sat down and I challenged her to say a swear word for every letter of the alphabet in 30 seconds, which meant she barely had a second for each letter of the alphabet. She started rattling off at an impressive speed, starting with the overdone Ass, passing by the Dicks and Fucks, charging through the Sluts and Mofos. But then she came to the letter Q. I held my breath as she paused for 3 heart-stopping seconds. I started sweating and just when she was about to run out of time all together, she yelled out in sheer desperation: “Queen Boob!” At first we both stared at each other startled and speechless; did we just invent a swearword? Then both of us dissolved into uncontrollable laughter; the challenge long-forgotten, but a lifetime of fucking fabulous memories etched into our pasts.   

Anita, the poor soul, was my roommate all through college. We had a particularly sensitive alarm in our apartment; it would go off if someone farted. Every time I cooked, the fire alarm would turn on and I’d have to waive a towel near the alarm, run out with the burnt pan and food into the hallway, leave the hot pan on the carpet and then burn the hallway carpet. Every time I took a shower with the door slightly ajar, the alarm would turn on and I would run out naked, waving a towel in front of the alarm. Every time these things happened, I would pray that Anita wouldn’t walk into the apartment. And every time, she did. She was always a reliable person. At one time, she knew me better than my own mom. In fact, my mom had got me a jar of pickle and she said, “Oh aunty, Shilpi can’t eat pickle. It’s too spicy for her. Here, she likes my cookies…you can give her that.” When I saw my own mom’s startled expression as she got told, I couldn’t help but crack up.

Ashi. I always had a slight crush on her. I still do. And she secretly sweats me too. It was very early on when I realized that even if I tested our friendship to its limits (and I did), she would always stick with me. Freshman year, I had a major case of food-poisoning and I could barely stand up without expelling a good portion of my intestines. I spent some pretty colorful hours in that not-so-clean public bathroom on our 7^th floor dorm, but she was right there holding me through every minute. I remember that incident so well; I was curled near the toilet seat when she ran into the bathroom and pulled me up so her face was near mine. I was tired and dehydrated and everything was blurry except for her eyes. Her eyes were the most beautiful light-brown color, outlined with dark kohl. I thought they were the most gorgeous fucking pair of eyeballs I had ever seen. She shook me and yelled, “Shilpi! Wake up! What’s wrong?”

“You,” I replied in a whisper, “have the most beautiful eyes ever.”

She was confused at first, but right before I passed out, I caught her trying not to laugh.

Then there’s Aash , of course. Aash is the one that I’ve had the craziest moments with; the funniest moments; the most memorable moments!  From sneaking into famous architectural landmarks (without paying for it) to driving down the interstate for at least ten minutes while a cop car followed us with its lights and siren on (we were too busy laughing and listening to music) to getting thrown of a banana boat into the ocean so hard that our swim suits came off (I’m pretty sure those boat guys did that on purpose), fun is almost always certain when I hang out with Aash. She is a true friend; and I’m not kidding about that: I’ve seen Aash change the dressing of a bandage on her roommate’s—get this—ass. Why her roommate had a bandage on her ass is another story altogether.

Nisha. We all need a Nisha in our lives. I’m fortunate to have found my Nisha at the age of eighteen. The first time I saw her, I never thought I’d be friends with her; turns out, now I can’t live without her. Seriously, I’m not sure what her husband will think when I move in as their “roommate”. Nish has seen me grow from an 18-year old immature, irresponsible kid to a 26-year old, slightly less immature, negligibly more responsible, I use the term very loosely, adult. She taught me how to ski, how to pay my bills on time, how to pack my own things when I travel, and how to be on time or not be there at all. The only thing I could do in return for all that was to make her rice and zucchini. And I didn’t do it very well. I always made either too much rice or too little zucchini. For some reason, she still chooses to be my friend, and for that reason, itself, I consider her my sister.

Who’s left? Oh yeah, I almost forgot her—she’s so little: my Shilpa. My namesake. The bane of my existence for she totally stole my name and poorly disguised her theft by replacing the uniquely impressive ‘i’, with an over-used, predictable ‘a’. Oh how annoying it is for us to quote each other and have people think that we are just narcissists who couldn’t spell. The figurative God was being extra unimaginative when creating Shilpa and myself, because we are the exact same fucking person. The only difference between us is that one letter at the end of our names. And for that very reason, she is my soul mate. I can be crazy, bitchy, psycho, needy, whinny, cry-baby, whimpering pathetically in a corner, or screaming until I’m hoarse, but she will understand. She always does because our bond goes beyond blood; it is metaphysical. Don’t ask me what that means; all I know is that I can see Shilpa reading this and saying, “It’s true. I don’t know many things, like if Michael Jackson is black or if Janet Jackson is related to Michael Jackson, but I do know that Shilpi and I are metaphysically bonded.”

And my last sister, the most special and the bravest person I know, is my cousin Amrita. Or as I call her, Koel. Where do I begin? You know what, I’ll just leave it off with one of our usual dialogues that we have—it should give you a good idea of the whimsical yet weighty nature of our sisterhood:

Doel: We’re like too peas in a pod.

Koel: Yes; like a spontaneous case of mycosis. Or is that mitosis?

Doel: This is why we’re single; because we use analogies like that.

Koel: Why don’t you go terrorize yourself in front of the mirror?

Doel: Was that an attempt at a joke?

Koel: You just don’t understand my idiosyncratic jokes.

Doel: Do you even know what idiosyncrasy means?

Koel: Enlighten me.

Doel: It is a weird, unique association of something.

Koel: Well, let me explain the weird, unique association of my joke.

Doel: Please don’t. It’s 3 am. Can you tell me why good things only happen in movies?

Koel: I guess we’ve had some pretty bad things happen, huh? Don’t worry; good things will happen in the future.

Doel: And what about Neil?

Koel: He’ll always be there; through the good times and the bad.