“You are dating who!” I could sense the bewilderment in my best friend’s tone over the phone. “You are dating an Indian!” she exclaimed again. I could not understand what that was supposed to mean. “Ermm...I am an Indian. You are an Indian,” I tried reasoning with her. “Yes, but you know what I mean, don’t you?” she said. I did. I knew exactly what she meant.
I met S three years back. We went to college together. He
was a thorough-bred Delhite- talkative, flamboyant, attention-seeking, and
overtly confident. He who loved the two BCs that define a Delhite-Butter
Chicken and the other of the “sisterly” variety. I, on the other hand, his
exact opposite. Even after spending almost six years in two different cities, I
was a complete recluse, mingling only with people from my hometown. So quite
naturally, when I first met S, he got on my nerves. We had common friends but
I deliberately avoided any form of interaction with him during the initial days
of college. He asked too many questions and that made me uncomfortable.
Gradually though, we found a common ground-tacky Hindi
movies. He was genuinely surprised at my adept knowledge of B-grade Bollywood
flicks. “Dude,” he said, “You guys have cable TVs back home?” I almost choked. I
sighed and nodded quietly rather than pursuing the matter any further. We
exchanged numbers and got along famously over the next couple of days. I
eventually found out that behind the loud Delhi-boy exterior was a simple,
sensitive boy with an unmatched IQ. He was also very hardworking, highly
ambitious and an extremely gifted orator. The only problem I had with him was
his attire. “Wouldn’t have happened if you were dating a North Eastern boy,”
my friend said as a matter of fact. I laughed. S grumbled and complained when I
requested him to come to college wearing jeans and shoes and not his usual
half-century old Bermudas and slippers. I took him shopping within a month of
us dating.
We both love eating out. When S asked me out on a date, we
spent more time arguing over the all-you-can-eat buffet and the ala carte. We
settled on the former. “What is your favourite dish?” I once asked him. “Momos,” he replied, “and noodles. I can
eat them every day.” I thought he was being racist. “What’s yours?” he asked
me. “Butter Chicken,” I replied with a straight face. He seemed surprised.
We had our first big fight when he accused me of lying to
him. We’d eat out often and every time S would order Butter Chicken. I’d grown
sick of it. I actually hated butter chicken. Couldn’t stand the damn smell,
still can’t. He said he felt cheated. “How can you hate butter chicken?” he
shrieked, “So do you hate me too?” So dramatic!
Our second big fight was started by me. I was in a
despondent mood all day. I was ready to pick a fight with S-unprovoked. And so
I did. I told him that if he wanted to be with me, he’d better make an
effort-learn about my hometown-Darjeeling, my culture, my heritage, food and my
people. He said he would. Next day he came up to me with the choicest Nepali cuss words. I forgave him
instantly!
Curious stares follow wherever we go, but we take it in our
stride. I remember this one time when we went to GK, I saw a dress that I liked
and I insisted on trying it out. After few minutes when I came out of the trial
room, S looked visibly awkward. I asked him if he was alright and then he
replied that how for the first time, he felt cornered, as he was the only boy
in the store surrounded by all-female staff from the North East. He said that
he could feel all seven pair of eyes on him-judging him. I thought it was
rather funny. Also, there was this time at Jama
Masjid when we wanted to eat at Kareem’s
and the line outside was painfully long. So, S walked up to the manager,
said something and lo and behold, we were immediately ushered inside. I asked
him what he had said that got us inside the restaurant so quickly. “I told him
that you were a tourist visiting India and as hosts we shouldn’t keep you
waiting in the line outside,” was S’s reply. It was the most absurd and witty
nonsense I had ever heard! But it seemed to have worked like magic.
We’ve grown into each other, S and I. Like every normal
couple we fight and we make up. Some of my friends have tried introducing me to
“eligible bachelors” from my community. Initially, I thought it was rather
funny. But now, they know that S is the best thing to have ever happened to me.
“What does he smell like?” a friend once asked me. “Is he hairy? Does he burp a
lot too?” are the stereotypical FAQs I find rather amusing and therefore choose
to ignore.
It has been close to three years now. From Yo Yo Honey Singh
to butter chicken and butter naan, I’ve learnt to accept S the way he is-warts
and all. Yes, we are culturally and racially different. He will forever remain
the over enthusiastic Punjabi and he will probably keep believing that momos grow on our trees back home. But
the boy eats bacon and pepperoni pizzas with me and how! He even got me a Thangka all the way from Dharamshala
with His Holiness’ signature on my birthday because he knew that would mean a
lot to me.
So, next time, when I offer him yak cheese and fermented beans and he willingly eats them, I will know that he is for keeps.
