BrainDrain

Credit debt is like a big sack of dog poo that you have to carry around all the time. It’s always at the back of your mind and you can’t wait to get rid of it. It totally stinks up the place and people can just tell that you are carrying some majorly malodorous baggage around. You try to get help with your sack of poo and use your credit card company.They are gracious enough to carry it for a while but then they secretly add more poo and give it back to you.

Oh yeah, and in trying to "lighten your load", you try to set it on fire to get the insurance money. But, it is a well known fact that flaming sacks of dog poo are not a good idea.

Alas, thus are the woes of credit card debt. It totally stinks and you can’t really get it off your back.

There was a time when I was sure that this was it. This was the real thing. However, it wasn’t. I’m not even sure the real thing exists. Before I knew what was happening I was staring at the shattered remnants of my heart lying on the floor.

I stared for a while in disbelief. It seemed like just yesterday that I had superglued my feelings back together, good as new. It took a couple of knocks but things had been fine. I thought I was impenetrable then; industrial-strength glue was all that was needed, I thought.

As I now regather the pieces after weeks of paralysis, I realize that I my heart was not shattered the way it had been the first time. This time it had been worn thin at through months. It had been worn away like an angry sea, advancing and retreating, wears away at the cliffs.

As I fumbled through the rubble, I realize that this time there was no loud bang as my heart exploded in grief and sorrow. There was only a brief shudder as my heart, worn thin with assault, simply crumbled one day. Just like my decayed tooth, it no longer hurt because the nerve, its hidden essense, was dead.  It was simply numb.

I was numb. It didn’t hurt. I didn’t cry. I simply gathered whatever pieces I could in my arms and moved on. That’s all I could do.

For a while, I couldn’t even look at the pieces and as I unpacked my other baggage, I put them off to the side in a corner. Weeks passed and they sat ominously. Later, as I got braver,  I began to bring them out one by one.  And now, I sit here and organize them like I would a jigsaw puzzle. There are pieces missing and there will always will be. Like brain cells that die and can never be replaced.

I wonder if I should bother putting it all together again. That’s the problem with starting over; you wonder if it will be worth it. What’s the point? Won’t I be broken again? Won’t I lose more of myself?

I know I will. It is inevitable. I reach for mirages and am left grabbing sand. As grains, that are love, slip through my fingers once again, I know I can always start over with another handful. The deserts of the parched heart are endless. And there is some insane satisfaction in grabbing for mirages and starting over.

So being Desi isn’t enough to protect you from sunburn, I learned yesterday.

Yesterday, we spent the whole day at the Houston International Festival. This year, they were showcasing India. It was exciting and I was in awe at how many people of all nationalities and backgrounds congregated Downtown near Sam Houston Park. At that moment, I really began to appreciate the diversity Houston held. And though I am talking about the diversity of cultures in the population, I also mean diversity in each individual I saw. I saw an African American lady teaching a little Hispanic girl how to Dandiya. Talk about going beyond stereotypes! It made me wish that Houston was like that all the time. Or maybe if there was a designated "Culture Zone" in Houston with street performers and different restaurants. Some places are semi-Culture Zones, like Montrose,  but not completely. Well, anyway, my brother and I enjoyed it even though for the most part of the day we were manning the check-in table. This, indeed, was the same table where the sun kissed me until I, indeed, attained a permanant blush (in less poetic terms, a sunburn).

Well, I am now testimony to the fact that desis do in fact get sunburns. When our forefathers talked of Red Indians, there were not only ignorantly referring to Native Americans by some old-skool term, but to crazy desis like me who thought they’d never get burned by the sun.