Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Seeing double

Ever since I went to Gallaudet, I mostly stopped wearing make-up, except for special evenings out, occasions, etc. Aside from job interview and first few days at work as well as having a photo I.D. taken, I don't usually put on make-up to work.

I prefer having my face "skin" to breathe more freely than having a gunk of stuff covering every pore of my skin. After a whole day, my face often turns oily, to my discernment. I felt it takes too much time and hassle to put on and take off make-up daily.

Isn't being 'natural' a beauty though? :)

Few years ago, my sister graduated with a Masters degree. My family came up from the south to attend the graduation ceremony. Accomodating to modern times and the FAA law as well, her college provided me with an interpreter which was nice.

My work is about 5-minute walk to the metro station whereas one of my earlier homes was not. On the day of my sister's graduation, I took a half day off and went home by metro.

My father and stepmother were staying with me while my mother stayed at my sister's place nearby. After we all got dressed, I took my car to my work and parked in the garage of my work-place (I had borrowed my co-worker's parking permit). Then we all took the metro to my sister's college in downtown.

After I had parked my car in the garage, I walked up to my work lobby and went out the revolving door. It was during my work's lunch time so several co-workers were sitting outside on the benches due to nice weather.

I was wearing a skimpy short sleeveless dress (YEP, I was thin that time!) and well-put make-up. My shoulder-length hair which was usually put up in either ponytail or barette, was let down, flowing to the wind.

Walking breezily past my co-workers, including Cheryl, who stared agaped at me, I briefly smiled and joined my father & stepmother, who were waiting in my work courtyard, to the metro station.

The next morning, I was walking down the aisle at my work, when Cheryl suddenly stopped me.
She started raving about a lady whom she saw yesterday afternoon who looked like as if she stepped out of a Vogue magazine.

Feeling flattered that she was obviously talking about me, I nodded and was about to say thank you when she asked me a question.

"Do you have a twin sister?"

Friday, September 14, 2007

What's the password?

Few years ago, my sister bought a condo in downtown. Proud of her first home purchase, she painstakingly decorated it. She felt safe and secure due to the security in her high-rise building. In order to enter the building, the person must punch in the code of the resident's unit and wait for the resident to open the door.

Although my husband is a man of few words, he has a sense of humor. One evening, my sister invited us over for dinner. Since my husband had to work a bit late, I arrived alone while he came a bit later.

Upon walking up the stairs to the front entrance of my sister's condo building, my husband proceeded to punch the code number and waited for my sister's answer.

When my sister picked up the telephone, instead of stating his name as usual, my husband replied, "Open Sesame".

(The "code" words were derived from the ancient Middle-East fairy tale: "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves".)

Saturday, September 8, 2007

"A New Friend"

About two years before I was born, my father, newly married for few months, went to France on business. (He was an electrical engineer) He lived there for nearly two years. He visited my mother in India once, several months prior to the end of his two year stint.

Hence, he was not present when I was born; my mother went to her parents' house in New Delhi so they could help her with the baby, as it was the custom anyway. My father did not see me till I was about one or two months old. My mother stayed at her parents' for three or four months before going back home to Mumbai.

Shortly after he arrived in Paris, he stayed at a hostel with no kitchenette. To save money, he cooked in the bathroom, avoiding the fire alarm in the living room.

Learning French was a bit difficult because the classes he took was IN French too! (Imagine your sign language class teacher teaching you IN sign language?!) Over several months, my father managed to pick up enough to carry a basic conversation.

My father is very fair skinned with grey eyes and had black hair. Most people in France often mistook him as Spanish, as from Spain. They found a bit hard to believe that he was actually Indian. He was nice looking in those days, from looking at the old photographs.

Several weeks after he arrived, he went sightseeing in his spare time. One day, a very pretty French girl smiled at him. Naively, my father smiled back and suddenly she came to him and started talking.

My father struggled to understand her. She kept trying to tell him what she wanted. This went on for half-hour. Finally, she gave up and left.

That night, after dinner, my father lain in bed, feeling bad he couldn't understand the seemingly-nice girl, pondered over the event that transpired during the day.

Suddenly my father bolted upright. He finally understood what that pretty girl had been trying to say. And what she actually was.

She was a call girl; in other words, a prostitute.