After that story and the weekend with Toby, I was now torn on the dog issue. Every dog owner I know says getting a dog was the best move they ever made, one that they would make again without regrets. But being in Toby’s line of fire, recalling how Jill set her schedule around Cindy’s needs, and the cripplingly disgusting thought of dog diarrhea in my bed made me wonder if a dog and I could share the same lifestyle.
I could admit that none of the real responsibilities of owning a dog crept into my mind the countless times I had begged my parents for one. As an adult, I was finally looking at the question with the rationality my parents would have applied when they broke our hearts time and time again. There’s really nothing I hate more than admitting that my parents may have been right.
SEVEN
tennis the menace
By mid-March, my tap-class term was over and I couldn’t believe I had only been dancing for two months. We actually put a short routine together, and though it wouldn’t have made the class hunk lean on my locker if I’d performed it at the junior high talent show, I was definitely dancing. More importantly, I found myself looking forward to class every week. Work was becoming robotic and hectic all at once, and having a creative outlet into which I could channel my energy was a great feeling.
Investing in myself was also a great feeling. This was the first class for pleasure I had ever taken and it was rewarding to learn a new skill at an age when people often put learning behind them in the pursuit of earning money.
I wondered if I would be a different person today if I had done something like it as a kid. I could see myself being more confident and more purposeful. Maybe I wouldn’t have started dieting at thirteen or wearing glasses at fourteen, because instead of sitting in front of the TV eating brownies, I would have had something to look forward to one hour a week, the way I did now. I know that a major reason my parents didn’t let us take lessons was that they were expensive. On two factory workers’ salaries, my parents saved, put a roof over our heads, and gave us the basics, but they didn’t believe in indulging in luxuries, for us or for them. My mom has the same work shirts in her closet that I folded when I was eleven years old. They lived life unselfishly, and I was aware that I had a much more self-centered existence.
I admired my parents for it, but I also wish they had let us kids just indulge, once or twice, because I would have loved to have felt as great as I did now, when I was a kid. At first I had been embarrassed to change into my sweats in the work washroom and to see people peep into the class through the studio window, but now I was grateful for that hour a week when I just allowed myself to have the experience of feeling like a kid again.
Though I could only recall the name of half of the steps, I could shuffle, ball-change, and stomp my way through an hour each week. As the class was nearing its end, the majority of the members decided that we would continue on. Our instructor told us he could change the time of the new beginners’ class so we could stay in the same time slot and progress in our dancing until we were ready for chorus roles in Stomp.
Arriving at class the first day of our new session, I peered into our studio and noticed that it was quite full.
“Is that the tap class?” I asked the girl at the front desk.
“Yes,” she told me. “We’re combining your class with the new beginners’ class.”
This didn’t sound that good to me. Instead of paying for the whole term, I decided to test the waters and paid only for that class.
When I walked in, I saw four of my classmates to the right and four new students to the left. The new students consisted of one girl in lacy leggings and matching headband, one woman who was already perspiring heavily in her ill-advised tap outfit of polyester pants and a wool turtleneck sweater, and two middle-aged Asian men, one of whom was dressed in cotton Dockers and a button-down shirt tucked into said Dockers. Our half of the class glared over at the beginners. We felt arrogantly superior with our seven weeks of experience in the art of dance. Look at their stances, how amateur. Oh, how they muddled through the shuffle.
Our teachers split the class into two sections, and while the beginner class was taught to do a basic tap-and-step, we were jumping, hopping, and trotting our way through the Shim Sham. Sharing the space was difficult. The beginners tried to keep up with us, while we stood for half of the class watching a tap-instruction déjà vu. To add to my frustration, the turtleneck-wearing woman beside me, now sweating from every visible pore, was tapping along with our “advanced” class. What the hell was she doing? I thought. She kept dancing, crowding the space I needed to “find my inner funk,” as my instructor always encouraged.
In addition to this, I was dealing with a situation at work that required me to furiously tap away at my BlackBerry in between buffaloes. At the end of the class, I had learned almost nothing because of these distractions, and during the next class I found myself behind. The class after that, I had two left tap shoes and was given the news that the class would move to 5 P.M. Running out of meetings early because I had tap class was not going to fly at my workplace, so I feared I had done my last ball change.
When I began my quest, I knew that I would take to some experiences more than others, and like a child trying out a variety of after-school activities, I wanted to make it an organic process. If I liked something, I would stick with it. If I hated it, I would move on, but I had to stick with everything long enough to constitute an honest try and attain some minor proficiency. I wasn’t going to get a role in Lord of the Dance anytime soon, but I could tap the basics. I hoped to find another class in the future, but for the time being, I hung up my tap shoes and returned to my to-do scroll. It was time to check off some boxes.
Luckily, my mind soon became occupied with a new opportunity. When my friend Ilana mentioned that she was going to sign up for tennis lessons, I didn’t hesitate to join her. When I was younger, I was obsessed with tennis. My sisters and I loved watching the childish antics of Boris “Boom Boom” Becker and the infamous tantrums of John McEnroe. We watched every match that was on and played whenever we could. By “played,” I mean that we hit tennis balls on the street right in front of our house, two sisters playing while the other two acted as ball girls and Pepsi holders.
When I was fourteen, our cousins came to visit from the UK. We hadn’t seen them since we were all toddlers, so had no idea what to expect. The four of us dressed up in our salwaar kameezes and flashed them big (in my case metal-mouthed) smiles when they came to our door. They greeted us with a traditional sat-sri-akal and we reciprocated and awkwardly perched on chairs as they talked in Punjabi with our parents about all the family goings-on.
“What do you think?” Gurpreet asked when we were alone in the kitchen.
“They seem kind of shy,” I said.
After a few days of us all exchanging pleasantries, talking about such exciting topics as the average rainfall in Cornwall, and feigning interest in Coronation Street, Gurpreet had the best idea since sliced naan.
“Should we play tennis outside?” she said. Those five words completely changed our summer, as it turned out that four cheap hardware-store racquets were all we needed to break the ice between us and our visitors.
“We thought you lot were gonna be so boring,” one of our cousins told us one night as we all laughed about our first impressions. “Why were you wearing suits?”
We ended up having a very fun visit. For me and my sisters, it was the first summer in memory that we were outside more than we were in the basement. Not only were we encouraged to socialize, if we didn’t we would be in trouble with our parents for being bad hosts. We played tennis at least five times a week, holding full-out continental tournaments that would last well into the evening hours, pausing only for pizza delivery and passing cars. It was like we were starring in a Bollywood film set at a tennis camp in the hills of Shimla. All that was missing was a five-hour song-and-dance sequence modeled on a Janet Jackson video from the previous decade.
The next
year, when Gurpreet and I went to visit our cousins in England, we packed our tennis racquets as if we were heading to Wimbledon. One day our uncle took us all to visit Warwick Castle, and we brought the racquets along, hearing that the adjoining park had courts. While our uncle tried to entice us with the castle’s more interesting features (dungeon chambers and the gift shop) our hands itched for the soft supple leather (more likely vinyl) of a racquet’s handle. Once our tour was finished, we ran across the grass to the tennis courts and began the tournament of champions. We played for hours, my uncle patiently waiting by the gate, until the castle grounds grew dark and we finally called it a game. I can’t recall who won, so I’ll just assume it was me.
After that summer, I returned to school and decided I would try out for the tennis team. After months of concerted practice, this was my best chance to get on a school sports team.
“I think I might try out for tennis,” I said to Melodie, who was on almost every team the school offered.
“Oh, do it!” she said. “We could have so much fun at practice and we could do doubles in the tournaments.”
“Okay,” I said, excited by the possibility. “I think I will.”
“I didn’t actually know you played tennis,” she said.
“Well, I just started last year,” I said. “But I played the whole summer.”
“I bet you’re awesome,” she said. “Don’t slaughter me in the tryouts!”
I didn’t know if I was awesome, but after several unsuccessful years of trying out for basketball, then volleyball, then track, then badminton, I thought I finally had a shot. Arriving at the tryouts, I took my place on the court and faced off against my first opponent. She was two years younger and half a foot shorter, so I made a mental note to take it easy on her. Nobody likes a show-off.
As she readied herself to serve, I bent my knees, steadied my gaze, and conjured up an image of my seamless return forehand.
Her first serve shot right past me in a blur. The second nearly broke my racquet, and the third nearly broke my shinbone.
When my serve hit the net, she yelled, “Fault!”
I realized that instead of just playing all summer, I should have watched some tennis too, as my cousins and I didn’t play by official rules. We didn’t call faults. By our rules, you were allowed two do-overs if you promised to treat your opponent to ice cream after.
After five straight misses in a row, I managed to return her bullet of a volley, and cheered when it coasted right past her.
“Yes!” I said, celebrating my only point of the set.
“That bounced twice on your side,” she informed me.
“Aren’t you allowed to still hit it if you do a cool trick shot?” I said.
“No,” she said. “Where did you make that up?”
I wasn’t even going to ask her about the standing rule of having your hand count as another racquet or the rule where if you caught a serve in your hand, it was your choice to bounce it once and return it, or serve yourself. I had been playing by Punjabi rules for way too long and didn’t know the singles line from the doubles line. All I knew was that I was getting my ass kicked.
My opponent polished the court with me. My next opponent also made quick work of me. I had a glimmer of hope when my third opponent dropped her glasses, but her eyes seemed to regenerate after my two double faults. And with that, my tennis-team tenure was over.
“How did it go?” Melodie asked me after finishing her tryout with a second group on another court.
“Maybe I need to take a break from tennis,” I said.
I officially ended that break when Ilana and I walked into the high school gymnasium that would house our tennis class. I was hit with the memories of matches past, along with the smell of chalk mingled with body odor. The class looked like a microcosm of high school. There were the pretty blondes, the nerds, the unnoticed mass, the gung ho types, and the mature students. And by “mature,” I don’t mean that they failed math and came back for their senior year. I mean that they were senior citizens.
“Nobody played like Arthur Ashe,” one of the women stated. “Absolutely nobody.” We all nodded silently lest she begin a debate about it. Another woman informed our instructor that she had to miss a class due to a bingo tournament.
Our instructor, a middle-aged man who didn’t feel it was necessary to give his name, put us through the drills for an hour, which would have been grueling if three-quarters of our time wasn’t spent lined up against the wall, waiting for our chance at the net. We stood in the line for ten minutes, had a shot at hitting one ball, then fell back into the line. Five minutes into the class, a ball careened off a basketball net and hit me square in the head. Though it hurt like a BB-gun blast, I laughed it off while one of the pretty blondes giggled and apologized. I would have planned a subtle revenge but I was well aware that my lack of ball control would have made that impossible. Attempting a crafty lob to her back would no doubt result in a ball stuck in the roof instead.
Still, tennis was undoubtedly my favorite activity thus far. Everyone in my class was incredibly friendly and I discovered that I was actually half decent. Only 60 percent of my shots bounced off the ceiling, which was better than the class average. After only one class, I was dedicated to tennis. I persuaded anyone who was free to help me practice on the weekend and borrowed racquets for those who didn’t have one but were willing to donate their time. I dreamed of actually being able to play a match. I was a long way off but it was a nice possibility. The great thing about tennis was that it was not just a skill but a social activity; nobody ever suggested meeting a friend to tap-dance together. Perhaps Gregory Hines did, but that is not a fact I can prove.
As spring progressed, Navjit started to join me on the public courts to help me practice. She was a beginner as well but played with gusto.
“Another game for Milos!” she would scream every time she got a ball past me, imitating an Eastern European tennis pro from an episode of Seinfeld.
“It was out!” I said.
“No need to get caught up in details,” she countered.
Tennis was giving me a chance to spend more time with Navjit, which our schedules rarely allowed. But whenever or wherever I wanted to play, I knew I could count on Navjit to come and help me practice and say things like “Good hustle, buddy” even when I missed the shot.
The thought of one day playing a real game was exciting to me. It offered the opportunity to move from new skill to new social activity. It was a concrete and tangible goal but it needed more attention than a once-a-week lesson, so I booked private lessons for a real kick start. Every Tuesday after work, I would change in the washroom and lug my work clothes and tennis bag down to a court to get one-on-one attention, and entertain passersby as my instructor yelled “Hit it OVER the net!” at me. I was definitely improving, but those improvements were sometimes invisible to the naked eye. But my tally of activities was growing. I could now tap, my tennis skills were improving, and with the newfound confidence I had from those achievements, I decided I had to add something else to the list.
EIGHT
driving miss desi
My new activities were really buoying up my self-esteem, so I decided I had to channel that energy into another activity that had haunted me since the age of sixteen: driving. The problem was that I really hated it. As a kid growing up in a strict house, I dreamed of freedom, and yet here I was, depriving myself of it in some measure as an adult. The last few months had shown me the satisfaction attached to going back and tying up lost threads from the past. My self-esteem had increased exponentially with each tap step I mastered and forehand I hit, so I wanted to ride that upward momentum and tackle my biggest regret from my teenage years.
Part of the reason I didn’t drive as a teen was that it offered me a much better excuse for why I couldn’t go out than a cousin’s birthday. How could I go somewhere if I couldn’t get there? “I wouldn’t want to put you out,” I would say to those who would offer to pic
k me up. “Besides, I’d have to leave early because I have [insert excuse here] in the morning.”
Funnily enough, my parents wanted us kids to drive. They didn’t want to give us the car so we could go places, but they felt we should have the skill. There were too many little kids to chauffeur, and the more chauffeurs, the better. They also didn’t get why I was so hesitant about learning. They told me I should practice but I didn’t want to have to practice with them. They were both decent drivers, despite the “tender fender” my mom had been in a few years back, which my dad liked to remind her of. One day when she and I went to the store, which she forced me to do, because there was a limit of four milk bags per customer at the sale price, while I was closing the trunk, I looked into the car to see her sitting in the passenger seat. “You drive,” she said.
It was only two streets to get home, so I just drove the car while she sat silently. Driving with my dad, on the other hand, was an altogether different undertaking. A conversation with my dad is more like going to a university lecture than a two-sided discussion. You could either nod along or take notes in a steno pad as he offered you a fifteen-minute dissertation on a variety of topics from his theories on U.S.-Russian relations to his ideas about more sustainable energy sources. This was, of course, very distracting when you were driving, especially for a new driver.
“Maybe we could talk about Henry Kissinger later,” I would say, trying to negotiate a left turn. He would be silent for a minute then remember a great joke he had heard on his Indian radio channel.
On the Outside Looking Indian Page 7
