Who Am I?
It’s freezing outside. Already feeling my cheeks starting to numb as I walk towards my red Toyota. I realize I left my coat at Mardov’s place. Well, there’s no point in going back now is there? Going back to him to ask for my coat is the last thing I need to do right now. I get inside the car and insert the keys in the ignition. I lean back in my seat and listen to the wind with my eyes closed. Trying to bring my body back to warmth again but I don’t want to start the car just now. I need a moment of silence to myself to get closure to my relationship with Mardov.
To be totally honest, I think I’m more relieved than sad that we decided to end our 10-month relationship. I start the car and backed out from Mardov’s driveway. I know every relationship has its ups and downs, but ours ups were greatly outweighed by downs caused by the cultural traditions we both grew up in; even though he assured me that he saw the oppression in those traditions after living in the United States. I drive down the road leading to the freeway and see the local coffee shop after the next light on the right side of the street. All of a sudden craving something that reminds me of a little piece of home, a cup of hot chai is the closest thing I can get around here before I get on the freeway. Not wanting to get out the car and walk in the cold again, I decide to go through drive-through. Mardov liked to come to this specific coffee shop to work on his master’s thesis because he said the ambient pop music they play helps him think. I order a small chai and drive around to the back while reaching for my wallet. It took me a minute to finally get a hold of my wallet in the tote bag Mardov gave me for my birthday two months ago. It’s so difficult to find things in this bag, it’s unnecessarily big. I reach out to give my card to the cashier. “Small chai. That’s $3.44.” The cashier said with a warm smile on his face as he takes my card. I notice him wearing a plaid shirt with a grey cardigan. Mardov liked his plaid shirts and cardigans for sure. He is so “Americanized” in so many ways you’d think he has lived here for at least 10 years, well, that is if people didn’t know just how traditional he remained like I discovered in our relationship.
I remember when we were first getting to know each other after meeting at a friend’s dinner party. I have had already been in the United States for almost two years and he said he haven’t had chance to go back to his home in Tamil ever since he left five years ago. I loved how he could carry on a conversation without making it feel like awkward small talk. He grew up in a well-off Indian family. His mother works as a nurse in a local small hospital and his father is an engineer. And just like his father, he chose electrical engineering and came to America for undergrad, and when we started dating he was working on getting his masters from UCSF. I have about three more exits until I get off the freeway. I see something on the road up ahead that’s black, probably a dead raccoon or skunk; I swerve into the left lane to avoid driving over the mysterious object.
“Don’t just swerve into the next lane, what if there was another car in your blind spot?” Mardov would say sternly whenever I did that. It always annoyed me when he did that. Yes, he is nice guy, but every often will he puff up with pride and show that he knows everything and people should listen to him. He told me so many times that I should try to cook more. I roll my eyes and shake my head at the thought of him trying to somehow “domesticate” me as I signal to change into the far right lane to exit the freeway. Both Mardov and I have talked about marriage before and expressed the mutual feeling of not wanting our parents getting involved. We were both independent adults in America and we felt like we should be the only two people to make any kind of decisions regarding our future. Coming to America opened my eyes to a culture that embraced personal rights and freedom. I don’t want to get married to a man that decided to marry me only because I am a good child-making, cleaning, cooking, and stay-in-the-kitchen-all-day type of wife.
It only took me about 10 minutes to arrive home after getting off the freeway. Mardov lives pretty close to the freeway too, so driving to his place all the time wasn’t so bad. We mostly like to hangout over at his place because his place is a lot bigger and he doesn’t have as much stuff as I do. I park my car outside my apartment in my usual spot and rush into the building. I can’t wait to take a hot shower and get in bed. I enter the building and walk quickly to my apartment. “Oh, the chai.” I was so focused on thinking about getting myself out of the cold that I completely forgot to grab the half-finished chai. Oh well, I can take care of it tomorrow. I walk into my apartment and see the over-the-sink light I left on before I went over to Mardov’s. I was just about to do dishes right when Mardov called. Seeing all the bowls and dishes in my sink I immediately regret not doing them before I left. Well, if I knew Mardov called me to go over just so he could break up with me I would have definitely took my sweet time in washing them. Ugh, the dishes can wait till tomorrow.
I change into pajamas and go into the bathroom. I squeeze some toothpaste onto my toothbrush and look up into the mirror. I take a deep breath and stare into my reflection. Who am I? Is my worth and value dictated by how other people view me? Will I only be loved by another man if I can meet the requirements of a “good wife”? Will I bring shame upon my family if I can’t be what they wish me to be? Do I have a say in what I decide to do in my life? Do I get to decide what happiness means to me? I close my eyes as these questions continue to rush through my mind. I take another deep breath and open my eyes. “Stop.” I say to myself. “Just stop.” I don’t want to try to answer those questions. I don’t have any answers to those questions. I just want to go to bed.
