About City Boy This is Amortya Ray’s personal blog. He is passionate about technology, all things Apple, New York, Dunkin Donuts and of course Scarlett Johansson. Amongst others.
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So remember how I’m like the king of awkward moments? Yep. The following is another similar embarrassing incident that will forever be etched in my wretched mind.
Rewind to a few years ago. Circa 2007. I was a lowly graduate student in New York City. Barely making ends meet. Living paycheck to paycheck. Had no more than $35 in my checking account. And the cardinal rule of graduate school is that you do not do laundry until absolutely necessary. And by absolute necessary I mean that until you completely run out of clean underwear. It was one such night. I had a job interview the next morning. And no clean clothes. At 11 in the night, I decide that it would be a good time to do laundry. So I grab my hamper and head down to the basement, drop it in the washer, come back in 30 minutes to put them in the dryer. As I’m dumping my soggy clothes into the dryer, through the corner of my eye I notice my neighbor starting her washer cycle. About half an hour later, I’m back in the basement to pick up my clothes. Neighbor lady is waiting for me to empty the lone dryer (it was a pre-war, rent-controlled building and cheapass landlord so 40 apartments had to share 2 washers and 1 dryer) so she can start her dryer cycle. And as luck would have it, my clothes aren’t completely dry. I mutter the classiest of swear words as I prepare to kick off another dryer cycle. Neighbor lady goes all sigh-ey and complains about how she had an early morning meeting and it was getting late. And the good samaritan that I am, I offer her to share the dryer with me. Lady jumps at the opportunity to save an hour of her time, drops her clothes with mine and leaves.
About half an hour later, we meet again in the basement. We separate our clothes and go our own ways. Later, when I’m folding my own clothes, I see that she left a bra behind in my pile. Now I could either trash it and let it be at that. But then I do know that bras don’t come cheap. But I really don’t want to be the one handing it over to her. Because, well, that would just be awkward. So what do I do? I decide to leave it on her door knob, ring the bell and vanish the fuck out of there before she opens the door. Pleased at my genius plan, I tiptoe over to her apartment (very conveniently, she happened to live right next door), and am about to leave the bra on the doorknob. And before I could get to doing that, her door opens, and neighbor girl stares at me with a judgey look in her eyes and her bra in my hand. Awkward with a capital A. Avoiding all eye contact, I hand over the goods and turn around and close the door to my apartment.
I avoided her like the plague for the remaining 6 months I lived in that building.
I logged into my blog today to write some more of my Madrid stories and as usual spent an inordinately large amount of time battling writer’s block and then did what I do best- spent the next half an hour clicking at random places because after a point it just started to get entertaining and I then tried to see if I could do the Mortal Kombat theme using just clickety sounds which I sadly couldn’t. And then I saw the kind of searches that have been sending traffic to my blog and I’m go, “Whaaaaaaaaaaa!!!?”.
 I swear this is a clean sfw-ish blog Yo Google,
What kind of shady porno shop do you think I’m running here. Keep all the porn obsessed people away from my site! This place is for clean family stuff. Mostly. And digs at my family blaming them for my lack of any love life and the fact that I might die alone. And poop and puke. Fix your shit please.
Love,
me
I arrived this morning, heavily jetlagged, super cranky but extremely glad to meet one of my closest friends after 2 and a half years. This trip also scratches item 39 off my life list. We drove to her crazy fancy home in one of the poshest areas of Central Madrid. She showed me to my room and obviously the first thing I did was to ask her for the wifi key. Because clearly I cannot live without checking my email/facebook/twitter for more than 8 hours. And yes, I had to let the world know that I had landed safely on my first ever Eurotrip. Obviously.
After some quick shuteye, I showered and ventured into the city. We were joined by my friend’s Spanish boyfriend. When I told my friend Neha that my friend was dating a Spanish boy, she got all swoony and drooly hoping to live out her Enrique fantasy even if it was vicariously through someone else. But in reality, Preeti’s ‘Enrique’ turned out to be more of the siesta loving, pot-bellied Spanish man who loves wining and dining more than anything else in the world. Oscar speaks very little English. And just about enough to make conversation with me. Preeti and Oscar converse only in Spanish. And they’d call each other amor, which is the Spanish word for love. ‘Amor’ is also one of my countless nicknames. So everytime I’d hear amor, I’d turn around, only to see them whispering into each others ears. How awkward it must have been. For them.
Later in the day, we walk through an Egyptian temple in the middle of the city and take a cable car ride. Oscar’s trying to explain the history of the cable cars. And as he’s struggling with some words, Preeti turns around and goes, “Oh by the way, he does know a few Hindi words too!”. I turn to Oscar and go all, “Nice! Say something!”. I’m hoping to hear a “Namaste” or a “Mera naam Oscar hai!”. And Oscar turns to me and with a straight face goes, “Chutiya”. Expat Indians must make the country so proud.
Remember that one time when my mother was trying to find me a bride? Apparently it’s an inherited trait. She gets it from my grandmother, her mother.
My parents and sister are visiting my family in Calcutta, India. And obviously, since my grandma loves me so much that the topic of when I settle down is constantly on her mind. My cousin (who’s gonna get a massive ass whooping the next time I meet him), takes a picture of mine from my Facebook album, of when I took a vacation to San Francisco last November, prints and circulates it around Mommy’s side of the family. Harmless, non-scandalous picture of my friend KB and me standing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. And I may or may not have had my arm around her shoulder. Or waist. I don’t remember. No biggie. Or so I thought.
 Sunny California!
The second my 80 year old Grandma gets on the phone she starts with her third degree. She uses a really hard Bengali word, which I had no clue about. The conversation went somewhat like this:
Didu: So wh0 is that <insert super tough, super esoteric word here>?
Me: Huh? What?
Didu (yelling into the phone): Who is that <insert super tough, super esoteric word here>?
Me: Who what!?
Didu (clearing her throat and screaming out loud): WHO IS THAT <insert super tough, super esoteric word here>?
At this point, my never ending huh’s and what’s were starting to get awkward and I thought it was wise to change tactics.
Me: Yes yes Didu, you’re right.
Didu: You moron, I’m asking who that pretty girl with you is in the picture in front of the orange bridge.
Me: Aaaah.. that’s my friend KB.
And then starts her barrage of questions starting! What’s her name? Full name? What does she do? Where does she live? Is she Bengali? Can she cook? Can she cook well? Can she cook Bengali food? WHAT! She’s vegetarian!? OMGWTFNOWAI! GPA? What’s her sunsign? Is she Manglik? She better be, because you’re a Manglik. It was at this point that I stopped listening. I blurred out the sounds and went to my happy place. Kati Roll in New York. It was a few minutes later that I realized that the phone was now with my sister. She tells me that I can breathe easy. She’s all, “Didu took a closer look at one of the pictures and saw that KB’s left eye looked marginally smaller than the right one. And promptly rejected her as a potential bride.” I breathed a sigh of relief. But then again, I am her favorite grandson. Okay, second favorite grandson. (She has two grandsons). Abhishek Bachchan lookalike par excellence. Nothing less than the best for me.
 Morty got game! I’m glad she has no clue about the shenanigans from 25th birthday.
Update: I’ve been informed that <insert super tough, super esoteric word here> is the Bengali word for a “female friend”. This is why I bring shame to Bong’s worldwide. Yay me!
 It doesn't fit! (twss) So as it turns out, deciding which toothbrush to buy is possibly the toughest decision I’ve made in a really long time. As I stood in the toothbrush aisle in Duane Reade, my brain was assaulted by ten million different kinds of brushes. Straight, angular, circular, jagged, firm, medium, soft- the variety was astounding. My tiny brain was ill at ease trying to process all the information and come to a decision. And then I see the fancy, new-age battery powered toothbrushes. Those too had countless to choose from. Some of them even let me try the vibrate feature. I’m not sure what purpose that served though. So I decide to be adventurous and try something new. Ultimately I was sold on the Oral-B CrossAction Battery Powered toothbrush. I hurry home, excited like a little 5 year old boy all set to play with a new toy. And even though it’s just 6.30 in the evening, I decide that today is a good day to start my habit of brushing twice a day. The euphoria around the event largely fizzled as I tested the device. Clearly, it is an acquired skill. My face splattered with remnants of my striped, minty pepsodent toothpaste was evidence enough that I need a lot more practice. And just as quickly as I had ripped the packet apart, I cleaned up and placed my oversized robot brush in its rightful place in my now inadequate jungle/monkey themed bathroom toothbrush and razor holder thingy.
Last Friday, while discussing books with friends, I remembered this incident that happened when I was 12. And it brought back a torrent of painful memories.
I grew up in a city called Bombay in India. I went to an all boys school. And at age 12, I was a typical adolescent- rebelling against my mother, trying to fit in with the cool crowd, getting the jocks to like me (and by like me, I mean not beat me up during recess) and pick me in their cricket team (and by pick me, I mean have me as the non-playing substitute player) and struggling with polynomial factorization.
On the last day of school, my class teacher Ms. Myra Dias gave out a story book to every boy in the class. And the sweetheart that she is, she wrote a little personal note to every student. Now Ms. Dias was one of the coolest teachers I’ve ever had. She was young, fit and totally in sync with the psyche of a 12 year old. She was one of us- one of the guys! Everyone loved her. She was tough when she needed to be but also knew how to have a good time. So naturally, it was a rather big deal to everyone in the class what she wrote in the note and what book we got. These books were abridged versions of some of the most noted classics in English literature. Now, even though I’m no expert on classic literature, I badly wanted to get a “cool” book. And by cool I mean a book that atleast 3 boys had heard of or even pretended to know about. There were rumors of some guys in the class getting copies of David Copperfield, The Count of Monte Christo and Oliver Twist, and I’m wishing and hoping that I was one of them. I have no idea who David Copperfield is or who wrote it or why Oliver Twist is such a famous book, but they all sounded just so badass. I was also at that precarious age where boys went all ewww at the sight of girls and “having a girlfriend” was actually an insult. Yep, true story.
But no. Even at that tender age, fate plays a cruel game with me. And when my turn comes, I open my packet and stare blankly at the cover of Little Women.
While grabbing coffee from the office pantry one morning, I notice that the milk tetra pack was straight up ripped apart.
Me: Why don’t people know how to open a milk carton? I mean really! How difficult is it?
Rhi: What do you mean?
Me: Look at this (I show her the carton). Instead of opening it carefully at the place where it CLEARLY says “to open”, they attack it like when a fat kid sees cake. I’m working with people with degrees from some of the top schools in the country. And they can’t open a carton properly!?
Rhi: Oh sweetie, it’s because they are men.
Me: …
My buddy S tagged me on her blog to do this. She wanted a male perspective on the issues at hand. Now I’m no expert on women or women’s issues, but I promised her that I’d give it a go. So here I am. And after spending over 2 weeks trying to come up a suitable topic that I can do justice to, I gave up and resorted to asking RhiRhi for her thoughts. This is how the conversation went.
Me: RhiRhi, Indian men are such assholes.
RhiRhi: Umm.. aren’t you an Indian male too?
Me: Uh, yeah, but that’s not my point. Somebody posted this video on their Facebook status, and after watching it, I was all, “whaaa!?”. As much as I feel sorry for the poor chap for getting beaten by a hundred guys, honestly, he had it coming. The cardinal rule of life is, “YOU DON”T HIT A GIRL!” How hard is that to follow. I don’t get this whole alpha-male I-can-do-whatever-the-fuck-I-want-and-get-away-with-it bullshit.
RhiRhi: What the hell are you talking about?!
Me: Oh sorry. Back story. I need to write an article about a women’s development issue.
I show her the link and the topics that I can write on.
RhiRhi: Ooh! Relationship issues! You should totally write about that. Like cheating. What would you do if your girlfriend or wife cheated on you? Would you kill her?
Me: Huh!? Why would I kill her?
RhiRhi: Because that’s in your culture, right?
Me: NO! We don’t do that! Jeez! They’re right when they say that for Americans, the world starts and ends at America.
RhiRhi: THEY DO NOT SAY THAT! And I’m Mexican-American asshole.
Me: Don’t yell at me! I was just telling you about how men think that it’s okay to hit women and then when they’re getting the beating, they’re all bheegi billi and crying for their mommies.
RhiRhi: Bheegi whaaa?
Me: It means wet p… ahem… cat. That’s besides the point. I’m talking about insecure men with Mommy issues and the marking-their-territory whole evolutionary psychology stuff. I mean hitting a woman? Really? My lawyer friend says that people who hurt women should be castrated. And she’s a human rights lawyer. Imagine that! What would you do if a guy hit you, RhiRhi?
RhiRhi: Oooo.. I’d get all flirty and have him buy me drinks and maybe get his phone number and exchange naughty texts. Who knows what it leads to!
Me: Ugh.. hit you NOT hit ON you!
RhiRhi: Oh! If my man ever hit me or cheated on me, I’d cut his weiner off.
Me: You’re scaring me. Can we focus on the topic?
RhiRhi: Okay. Don’t write about Reproductive Rights or Hygiene and Healthcare or Female Infanticide & Sex Selective Abortions. Those are serious topics. That’s not your style. Try Relationship Issues or Workplace Inequality. You could be all funny about those things.
Me: Oh please. I’m a serious writer okay? If I write funny shit about these things, how will I ever get the Pulitzer?
RhiRhi: Oh honey! It’s too late for that. Have you ever read your blog? Blogging about poop and vomit does not make for serious writing.
Me: Screw you asshole. You don’t know shit. I’m a serious writer.
After going back and forth for over half an hour, I realized that she wasn’t going to be of much help. So I just decided to post our conversation on my blog. Sorry S, I tried. Happy International Women’s Day to all y’all beautiful ladies!
RhiRhi asked me to keep her identity a secret because of the bold and racy nature of my blog. She doesn’t want to get fired. But I think that she’s under the Witness Protection Program and doesn’t want the Mexican druglords to find her and kill her her. Because I’m that famous. You hear that Maa, I’m THAT POPULAR.
Swatiji and Mr. D are the cutest couple ever. Like EVER. And Swatiji is majorly preggers at the moment. So I’m thinking that she should definitely name her first born after me. Because I’m all sorts of awesome. So the other day, I make a little drawing for her on a paper napkin and leave it in her desk drawer. It’s a shame that Swatiji decided not to know the sex of the child beforehand. So with a heavy heart, I had to bring N into the plan to assist with the female names. N, who is also responsible for some of the most scandalous and baller statements ever made in the history of scandalous and baller statements, has recently graduated from coworker status to good friend status. So I wasn’t really upset about bringing her onboard, except for the part when she stabbed me in the back. YES SHE DID. I give you exhibit A.
 Exhibit A: Baby names synonymous with awesome If you look carefully at the image above, you will notice the rather obvious water stains on the writing. And very conveniently, the water appears to have found its way more to “my side” of the page. And if that wasn’t enough, she went ahead and completely blotted my name out. As though I didn’t exist. You make me sick N.
N, THIS MEANS WAR! And Swatiji, I’m really sorry to drag you into this mess, but I present to you the top 5 reasons why you should name your child after me.
- I was named after Amartya Sen, who was named by the fabulous Rabindranath Tagore himself. That’s quite an amazing legacy inherited just by virtue of the name. Tagore, obviously, needs no introduction, and Sen, a world famous economist and Harvard professor.
- Both Tagore and Sen have won the Nobel Prize in Literature and Economics, respectively. It doesn’t get bigger than that. To quote a friend, that’s a life contrasted by creativity and science. And who knows what shenanigans I pull in my life.
- With Obama as President, I reckon that day isn’t too far when we see a brown dude in the White House. I’d rather that the first President of the United States of Indian origin have a classy, majestic sounding name like Amortya/Amartya. And it means immortal. The POTUS which by itself it supremely badass job title and as we all know is a path strewn with life threatening situations. Hence, a name that quite literally translates to immortal would definitely bode better than a name that means love or rain. Politics is not a joke. As leader of the free world, the POTUS needs a name that inspires people to hope for a better future and strikes fear into the hearts of the bad guys. Sadly, “Neha” just doesn’t do it for me (no pun intended).
- Swatiji, surely you’re worried how a name like Amortya would work if it’s a girl? I would be too. I should inform you that back in college, for an entire semester, my engineering drawing professor called me Amruta/Amrita. Hence, these are acceptable variations of my name, and I would not be offended if you chose these names for the munchkin. I hate to bring it up, but a name like Neha doesn’t have any President-worthy variations. Just saying.
- I’m an amazing namesake to have. I’m kind, charming and a wonderful person. I was more than willing to include N’s suggestions in my list. That was before my trust was betrayed. My trust AND yours. Surely you don’t want your first born to be named after a backstabber like that? Tell tell?
So Swatiji, I rest my case. The ball is now in your court.
Earlier this week, I decided to be volunteer patient for a Lil’ M’s dentist sister Dr. Hottie. She’s taking her final licensing exams in a few days, and needed someone to practice her toothy sciences on. Now normally, I have plenty of productive things to on a Monday evening, but instead I decide to head to the NYU College of Dentistry and spend the evening with Dr. Hottie working on my oral hygiene. Now the main reason I decided to do this is because I was led to believe that Lil’ M would be playing the role of Dr. Hottie’s assistant. Sadly, I was mistaken. I KNOW I KNOW that I need to spend more time watching Grey’s Anatomy and less watching porn so I have a better idea of what the average dentist’s assistant wears at work.
 Dr. Hottie and her business-suit-wearing fake assistant So there I am, sitting on the awesome robotic dental chair. Lil’ M’s having an awesome time playing with the suction tube thingy stuck in my mouth. And Dr. Hottie is looking at my teeth with that judge-y in her eyes. And I yell back, “STOP JUDGING ME! IT’S NOT MY FAULT I HAVE HORRIBLE TEETH! IT’S INHERITED!” The maternal side of my family must be part British because we have the worst teeth ever. Discolored teeth, tooth decay, bleeding gums, cavities, worn or broken teeth- we have them all. And my father’s side of the family. They’re the Brangelina’s of a community of people that’s been cursed with bad teeth. My Dad though has got a phenomenal set of teeth AND he hasn’t been to a dentist a single day in his life. Sadly, natural selection doesn’t work the way I want it to or else, today, I’d be a heart-throbby rocket scientist working for NASA with a million dollar smile and an equally awesome paycheck. Instead I’m a lowly code monkey with no lateral incisors, an ugly nose zit thingy and a gift for digital stalking. Which is one of the reasons why I have had such long lasting relationships with my dentists. Yes, plural. My first ever dentist was a vision of ethereal, jaw-dropping beauty. Her stunning features, flawless face, and that killer smile melted my heart instantly. And when my mother saw that infatuated look in my eyes, she decided that nip the fledging romance and my evolving player status in the bud. And sent me to an all-boys school. And moved the family television to her bedroom. Because of, well, Sonali Bendre. Also, all of my subsequent dentists were dudes, even the dumbass ones that extracted the wrong teeth or filled the one that didn’t have a cavity. You hear that Ma? THAT IS THE REASON I’M STILL SINGLE AND YOU DON’T HAVE ANY GRANDCHILDREN YET!
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