Pinky Madam

Pinky Madam
If I never step foot on this dark soil; smell this greasy food or speak to these belligerent fools who have titled me Pinky Madam, I will have no regrets. I must now severe all ties to Ashok and India. I can no longer fulfil my vows as wife. But it is not all my fault. His parents never accepted me; the weather here wearied me, and the customs are from a long and forgotten world. If only Ashok could have seen the India that I had to be a part of. But even if this was the case, he would never leave his business; his servants or his family for a modern life in New York. If only we could rewind the clock to our walks in Central Park, dinner on the Hudson River; martinis in Queens. His rooftop rose garden proposal and the 2 caret solitaire diamond was every girl’s dream but these are faded memories and a life together in New York will never happen, so we must part ways and I must start my life over. India was far from the exotic, spiritual playground that Ashok had promised me before our departure from America.
I remember the first time I met his parents. His father was dressed in shorts; his blue veins appeared like lumpy knitting knots running up his shins. His poor little tiny feet looked like they were about to explode trying to carry the load. Ashok’s mother was dressed in a sari and rarely made eye contact; she was not warm and spent the entire time fussing over Ashok. Of course Ashok said I was imagining things but the other American women here told me it is because I am a Christian and not Hindu. I can’t see why Hinduism is considered such a deeply spiritual religion. There are so many Gods and spiritual gurus; I came to the conclusion from that start that it was one big spiritual sham. Major decisions are guided by pure superstition that in most cases serve no logic. It’s funny and tragic at the same time.
My life in India has become dreary, as my regular days consisted of attending any combination of breakfast, brunch, lunch, high tea, dinner, and or supper. Occasionally, I alleviated my guilt by attending a ramp for AIDS and throwing bashes to alleviate poverty. Playing badminton was one of the only things that kept me sane, although Ashok rarely played and the only servant that could hit the mattock got fired so there was little to look forward to. Most of the time Ashok was working in his office, leaving me to sit solemnly in my room whereas, in New York we spent most our time together out and about devouring the city and all it has to offer. I do not want to turn like many of the ungenerous American women in India. I am not of a strong will and each day I am reminded of my most lamentable defect. The stupid servant boy let me drive when I was drunk; there is not worse feeling then when I saw that boy on the ground. Children shouldn’t be living on the streets; the government take no responsibility for the young or the old. Ashok sorted things but while I am here I am constantly reminded.

In this last month it is even the little things that are driving me crazy. That smell of the wretched leaf paan on everyone’s breath is nauseating. The servants and the bosses alike are addicted to this tooth rotting sweet. There is no doubt the social system in India is broken and it is shameful that in one of the biggest and most technologically advanced countries, a son of a servant will nine times out of ten never break from their inherited caste. The social caste system is to blame for so much of my decision to leave. The constant help from the servants has left me with an idle and empty life.
My life in America will be so different. I will be around those I love and I will be busy getting my life back on track. I can’t wait to walk in open spaces; absorb the silence and smell the crisp night air. America has always been my home and will be my home once again.