first of all, I want to introduce myself. My name is Monica and I am a 19 year old college student on summer break. I started goofing around and writing a short story, and I was wondering how it was? It isn't done yet, but this is what I have so far.
All my life I’ve been told to believe in the impossible. Ever since I was little, I was told to believe that a fat man would actually come from our chimney and hand deliver gifts, even to little Hindu girls. As I got older, I was dragged to the temple to believe that someday, after I die, a superhero like character would take my soul and replace it in another body, as if I was a rechargeable battery being reused.
At temple, the guru would tell stories about strange blue men fighting off demons with many heads. Stories about flying monkeys and men who float atop clouds. Whenever I ask my mom how these seemingly ridiculous events happen, she scoffs at me and says, “This is the truth. If you don’t believe it, you will never be able to live a spiritual life.” I figured if this spiritual life was that important that it would make my mother angry, I better start believing everything this guru man is saying.
I was seven then, I am 19 now. Back then; my definition of a sin was lying to my mom about brushing my teeth. And to put it bluntly, that’s nothing anymore.
“I don’t know why this Hindu **** is such a big deal to you? Its just one ****ing night, can’t you tell your mom to piss off? Your 19 years old Preeti, your too old for this ****.” Jen licks the ends of the vanilla flavored cigar wrap forming a perfectly round blunt. “Jen, Indians don’t think like that. According to them I’m their property until I get married. When I’m done with college, I get to live with them. Until I find some nerdy Indian doctor, I am supposed to be the perfect Indian daughter.” She hands me the coffee colored blunt. I take a hit, inhaling deeply and letting the high in my lungs, breathing out all of the carbon dioxide, keeping the high in my body. “Well, your not. Why don’t you stop lying to yourself, to your family, and to your ‘community?’ You are who you are Preeti, its time to accept it. You are an ordinary college kid. Stop living at home, and go stay in the dorms; go to a real college party. **** all this religion garbage, Preeti. You don’t believe in this **** anyway. You could really do something big, you could go to New York and finally major in journalism. You have a talent, and being the good pre-med Hindu daughter is just a waste.” I laugh. If I wasn’t so high, maybe I could explain it to Jen. Maybe she would understand. Indian kids don’t do that. We have our core professions: doctors for the super science whizzes, engineering for the math geeks, and business for the Indian **** ups. All the Indian kids that my mom introduced me to are nerdy to the ****ing core. They might take a shot or two on the weekends, but they still have their goddamn values in tact. I have passed Hindu values. I know that if my mom knew what I was up to I am pretty sure she would send my *** on the first train to India.
But tonight, I am not Preeti: the pot smoking, Adderall popping, party girl who college sees me as. No, I am Preeti Kapoor: 19 year old pre-med student who is eligible for marriage with a young Hindu boy. Still a little bit high, I put on my silwaar kameez, and head out the door. “What is wrong beti? Why are you taking so long?” “Mammi, I am on the bus. I am coming. Don’t worry.” I place a sparkling pink bindi on the middle of my forehead, looking ready for my Saturday night.
“My Preeti, my future doctor. I have a special treat tonight.” My mom excitingly calls as she wipes off my foundation. “Remember Raj? How handsome he is? Well I was talking to Gita, and she said that he is ripe to be wed. He wants a doctor wife, from Pittsburgh. I told her about you. She can’t wait to introduce you to him. Oh my Preeti, your life is going to be perfect. My hardworking daughter, with her own husband. He’s becoming a doctor too you know. Oh Preeti, Shiva has blessed you.”