I was out with my ex last evening. I am alone in NYC and he is the closest to being the only familiar face in this lonely city. He is also generous. He buys me dinner without asking me to pay the tip as my part of the deal. I like that because I am generous too. We always have the strangest conversation--it skids from one topic to another--one moment we are talking about Djnago Unchained, its unflinching look at complicity in racism, and the next moment we are bringing down a friend who considers himself a white man underneath the brown skin, quite unflinchingly. We found ourselves Totto Ramen, a fast-food Japanese eatery, after a class of red Malbec and fennel bread (he got me bread so I wouldn't have to drink my wine empty, he remembered!). Over a bowl of soup with ramen noodles drenched in mushroom granata infused chicken broth, alongside thin chicken pieces and thin slices of green onions, I decided to bring up his cruelty towards me while we were in a marriage like dating situation. He protested but didn't snap as he always did when he disagreed with me while in our relationship. I am brave now. I am not with him. Now I can say things to him that I couldn't before. Now, I don't care about repercussions. I get to go to my home after the dinner not to his bed or his space. There is something powerful about this material fact. And then I asked him---"when will "good" become "fabulous" in your vocabulary?" He didn't know. But he said--"I am one of the 20% who are optimistic; I believe tomorrow is going to be better than today." Okaaay. I am not. I told him. I also told him that I hope never to find my soul-mate. He doesn't exist. Never did. So I just have to find a new direction--what I want to do with my life without having to wait for the one since there isn't one. His eyes were blank. He didn't quite know what to make of me. How can you be in America, in NYC and be pessimistic? You can create your happiness here. You are never lonely here even if you are alone. Here, I was not playing the psychological game. In my hand was a virtual pin pulling pricks into the invisible bubble most Indian "brown sahibs" carry like a child in this white colony. I burst mine yesterday.

I then told him what/ who he is looking to be with--a white woman with blond hair, and an English accent who wears spikes that raises her 5'10'' height to 6". But the moment he brings her home and they sit on the couch, she becomes a person who doesn't like TV or sports. She doesn't understand the madness he surrounds himself with every day. Therein lies trouble. They will already not make it. He may go down on her or hold her hand in public because that is what boyfriends with white girlfriends do, but if she wants to talk at 8:00 a.m. when Manchester United is playing, she is half way out in her underwear no less. Yes, I played his therapist and got a dinner in return. Oh, and he did say--maybe if we are single at the end of the next decade, we could . . . ?

I knew my bother was right--women have all the power. I am finally not being a martyr.