The City of Joy’s Unintentional Ambassador
“Ey,” Kay said to me on the bed at our Air BNB in Kolkata, “do you think you want to propose to me now?”
“Ohn ohn,” I said, eyes crinkled, in her native Assamese. I know a few words and phrases, and she’s made matzah ball soup and soofganeeyot, but that isn’t what’s important. We know what’s important. And it ain’t houses, and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth and it ain’t even the stars.
It even ain’t the cars either. Well, sort of.
Falling in love with someone who lives however-many-odd-thousands of miles India is from America is actually very much like any other relationship; you learn about each other, you laugh, you develop cuteisms and a language all of your own, shared experiences and memories, stories, fights, hurt, repair, affection, support, change, desire, unity, compassion, understanding. The main difference is that, in order to actually see the person you love in person, (unless you’re someone of appreciable means, which I am not), sometimes you have to sell an old shitbox. In this case, a beige-on-beige 1974 Plymouth Valiant 4-door sedan, about as desirable as a pair of diabetic loafers. It was abandoned and unloved at a neighbor’s house; I scooped it up for a song, got it running again, and sold it to finance my trip to India.