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  Year of the Chick

  By

  Romi Moondi

  ©2011 Romi Moondi All Rights Reserved

  [NOTE: This is book one in the “Year of the Chick” series and it ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, but questions are answered in book 2!]

  [LENGTH: 75,000 WORDS OR 288 PRINTED PAGES]

  Brief Book Description (I’ve included this to give you a refresher of the premise, in case it’s been a while since you downloaded this!)

  1. An awkward family homecoming at Christmas.

  2. A humiliating public weigh-in, with two judging parents as the audience.

  3. The announcement of a deadline for arranged marriage doom.

  And that's just the first two chapters.

  In "Year of the Chick," Romi Narindra must find love before her parents find her a husband.

  To escape her fate, she wades through the waters of secret-dating, where self-consciousness is at an all-time high, and experience at an all-time low. It's the sort of thing that would turn almost anyone into a man-crazy freak with romance tunnel-vision, and that's exactly what happens to her. From whiskey-breath scum bags to uni-brow creeps and everything in between, Romi and her wingmen come up empty time after time. 

  And that's when she meets a charming writer.

  On the Internet.

  So will it be arranged marriage doom, or an Internet affair that's not as creepy as "To Catch a Predator"?

  Time will tell in the "year of the chick," a twelve-month quest to find love.

  This book is dedicated to all the people who feel burdened by expectations, drowned by rules, and a little too crooked to fit into a pre-assigned role. Which at one time or another, could be anyone. For you, for me, for all.

  Chapter One

  “Seven eighty-six please.”

  When I handed the latte boy his money my hand grazed his palm. I cringed and quickly wiped the clammy residue on my pant leg. Peter’s hands weren’t slimy. HIS hands didn’t need a dehumidifier.

  My eyes bore deep into his.

  His eyes stared blankly back. “Your latte’s waiting at the bar.”

  Right.

  Peter had left Canada two years before, but here I was in the place where it had all began. The place where you flirt with English baristas on temporary work visas, then whisk them away on ice skating dates to Nathan Phillips Square, then snuggly dates, then “leave the rest to your imagination dates,” then …then…

  Tearful goodbyes.

  Promises to reunite.

  Frequent phone calls.

  Less frequent phone calls.

  E-mails instead of phone calls.

  The final e-mail that says “I’m sorry Romi, but yes I’ve found a ‘ho.”

  I mean a nice respectable girlfriend.

  Sure.

  With my latte in one hand and a sack full of snowman cookies in the other, I headed to the corner table for a seat. In seconds I was chomping on the cookies in a sucrose bliss, as the multi-coloured icing dirty-danced its way along my tongue.

  Two women at a nearby table were deep in conversation, heads lowered and intense. I noticed them whenever my eyes unrolled from the back of my head, the pit-stops in-between my cookie-induced ecstasy. They suddenly burst into laughter, and buoyed by the “ha ha ha’s” their strands of blond hair began to bounce.

  Oh sure, it’s all fun and games when your world is one big hook-up.

  My hook-up opportunities required a Batman costume for anonymity, just like they did for every Canadian girl with Indian parents. In front of our parents we were robots with the “horny” button disabled, but when the moon shone bright our howls of desire could be heard across a hundred miles.

  Provided we were well-adjusted girls who’d been dating like the pros since age sixteen.

  Umm…

  I shook the memories of dateless years and “dry spells so long I could practically be a monk” from my mind with a swig of latte, but arranged marriage thoughts took their place. No matter how many times I searched for the logic it escaped me, and why not? In what world was it normal to never look at guys before marriage, and then have sex with an almost-stranger when arranged-marriage day arrived?

  “Pfft.” The sound emanating from my mouth would’ve seemed a lot more normal if I wasn’t alone at this table. In reality the blondes seemed disturbed by the escaped mental patient to their left. I shrugged my shoulders and twirled a long strand of hair between my fingers. Thoughtfully. Worriedly.

  I’m twenty-seven.

  I haven’t had a date in two whole years (phone-calls to English guys don’t exactly count).

  On the other hand I’m not morbidly obese.

  But on the OTHER-other hand I wear lose shirts to hide the love-handles no one currently loves.

  Back to the other hand: being five-foot-seven means the weight gain tends to stretch.

  My twirling hand relaxed at the endless dating options that Toronto would deliver. All I had to do was be a little patient. What choice did I have? Desperation was unbecoming.

  My thoughts must have carried away, as I found myself guzzling the last of a tepid latte. A glance at my watch confirmed the unscheduled daydream.

  Four-fifteen p.m. Time flies when it’s a party of one.

  I squeezed through the revolving doors, and raced to catch the four-thirty train.

  ***

  Four twenty-six p.m. and I was standing on the train station platform. A broad-shouldered woman hit me with her giant satchel, an “accident” that conveniently pushed me to the back. I’d never messed with a broad-shouldered woman before, and wasn’t about to start to today. Besides, my hair was silkier than hers, so karma had done its work.

  The train bell clanged and for me it tolled a somber tune. My afternoon of pondering was about to be replaced with a nightly confrontation.

  My sister.

  I took a deep breath and boarded the train.

  ***

  If there’s one thing I learned from family sitcoms growing up, it’s that sisters, despite their superficial squabbles, have a superglue-level of a bond. I wondered though, about the margin of error for this bond. Like what about the sisterly bond which is only sealed together with Scotch Tape? Or worse, sealed with only the cheap and sticky edge of an envelope?

  My older sister and I were the victims of the “envelope adhesive.”

  I slammed the door shut against the howling wind, and that was just the trigger she needed.

  “Hurry up and wash the containers, dumbass! We have to bring them home!” Neema’s voice was filtered by her closed bedroom door, but it managed to pierce my ears like a smoke alarm with PMS.

  “EXCUSE ME?” I yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve been home for an entire hour, why the hell didn’t YOU wash them?” The fury within me was bubbling over, as I dusted off the snow from the shoulders of my big wool coat. It had started with the train delay right before my stop, continued with the slippery roads, and was now poised to end with a bitch-fest. Typical.

  “I always do the dishes!” she bellowed back. “You don’t do shit, loser. So wash them and hurry up, I told Mom and Dad we’d be home by seven!”

  “I don’t DO anything?” I cried. “What about last week, when I did all the laundry? YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

  No response.

  I could never recall when the switch to general hatred had occurred, but somewhere along the way, my sister and I had gone from jumping on the bed singing “Like a Virgin”...to this. It was a difficult grudge to live with, since we shared a house in Toronto from Sunday to Friday night. On the surface the arrangement put us closer to our places of work. Underneath it though, was a blissful escape from my parents’ harsh regime. Even though the pact to keep ou
r crazy late nights from our parents held true, there was still the little problem of having her in my face.

  At the moment I wanted to snap off her twiggy arms, but I’d save that for another time. So I went to the kitchen and washed the dishes in a rage, tossing the lids so they bounced off the rack, and splashing for the sake of splashing.

  Afterwards I dried every one of the large glass bowls and their plastic lids, placing them in a milk crate lined with dishcloths. These dishes would travel back here once the Christmas break was over, only filled with all my mother’s Indian food.

  I thumped up the stairs and now stood in front of my closet, where small T-shirts and tight blouses from thinner days self-righteously hung. I opened my dresser drawer instead, and in one swift motion crammed my duffle bag with sweatshirts and flannel.

  I returned downstairs and waited.

  And waited.

  I looked up the stairs and could still see the light bleeding out from underneath her door.

  I figured she needed a prompt.

  “HURRY UP GODDAMMIT!”

  There was no response, but a minute later she finally opened the door. Down the steps she came, five-foot-nine and stick-thin with her Gucci bag in hand, and her shoulder-length hair sitting perfectly still and straightened. I wanted to explain how Gucci would pay her an enormous sum to never wear their brand again, but I was far too tired for another round of insults.

  By the time we loaded up the car I was ready for a drool-filled nap. Partly because I was tired, but mostly to avoid the mere thought of a Narindra family Christmas; the judging, the dinner-table inquisitions, and the fake transformation into the girl I was supposed to be…

  Chapter Two

  Ninety minutes of driving and thirty of my dad’s “please don’t be dead” emergency calls later, we finally made it home to suburban paradise. This sleepy town in Southwestern Ontario was brimming with nostalgia. The shopping mall where I was chaperoned by my parents (forcing me to hide from my friends in the men’s underwear section), the one movie theater I never got to make out at, and the one video store where I’d bump into my dentist, only to discover his love for Alyssa Milano’s straight-to-video collection.

  Our childhood home was filled with nostalgia too, most of it involving scolding and the smell of spices. I opened the door with my sister right behind me, and we yelled to whomever that we’d arrived. My gaze fell upon the empty living room, complete with mustard-coloured, floral-printed couches. Not to mention the matching tasseled cushions.

  Charming as ever.

  Of course the real “living” happened in the family room further ahead. That’s where the big screen television was, and it was also conveniently next to the kitchen. It was from there, in the back of the house, that the smell of curried chicken wafted over.

  As I pulled off my boots and took in the aroma, I felt the slightest brush across my calf. It was my black and white cat named Tommy. My sister scooped him up for a shower of her sloppy kisses.

  Feline molestation at its worst.

  I grabbed him away from her venomous lips and she bounded up the stairs. I quickly planted some more appropriate pecks of my own, but as I set him down I realized I’d been kissing the exact same spots that had been covered with my sister’s lips.

  Is that the same as kissing her?

  I quietly shuddered.

  I continued along the corridor, its walls sparsely covered with professional family photos, which marked my parents’ better days and their offspring’s awkward youth. The closer I got to the family room and the kitchen, the louder and louder the squeaky-voiced singing became.

  Here we go.

  It was my dad’s favourite channel: All Bollywood, all the time. I could still remember the days when my dad would insist we watch every Bollywood movie ever made. I had tried my very best to develop an interest, but three-hour films complete with cheesy songs and even cheesier fights were simply too much to handle.

  “Are you here?” my mother asked from somewhere in the kitchen.

  I answered “yes” in the typical robot way as she continued on.

  “Bring me all the dishes!”

  I quickly turned back to retrieve the crate of dishes which were sitting by the door. When I finally made it to the kitchen, my eyes travelled straight to my father, who was lounging in the nearby family room. He seemed engrossed by the Bollywood singer on the screen, who was skipping around joyously in the fields of wheat. Wearing his typical beige-coloured “dad pajamas,” his socks were on the floor in a pile, and his curly hair looked tattered. It seemed like it was time for him to get another perm, like he’d been doing twice a year since before I was born.

  Though my father’s perms were all I’d known of him in person, the black and white pictures on the mantle told a different story. These ancient shots showed my dad and his older brother, right before they came to Canada. In the pictures they were sporting turbans and beards, since proper Sikhs are never even supposed to cut their hair. Then again, it’s not like their beards were hanging right down to their bellies in the photo, like Gandalf from “Lord of the Rings.” That style was left to the orthodox Sikhs, whereas my dad and his brother looked more business-like in this photo, suits and ties complete with freshly-trimmed beards.

  Next to those pictures was a different set of black-and-whites. In these the two had clean-shaven faces, complete with their own versions of Elvis Presley hair (as in the Elvis before the weight gain and glittery jumpsuits). My dad had always said that turbans didn’t fly in nineteen-seventies Canada, at least not for those who were hoping to find a job (and not get their asses kicked).

  So turbans and beards simply fell off the list of priorities, as it had for many Sikhs in the last few decades. Meanwhile my parents would stab us or have mutual heart attacks, if their children didn’t end up getting married to Sikhs. Sure, sure, that makes sense.

  Leaving my dad in his “wheat-field, sing-song” trance, I turned to see my mother who was bustling away at the stove. I was constantly humbled by her skills in the art of Indian cuisine. It was natural and effortless, or so it seemed. My feelings for my mother would rotate between this sense of awe and a general fear. It was the way her eyebrows would narrow in the shape of a “v,” even when her mouth was turning upwards in a smile. It was also the way she would tightly clench her teeth when she was angry, a five-foot-four-inch fireball of fury.

  All intimidation aside, my mother had a head full of chemical curls just like my dad, a result of the perms she’d been getting for the last twenty years. For thirteen of those years she’d been getting these perms from me. Yes, I’d been an at-home perm artist since age fourteen. It wasn’t something I liked to talk about, as it would only remind me of the odour of perm solution, and the endless hours rolling strands of hair on a fussy and impatient mother. I could only hope that karma saved a special reward for all the daughters forced to “perm up” their moms twice a year.

  Twenty-six perms and still waiting…

  I handed my mother the crate of dishes, careful not to stand too close to the kitchen light. It was always important to avoid strong lighting if my mother was around, for fear of being judged on any facial flaws.

  Her eyes looked me up and down, as her lips pressed together in an almost-frown.

  “Hmph. Hurry up and change so you can make a big salad. Dinner’s almost done.”

  Just like that she returned to the steaming pot of curry.

  I was surprised by the lack of critique, so I scurried to my room with a smile of relief. As I thumped my way down the basement stairs to my own little corner bedroom, I stopped to observe an unattractive scene in the den. It was my younger brother Sonny in the midst of a

  “Guitar Hero” showdown.

  I didn’t say hello to my brother, nor did he attempt the same. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever said “hi” to my siblings. This was as true for my sister/roommate as it was for Sonny, the twenty-two-year-old Internet-addicted grease-head. It must’
ve been because the word “hi” was loosely tied to affection, and affection was our sibling kryptonite.

  Instead our opening statements went about like this:

  Sonny-to-Romi: “Is that how nasty you look when you go to work?”

  Romi-to-Sonny: “You have a nose-hair that’s touching your teeth.”

  So with myself and my brother sufficiently re-acquainted, I slammed my bedroom door and changed into my precious comfy flannel.

  ***

  I passed the bowl of salad to my dad, as I nervously awaited the dinner conversation. It was less a conversation and more a quiet war between the parents and the children: how much could they possibly ask us? And how little could we possibly reveal?

  My father kicked it off: “Sonny, did you send out your résumé to that company I told you about? You need to find a job before you graduate.”

  The answer was always the same indiscernible grunt.

  My mom tried to bark up a different tree: “Neema, did you e-mail the boy whose marriage profile we sent you?”

  Marriage profiles? Thank goodness I’m the younger one.

  “I will,” she replied, never shifting her gaze from her plate.

  “We sent you the profile two days ago, what are you waiting for? You are already so old.” My mother finished off with a disapproving shake of the head.

  “I SAID I’ll reply, just let me do it myself!” In a matter of seconds, my sister had transitioned from confident twenty-nine-year-old to defensive-sounding teen.

  All throughout the inquisition, I stuffed my face with mouthfuls of rice drenched in glorious chicken curry. It was liquid gold, without ever being too thick or too runny. I considered it an automatic drug, as it eased any stresses around me. But it could only be my mother’s curry. Anything else was pond scum.

  “Romi, how much will your next raise be?” asked my mother. “Is it coming soon?”

  I did some instant math in my head, with the figure I’d used when I’d last lied about my salary, plus a number on top of that.

  When the dinner and its dialogue finally came to an end, I stacked up all the dishes for my sister to wash (haha) and wiped the kitchen table clean.