Adultery My Struggles with Trupti by urbanslut

[Ramesh_Rocky]

Later that night. In the event hall of a Ramada in Iselin, NJ. I am decked up in my newest salwar kameez, and wearing jewelry that my mom left me. My hair is in a braid like it usually is. I am not as trendily dressed as some of the other women here.

Yet another Indian singles mixer. I have no illusions of meeting anyone with any real future with me. I am here just for the fun of it. To see their jaws drop at my answer to their very inappropriate question, "So what is your salary?". Indian men, even if they have grown up in America and American accents, are usually not ready for women who earn more than them. Which is why I try to assert my professional success.

Usually I am diffident and meek around people I know, like Jan or my relatives or even the very few people who consider me a friend. But in front of these strangers, I find myself able to be a lot more assertive, blase, even a little cruel sometimes.

This mixer has a speed-dating type thing set up. I am seated on a chair in front of a dinky table, with men spending a couple of minutes at each table. With all of them, it's the same story. I assert my success. They squirm. They ask if I cook. I say no. They ask me about my family. I tell them my parents are dead. They spend a minute more and then feel saved by the bell.

And then HE sits down. My heart sinks. Where did he come from?

"Hi. Nice to see you again." he says politely. "I am Malay."

"Hello." I say, nodding my head.

"Remember me?"

"No!" I say a little too defiantly.

"You're not really here to meet a prospective groom are you?" he asks, with a smile on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I have seen you in so many of these events all over the country. In California, Chicago, Houston, Dallas, Seattle, Miami, and even Phoenix."

"So?" I defiantly say.

He flashes me a charming smile.

"So, it means you are just like me. A tourist. Here for the fun of it. To make other Indians squirm. I have seen how guys look after they meet you."

"Oh yeah?" I argue back. "And how about the girls who meet you? They look like they've seen a ghost."

"I am not denying that. I just want you to admit it." he says. "Like you've just admitted that you've noticed me too."

"I admitted nothing." I say and fold my hands. And I sit leaning back.

He flashes me another smile, and says

"I am based out of New York. I get the feeling you are too. Here's my card if you want to meet some time." he slides a card across the table. And I look at it. Malay Singhal. Works for a top media firm.

"Ok." I say.

"What's your number?" he asks.

I stare at him. Then I tell him. And then add,

"But don't call me. Ever."

"Sure. That's why you gave me your number." he smiles, saving it in his cellphone.

I sit there glaring at him. He sits there smiling at me. For what seems like ages. The bell rings. He moves to the next table. And another guy replaces him.

This guy, Malay, he is not there to find a match. Neither am I. But I find it offensive to see someone else like me. He ruined everything. He ruined the illusion. He ruined the fun.

"Hello, Myself Romesh Mehta. Motel owner in Hastings, Nebraska. Your good name please?" I am shaken out of my reverie. Ah yes, this guy uses the phrase "your good name". Perfect!

I flash him an evil smile. And set about freaking him out.

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