From a young age I demonstrated this attitude as a reaction, I suppose, to my mother’s indifference toward me. As a child, I wasn’t mature enough to question where the source of her indifference; I merely lived with the pain of it as it tore into the tender core of my innocence, hurting and often humiliating me. Gradually a wall formed around that heart, hardening and thickening it like the shell of a crustacean, protective yet impenetrable.

This method of  coping got me through my childhood but it left permanent scars, so deeply etched that I am still grappling with the repercussions of that treatment today as an aging adult

.Perhaps it is this coping mechanism that is responsible for the very absence of love in my life today. Trust does not come easily.The gates are heavy. They do not creak open without a gargantuan effort. Occasionally along the way a teacher or friend has helped me to shed that reluctance and encouraged me, sometimes unknowingly, to open up and trust but the old behavior pattern persists,  reluctant to change.

When friends acted in a way that felt like a betrayal as it did so many years back with my mother, I have turned on the old indifference and haughty attitude and if that didn’t work, I’d cut them loose.

As a girl I’d withdraw into my bedroom. I’d bolt myself inside and retreat into the safe world of solitude. A place where I am still very at home. I found comfort in music and books. This only served to further infuriate my mother, who couldn’t reach me when she wanted to. Then it happened.

“When you are twenty-one you can do what you want. But as long as you live in this house, you have to obey my rules.” And my parents broke my bedroom door down.

My mother’s invasion of my privacy continued until I moved out. She snooped through my drawers, read my diary, listened in on my phone calls and opened and read my mail.

Over the years I thought that I had let go of the harmful anger and resentment that I harbored as a teenager but maybe remnants remain and are still causing sorrow and handicapping my ability to love and be loved.  In my desire to grow, change and be free from the past,  I set pen to paper and fingers to keys. There is hope. It is manifest in the faith of the writer and it brings me one step closer.

Maybe in my need to do things logically I was missing the point. Four days a week I had been walking over to the Union Square subway stop on 14th Street on my way to Times Square where I work as a NYC tour guide. Union Square is a big, crowded and congested station and crossroads where many different train lines converge. Sometimes I can barely walk through the station without having to dodge and weave around all the people walking so quickly that if I didn’t anticipate their next move, they’d surely bang right into me. There are always performers, religious doomsayers and pan handlers plying their trades and complicating one’s ease of motion in the station.

But just by walking two blocks downtown from where I live, which is in the opposite direction that I need to go, the subway station is a new and different world. It is one that I’d much rather enter.  I am more prone to get an empty seat on the train from here too. I step into the train. The doors close behind me. A few curious riders look up at me briefly and return to their cell phones or papers. I watch as a nondescript young woman becomes completely transformed before all your eyes. She applies foundation to her face with a paint brush. She dabs eyeshadow on her eyelids. She then paints liquid eyeliner across both her upper and lower eye very neatly, never missing as the train lurches forward. She adds mascara to her lashes, blush to her cheeks and applies gloss to her lips with yet another brush. A beautiful face emerges. She pulls off her heavy sneakers, slips on three-inch heels, whips off a bulky jacket  to reveal a form-fitting dress and half smiles at us as she exits. I feel like applauding. It really was a great performance. Time Square awaits me. With my microphone tucked into my bag, I dash up the steps, ready to tell my New York stories to the hundreds of tourists who are waiting in line across the street.

I’m still staggering around with jet lag from my recent return from India and that flight was rerouted to Chicago because  the Newark airport was covered in a thick blanket of snow. In Chicago I got Continental’s royal treatment: no explanation and no one around to talk to. Eventually we were given two meal vouchers: one for $6.00 and one for $8.00. These did not cover the cost for a sandwich or a pizza, let alone a beverage to go with them.

I found an empty bench and could no longer keep myself from the sleep my body desperately craved. About ten hours later, after the crew had their required period of rest, our flight resumed and I was on my way to Newark. I didn’t hesitate to pay the $75.00 taxi fare into New York. The driver was cordial and helped me with my bulky bags as I gingerly stepped off the curb into the slush in my sandals and socks.

I gave my address and added, ” Can you please take the Williamsburg Bridge?”  The driver, who seemed pleasant enough at first seemed to over react. “Where are you going, lady? I thought you said that you were going to the Village?” We argued for a bit. I insisted that I knew where I was going. I’ve lived at that address most of my adult life. Then it dawned on me. I forgot that I was at Newark airport and I was giving him instructions for coming from Kennedy. I apologized and explained what I had done wrong. We chuckled. I was so sleep deprived and out of it.

I’d rather be in my apartment waiting to get out than in O’Hare but somehow it seems hopeless and futile and Continental doesn’t really care about its customers, especially those travelling with a free (yeah, like it really might be free) ticket. Everything is so complicated. I know that it could be worse but that really isn’t any consolation.

To my dismay, I opened my umbrella the other day to discover that it was broken. One of the metal ribs lost a tiny nail and the piece dangles precariously close to my head and now doesn’t fully open. It isn’t even two weeks old and it cost more than one of those cheapies you can get on the street in NYC where I’m from.

One of the wonders of India is that one can get just about anything fixed here. I know a man who repairs shoes. He is a magician. No matter the damage, he can fix it. I passed him in the street and explained my problem. “Is it open and close problem?” He asked with concern. I sensed that this problem was out of his realm. “No. It’s just a metal piece that’s come undone.” I explained while demonstrating the broken part with my fingers. “Yes. Maybe I can fix. You bring.”  With renewed hope, I went back to my room and got the umbrella.

He examined it and went to work rummaging through dusty jars with rusty bits of nails and rivets. He found a very small, thin nail and very carefully fitted all the pieces together and inserted the nail. Next he cut off a piece of coated electrical wire and stripped off the coating. He used this thin wire and inserted it into the small holes and rewired the places where nails were needed. Lastly he removed the thin nail and replaced it with the wire that he neatly twisted up, cut and pressed into place. Although it wasn’t lined up as before, the umbrella opened and closed very efficiently. I was delighted.  “How much do I owe you?” I asked.  “You pay what you want. Make it good price.” I calculated what the umbrella cost, took into account the local economy plus a foreigner surcharge and handed him thirty rupees. He smiled with pleasure.

I left his small and crowded stall with my umbrella protecting me from the sun’s intense rays, well prepared to face what comes my way.

“Do you know about chakras?” Rita asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I know someone here who reads your chakras. He has a shop down the road. He also tells you what stones you need for your energy. I usually smoke with him.”

“Sounds interesting.” I admitted.

“We can go after I finish.” Rita said while chewing the rest of her salad slowly.

When we entered the small shop I knew at once that the owner was a Kashmiri Muslim. Against my will, a growing sense of distrust was influencing my impression. Assorted dusty, hammered copper plates and vessels were displayed on the shelves and dull silver jewelry looked lifeless in old glass cases.

Rita offered the man a cigarette. They relaxed as the smoke filled their lungs.

“You coming many years. I see you before..” The man said to me.

“Yes.” I smiled. When the cigarette embers died, the man motioned for me to pull up a stool beside him. He instructed me to remove all the jewelry that I was wearing that contained stones. In one hand he held a heavy, half round stone that he kept turning and squeezing. In the other he took my hand. I wasn’t sure but I think that he was taking my pulse. We sat there like that for what seemed like a long time.

“You are a very strong , very powerful person. Something happen to you three years ago. Something important.” He looked at me expectantly. I tried hard to think back but nothing stood out and all the years blurred together.”No, I don’t think so.” I told him about a recent lawsuit that had been especially upsetting for me.

“No. This you win. This not big problem.” I couldn’t think of anything else.

“You have three children.”

“No,  I don’t.” He looked puzzled yet determined. “You are very kind, very caring person but something happen. No trust people.”

“Maybe it comes from my relationship with my mother?”

“Three years ago I think something happen.” I try my best to recall the past but nothing from three years back stands out.

“What is your favorite color?”

“Green.”

“Do you like to garden?”

“No. I like flowers and plants but they usually die on me.” I am not intentionally being difficult but we are going nowhere. It feels as if he wants to impress me but nothing he says or asks quite hits home.

“Do you have dreams?” He pursues.

“Sometimes but mostly I can’t remember them when I wake up.” I decide not to tell him about the dream of a man I was with who had two penises. The Kashmiri continues trying to jerk my memory with questions about past loves, past pets and past actions but whatever he is trying to get me to remember, relive or admit isn’t forthcoming. He explains the reason why a past love left.  It was because my power overwhelmed his.

The merchant’s adult son sits on the side, stringing a pearl necklace. A foreign man with a German accent enters the shop asking about the pearl necklace that he ordered. The merchant shows it to him, not letting go of my hand. The foreigner does not like the clasp. The merchant agrees to change it and the man leaves.

After some more probing, the Kashmiri tells me that my chakras are blocked.

“Very big problem. No energy moving. All chakras are closed.  But not to worry. With correct stones you can fix. I make you special necklace with sapphires and emeralds. You wear. After six months you wash with lemon.”

“Maybe too expensive for me. Tomorrow I’m leaving Delhi and I don’t want to change any more money.”

“Yes, some money it is costing but necessary.” I am starting to feel trapped and I don’t like it. I am anxious because of my pending departure and all the last minute details that I must attend to.

The foreigner returns. He examines the new clasp.

“Very strong. Best materials.” The merchant pronounces while tugging on the necklace. Like  ammunition tightly packed inside a loaded gun, the pearls fly in every direction making a clack as they land hard on the floor.

“I fix. No problem. Come back ten minutes.” The foreigner leaves.

I look down at my watch and am reminded that I need to pick up something that I left with a tailor to be mended before his shop closes. The Kashmiri notices that I am distracted. I explain.

“You come back in half hour.” The merchant tells me. ” I make the necklace.” Not sure, I nod and leave with Rita but my faith in this man’s ability to read my chakras is broken like the scattered string of pearls that are left rolling on the hard floor.

Back on the street, I give Rita my card and we say good bye. I rush off in the direction of the tailor,  plagued by doubt. Are my chakras really blocked? If I am as powerful as everyone seems to think then surely I can find a way to release these blocks if they exist but the doubt lingers.

How readily we are willing to put our inner most selves into the hands of a stranger and let them tell us what we are all about. Maybe  my blocked chakras are those that control the purse strings that I do not open for the merchant or maybe it’s a romantic notion about India that I cannot  relinquish.

I step back out onto the concrete sidewalk when the covered granite path ends. The sun glare prevents me from seeing. Gradually the heat from the pavement is sucked up through my feet and the sensation from the granite slabs is left behind.

I’m not sure what happened. The covered granite walkway is on a route that I  travel daily. I now make sure to walk there regularly. And every time it happens. My feet tingle and I am energized. I once tried it with closed shoes. I thought maybe the flip-flops may have had something to do with the sensation but the tingling was there then too.

I don’t know where this granite path is leading me but I am willing to follow it and eager for the many paths ahead.

Hours before the first light I awake from the clang of an animal banging into plates on the counter top from across the room.  This comes as no surprise.

For weeks I’ve been plagued by the arrival of a nocturnal animal that is shredding up every rug, towel and piece of clothing it finds. Usually I sleep through its night-time mischief. Though my rustic house has a door it is open on two sides. It has no windows and two of its walls are only waist-high; an open invitation to the creatures that populate the hill of the sub-tropical terrain where I hang my mosquito net in Mexico.

In the darkness I reach for my flashlight, open the door flap, stick my head out of the net and shine the light in the direction where the noise came from. Still groggy with sleep, I’m not sure if it’s a dream when two  red eyes whizz past me as it hurtles itself in front of my face. I don’t understand how it has managed to get past the net’s narrow door opening but it lands inside the net and is dangling helpless like some new-fashioned earring, caught in the mesh of the net. It is an ugly, bony tailed opossum. Finally, fully awake, I jump out of bed with my heart pounding double time.  I turn on the lights and quickly plan my strategy. My trusty Webster’s dictionary is resting on the ledge behind the bed. Perfect, I think to myself. It’s big and heavy.

First I open the mosquito net as wide as it will go like a curtain on a stage. I then walk around to behind the net to where the opossum is hanging. I pick up the dictionary and whack it from behind as hard as I can. It flies across the room. It lands on the floor, frozen in fear. I instinctively pick up a can of Oko insecticide that is near and give it a dousing. It slinks out the crack by the door.  My battle with the creatures of the night is over. I am left undisturbed for the rest of the season. Rattled but victorious, I go back to sleep.

Once I showed up in her home wearing a favorite pair of 10 carat  gold vintage earrings from Mexico. The exquisite filigree always garners compliments. Pushpaben turned up her nose. She insisted that they were copper.  Pushpaben may sound like a snob but she is simple and humble. This notion stems from her religious beliefs. She worships Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity.  One can pay homage by adorning oneself in gold. How wily of the gods to come up with this angle.

As a Westerner (and probably a heathen in her book) I am forgiven and allowed my idiosyncracies that include a penchant for silver jewelry. The last time I visited her, I wore a pair of 22 carat gold post earrings that I had bought a few years back before the price of gold had sky-rocketed. I knew that she would notice them. She made a comment immediately, something about it being about time that I wore the proper kind of jewelry.

After the most delicious lunch imaginable I was sent to the bedroom to take a siesta along with the rest of the family. Pushpaben covered me with a blanket and climbed in beside me. It was my first meal in her new house. They had lost their home in a devastating earthquake and had been issued a small plot of land in a re-settlement district outside the downtown area where they used to live. Very gradually they built their new home. It was beautiful and they were very proud of it.

We spoke of many things in our special language-a mix of English, Hindi and Gujarati all jumbled up, relieved that no one else was listening. I told her how magnificent her new house is. She fingered the chain that encircled her thin chest and smiled. She looked so happy that I didn’t expect what came next. “I sell my gold to finish house.” I was stunned. I looked at her chest and only then realized that the long and heavy gold chain that she always wore was missing and so were the bangle bracelets that used to line her slim arms. She was proud of her contribution. In her heart, her devotion to Lakshmi was in part responsible for her new home.  After, we fell asleep, each with our own dreams.

I awoke refreshed but felt that Lakshmi was shaking me, beckoning me, calling me. Pushpaben was in the kitchen making  tea.  I sat down in the living room. Pushpaben brought the tea out. She saw me looking at a sticker on the floor by the steps leading up to the next level. “Lakshmi feet.” She explained. “Goddess welcome. Good luck she bring.”   Lakshmi somehow seemed closer and more real.  Pushpaben served the tea. Outside I could hear the voices of the children playing.

Propped up against the side of a building on the ground were astrological charts written in Tamil with detailed diagrams of hands. The astrologer studied the foreign woman’s face, recognizing the familiar signs of indecision. The woman shrugged her shoulders in capitulation. Why not, she concluded to herself.

As instructed, she lowered herself onto the blue plastic while a small crowd gathered around her. From a rusted tin box, the astrologer withdrew two sheets of paper and handed one to her. “Write your birth date.” He said. “Oh, you are Taurus like Queen Victoria, very powerful.” He did some calculations and told her, her lucky number. Carefully he lifted her left hand. “Oh, you will have very long life. You will have three children and you will own a house.” While he spoke, he traced the lines that zigzagged across her palm in blue ink. He did some further calculations and showed her some dates. “These months are best time for you. This is your golden time.” He smiled with satisfaction. He rummaged inside the rusty metal box and produced a small cylinder. “You keep this amulet in your pocket. It is for luck.”

They engaged in the age-old process of  establishing the price. She gave him half of what he asked for and he was pleased.

The sun peeped out from behind the clouds. Buoyant from the prospect of the golden days ahead, the woman’s step took on a new lightness and the creases along her forehead smoothed.

I usually take the direct route down the Bowery which is in itself a street in transformation with all the new and revolutionary buildings changing the once seedy landscape. Victoria wanted to shop for wool cloth on Orchard St. It had been at least six months since I had last walked that way and even back then it had been shocking how it was almost unrecognizable with all the gentrified changes it was now home to.

Orchard Street was the heart of the immigrant  experience at the turn of the last century, known as the lower east side. Both of our grandparents had passed through its portals on their way up the American ladder. As a child, my parents would take us there from the suburbs for serious wholesale shopping and a corn beef sandwich at Katz’s Delicatessen. Even back then the place was dirty and I dreaded having to use the bathroom. My father would load up on nails and plumbing supplies. My mother would get us our year’s supply of underwear and socks. To refresh our sagging energy after all that shopping, we’d get a delicious egg cream soda at a stand in front of Eckstein’s dry good store.

There are a few of the old-time holdouts still in business but mostly the old wholesale stores are now replaced with trendy boutiques and restaurants. One shop caught our attention. Outside it, bolts of cloth were piled up on a table: our welcome sign. It had that feel of the past. It was a bit chaotic. Fabric was lined up everywhere in no obvious order. The balding owner ignored us too. We caressed  every bolt as we searched for woolens. Finally the owner approached us. When Victoria realized that the fabric that caught her fancy was pure cashmere and cost $50. a yard, her enthusiasm waned. The owner, with a thick accent, tried to show her more reasonable choices but she explained that she would return with the top that she wanted to match up. And we left.

Outside, back on Orchard St., Victoria turned to me and said, “That place reminds me of the way it used to be. That man is part of a dying breed.”  I smiled. ” Actually, in his own way, that man is part of a wave of the future. He’s a Russian immigrant, probably Jewish but doing what he knows best.” Victoria looked at me. “How do you know he’s Russian?”  “Well, there are so many Russian travelers in India these days, that I am very familiar with the accent.”  She accepted this explanation and we continued walking until we hit Grand St.

“Come on. Let’s turn here.” I said. Years ago this street was very much a part of the lower east side shopping trail but now it is where Chinatown has usurped some of the old boundaries. Chinese owned businesses lined the streets. Victoria was tiring from all the walking and there were no egg cream stalls to help us out. “I need a coffee. How about you?” She asked. I noticed one of the ubiquitous Chinese bakeries and coffeee shops across the street. ” Look,there’s a Chinese bakery across the street. I love these places. And they have good coffee too.”

We crossed the street and entered another world. Because I am a lifestyle traveler, it is natural for me to seek out foreign communities in my own backyard. We opened the door and were greeted by a  case of unusual looking pastries, though by now I have my favorites. On the back wall was a flat screen monitor showing a historical Chinese movie. The actors had the smoothest complexions and the blackest hair. Mostly men were seated at the tables near the pastry case, drinking coffee and speaking amiably amongst themselves. We passed  on the pastries and got our coffees. I could see that Victoria was enchanted by the atmosphere.

We were the only Caucasian faces in the place. On the walls red and gold new year decorations still hung. The young women working behind the counter could easily have been actors in the period film that was playing in the background with their fine complexions and infectious high-pitched giggles. We lingered over our coffees and partook of  that age-old ritual of  afternoon tea (and coffee) with a friend and left refreshed.

When we reached the corner of Grand and Essex St., I was back where I usually shop. I took Victoria to one of my haunts where I usually buy scallions (4 bunches for $1.00) and broccoli and whatever else is fresh and well priced. By now I am a familiar face. I enjoy the recognition. I was welcomed by the Chinese man who works there. He said to me, “Your sister?” Referring to Victoria. I said,”No.” Then he said, “Same face.” I said, “Same mind.” And he laughed heartily. I was pleased to hear him laugh.

On Mott St. I showed Victoria where I buy mushrooms and snow peas. The worker outside is Mexican. He’s been there many years and now speaks a fair amount of Mandarin Chinese. We speak in Spanish. “Una libra de los champinones, por favor.” I say with pride. He does not allow you to hand-pick them. We move through the throngs. Victoria is amazed how crowded the streets are at this off hour during the week. Our last stop is the tofu lady. I always pick that up last because it is messy and wet and sometimes leaks if you aren’t careful. There is always a line in front of her stall. Again, we are the only white faces in the line. I get out my dollar bill. Four cakes cost $1.00. Victoria asks me about the difference between the cold tofu and the hot one steaming in a big cauldron in front of us. I am not sure. A woman behind us in heavily accented English says, “Cold one for cooking. Hot one for eating now.”  I am pleased that she offers this explanation with such good intention: to help and inform.

Now we are back on the Bowery, walking back. I turn to Victoria. “I love shopping here. I miss Asia when I’m in NY and this helps to connect me in some small way.” She looks at me. “You know that shopping for food isn’t a minor connection. It’s something people have been doing forever. It’s a big connection.”  Yes, I think Victoria is right. We continue walking home.

Russian