In the end, I don’t know what will happen with us and if we have a future because we live very far away from each other – but two interesting things happened while dating an Indian man for the second time since moving to Bangalore that have really made me stop and think … First, it was great to realise that not all Indian men are afraid to be with a white, divorced women for fear of what their parents will say.
Obviously I haven’t dated much in India, two men isn’t enough to make a truly convincing case on the subject, so my experience level is low.
But it just turns out that I haven’t met the right Indian man for ME yet.
"You have chlamydia," my obstetrician told me as I lay on the examining table, six months pregnant with my fourth child.
It took a few more days of wrenching confrontation for our marriage to disintegrate.
When Chris spoke to a health official who called to check on me (my case had been reported to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta), he realized our baby was at risk for premature birth and newborn pneumonia, and he became hysterical, as though he were having a nervous breakdown.
"I don't know how this could have happened," he stammered. But I kept quiet and thought, I've held up as long as I could. Both of us grew up in the small-town South, and Chris was in the military.
Hence, a search for the International Men's Day, the day when men too possibly can bask in the limelight. They even have November 19 as the date to celebrate themselves but very few of us know about it. Papiya Chakraborthy, an SEO specialist working in Delhi NCR, says, "women have always been projected as the weaker ones and therefore a date is designated for them as consolation. I can get it.” “This is Erica,” Andrew said, gripping the lady at her waist. “Even the bad stuff.” “Angie was here earlier,” Andrew said, shouting over the blare of the muzak. Play.” It was 2 a.m., so I ignored him, rolled over and listened to more branches breaking until the sun bled through the blinds. I flung open the lounge door and found Andrew at the far end of the dim bar with two drinks and a plate of questionable food, laughing loudly like he’s known to do, and with a blond woman leaning into his shoulder, grinning, twisting his hair with her finger. I scan the newsroom to see if anyone else can mouth his scripted sermon, which has, at this point, grew so hackneyed that it’s like a good song gone bad with repetition.