Living in the Question

Sitting in a chair, wondering who invented the chair and then decided to call it a chair.

Who was the decider of names of things?

Was there voting, or just one confident person pointing and saying, “this is it,” and everyone else agreeing because no one wanted to come up with something better.

If I were doing the inventing, I might come up with something more interesting than chair.

I want to know how languages are created. Who picks the words, and why those words stuck. There had to be bad options. There are always bad options.

I could look it up. I could probably know in under a minute.

But I don’t.

I’m more interested in not knowing, which feels like a waste until it doesn’t.

Before the internet, when you had a difficult question, sometimes you just shrugged your shoulders—“I guess we’ll never know.” And that was it. No follow-up. No quiet guilt about not checking.

It was like the lack of an answer left something open, like a room you didn’t have to enter.

All these questions just lived there. And that was enough.

I remember I was in a philosophy class in college and this professor said, “You can invent something that has never been said before. You can say the flamingo ate a hamburger, and that’s yours, forever.”

I think that’s why I write. To come up with something that is me. Something no one else has ever thought of before.

I started by writing poetry… I think it’s raining in my soul.

Maybe no one’s ever said that before.

Some people think every story that exists has already been told. I disagree.

My story has never been told before. Your story has never been told before. Even if it feels like someone else’s story, there are still parts of it that are severely unique.

Severely unique.

Interesting phrase.

Sometimes I don’t think I’m severe enough. I’m soft, sensitive—but I’m still smart.

People are always confusing kindness with weakness.

Sometimes I think the strongest thing you can do is be kind.

I’m sitting outside and I wonder when we came up with living in boxes and not under trees… I wonder if I would be a totally different person if I slept on the grass every night.

My dad used to sleep on the roof outside when it was too hot in the summers in India. Maybe that’s why he was so kind.

I think my entire personality would be different if I had grown up in India. I went there when I was very young for a couple years to stay with my grandparents. I don’t remember it. Apparently Punjabi was my first language, so English is actually my second language—even though I teach English in college.

Every now and then I look at my students and wonder if they are wondering, who is this Indian chick teaching us English? I’m probably imagining it.

Once I went to an Italian restaurant with a friend—I used to run into my students at restaurants all the time. This woman named Annie recognized me.

She said, “I remember your classes, how we had debates on controversial subjects. Do you remember when I used to go get you a Starbucks coffee?”

I did remember. She gave me a Starbucks gift card at the end of the year. She cried when she gave it to me.

She started crying at the restaurant. “You were the best professor I ever had. I was failing all of my classes and then I got an A in your class and it changed everything, and now I’m the manager at this restaurant.”

That was one of my most proud professional moments.

I wonder if there are other Annies.

Annie gave me both her personal and work number and email. I emailed her but never heard back. I think she may have helped me more than I helped her.

Sometimes my students would address me as doctor. I never corrected them. Ha.

Teaching, like writing, is creative. You’re trying to get through to people. To make them think.

You can open a window so your students can think thoughts that nobody has thought before.

They can invent new names for a chair. They can invent new identities for themselves.

Sometimes I wish I was the one learning instead of teaching.

Maybe I was.

nina

A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/  or wherever you get your podcasts.

Imagine two loud, dramatic, hilarious Indian women explaining to a white man what it's like to grow up and live in America. Join us for laughter, deep thoughts, and witty banter about life, love and culture. We tell it like it is, with honest, bold and funny stories, discussions and arguments. We explore boundaries and challenge norms. Join us for a good talk.

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