The Day My Brain Exploded Page 12

  But I still had to deal with the intellectual deficits caused by my exploded brain: deficits that created a humiliating back step in my professional career. My boss was a stern forty-something white woman, who selected me to rep a popular high-end magazine catering to fortysomething women. She took me to meet the magazine’s well-known editrix. Since it wasn’t a corporate confab, I wore a simple blue button-up shirt and black slacks.

  The magazine’s headquarters was an intimidating space, commanding an entire floor of a prominent New York City skyscraper. Hardcore WASP women walked the halls. I had never seen such a concentration of blond hair, cardigans, khakis, and sensible shoes. They all looked as if their idea of heaven was Cape Cod. They could have been Martha Stewart clones, but weren’t—they seemed too cheery.

  My boss and I walked down a long hallway of these Cape Coddesses, and were shown to a room that contained steel chairs that resembled bar stools for dwarves. In walked the publisher, an imposing woman, white, tall, and brown-bobbed. She was in standard Hamptonian drag: relaxed brown slacks and, yes, a very Martha beige cardigan wrapped around an expectedly pristine white turtleneck. We sat at a large, rectangular glass-topped table.

  “I’d like to introduce Ashok Rajamani, who’s going to work for the magazine,” my boss said.

  The publisher sighed, obviously underwhelmed.

  “Oh, hello,” she said dismissively.

  “I’ll do a fantastic job,” I exclaimed. “I’ll get you media exposure everywhere.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said, her face stony.

  As it was extremely early in my recovery, and my mind was not yet at full speed, one ridiculous thought came to mind: Everyone wants to be young and hip. That’s modern, that’s what’s salable!

  “I’m going to present you as young, hip, urban, and modern,” I announced proudly. “We’ll get all the readers we need!”

  “Are you serious? That’s not our demographic at all,” she barked. She looked at me as if speaking to an incompetent.

  I had nothing to say but “Um . . . Um . . .”

  My boss sat quietly as the publisher systematically grated me into sienna-stained shreds.

  “Thanks for your time,” the editrix snapped abruptly. She was sneering behind a smile.

  “It was nice to meet you.”

  She stood up. The meeting was over.

  The next day at work, my boss called me to her office.

  “Our editor friend called,” she said. “She’s thinking of leaving our firm. We definitely cannot lose this client.”

  “Oh wow. I’m sorry.”

  “She gave me the reason, Ashok.”

  “I think I know it already.”

  “She told me, ‘How dare that kid not wear a suit to the meeting!’ ”

  I gulped in disbelief. “But what about the foolish things I said?”

  “It wasn’t brought up. The main thing was that you didn’t fit the ‘look’ that best represents the publication.”

  “Meaning?”

  “First of all, she wants a woman. Second, she thinks you might look too . . . um . . .”

  “Ethnic?”

  “NO!” she shouted, and then looked down sheepishly. “She thinks you’re just, well, a little too urban. But I told her you were a sensational publicist, and that you could do a great job.”

  “Thanks . . . I guess.”

  A week later, we had a second meeting with the publisher. This time, a coworker, Jane, came with us: a preppy white blonde girl wearing the regulation WASP uniform, cape of khaki cardigan included. Her costume aside, she was an adorable girl, always lovable, kind, and sweet to me. We sat again at the glass table and prostrated before the Queen.

  My boss spoke first, sounding artificially cheery.

  “Great news! We have a new person to handle your account.”

  We fucking do?

  “Her name is Jane. Ashok won’t be on the account.”

  I was officially fired from the account. In front of the client.

  Back at the office, my boss cooed to me in her sweetest tone, “You understand that the workload is very heavy for someone of your, um, condition.”

  I didn’t know if the condition was my pigment, or my brain. Turns out it was the latter, as she pointed to her head, nodding gravely. Before she would be able to kick me out, I gave her my two weeks’ notice. Her expression was confusing. She said nothing, but gave me an odd half-smile. I couldn’t tell if she was happy to be rid of a brain-damaged employee or viewed my resignation as the welcome removal of a dark stain on her snowy-white firm.

  It didn’t matter, though. I didn’t request a recommendation letter.

  Time to Bloom: 2001

  Beach Indian Bingo

  Freed from my public relations job in January 2001, I laughed, I sang, and cried official tears of joy.

  I entered a new era.

  I started exercising. Until now, I had never even enjoyed walking. My binge drinking had left me bloated yet puny, my body a collection of fat and bones. But I had lost the excess weight after the brain bleed, along with any muscle I may have had.

  Now I began running on a treadmill. And while I ran, I listened to power ballads on my CD player. I even sang along with the ridiculous anthems, such as Des’ree’s “Life.” They were hokey songs, but inspirational for someone who had cheated death. “Life, oh Life, Oh life . . . doo doo doo doo,” she belted. And boy, did my tears fall. I couldn’t help crying while I ran, singing that schmaltzy “doo doo doo” with gusto. I put that song on repeat so often that I eventually destroyed the CD.

  On my off days I unwound with less-than-inspirational songs. “Dying” by Hole was an example. As Courtney Love droned, “I’m dying, I’m dying please,” I sang along in grave self-pity, all the while taking a philosophical approach to my life. Granted, my singing was bad, since I had just learned to hum once more. But it didn’t matter. In my mind, I had become both Preacher and Riot Grrl.

  In August of that year, my parents celebrated my survival by taking me to Aruba for a holiday. The reason for this trip was rather simple: it was a mother’s promise. During my hospitalization, when I fought through the crushing pain of the drillings in my skull, needles in my skin, and tubes through my nose and throat, my mother would say to me: “Ashok, if you live through this, you will never have to see metal again. Just trees, sand, water, and you will have seaweed wraps!” As silly as it sounds, her promise helped to give me the strength to withstand the daily hospital nightmares. I never, ever, wanted to see anything metal, or steel, or plastic, or any such material around me again. I only wanted trees, sea, sand, and all forms of nature. When Mom would make that daily promise, I would shut my eyes tight and dream of seaweed wraps. I dreamed of flowers of rainbow hues and plants and soft sands. I dreamed of swaying trees. And I dreamed of all the colorful seashells I could ever hold. These dreams were partially responsible for keeping me alive as I lay restrained in that dark, scary hospital room.

  My mother kept her word; here we were going to, of all nature’s paradises on earth, Aruba! I was so excited that I went shopping for my first bathing suit. I found a bright green baggy one in a low-end suburban department store, along with flip-flops and some towels.

  The trip began with a tremendous headache. En route to Aruba, I experienced a number nine on a scale of ten, which required my popping some Motrin. As I looked out the window, I saw that everything down below seemed to be painted in vivid colors. When we landed, my father ran to the information counter where we were told that our bus was running half an hour late. Typically, he yelled at the workers, flaring his nostrils and swaying his hips.

  There is a great Indian family tradition of waiting in airports, mainly because we book extended flights that entail long stopovers. During this ritual, the mother or grandmother eases the children’s impatience by feeding them dry foods—usually pistachio nuts—saying “Beta, Kalo” (“Son, eat”). Why this is a tradition, I’ll never know. So, like a good Indian family, we wait
ed in the airport. My father, wearing his too-tight white T-shirt and matching shorts, kept looking at his watch. I wondered where my pistachios were.

  “Calm down,” I said. “It’s not as if we’re late for a meeting.”

  “Humph!” he retorted, petulant as always.

  When the bus finally came, we were taken to the hotel we were staying at, the Aruba Royale, an old-fashioned place whose lodgers had a median age of sixty. No matter; since the AVM I liked quiet environments, and this place seemed to offer it in spades. We stayed on Palm Beach and had it all to ourselves. Before we arrived, I had already decided I would only swim at night. Being partially flabby and morbidly hairy, I had no intention of letting the world see me topless. But that changed when I went to my parents’ suite.

  My mother had changed into a bathing suit—a sleek black one-piece with a pink racing stripe. How could she, in daylight? I thought. Just when I was recovering from the shock, my father appeared, topless and hairier than I. That does it, I decided! If they could do it, so could I. I’m going day swimming too, without a top!

  It turned out all my fears were pointless. The beach had a European sensibility: The men had hair on their shoulders and backs. The women had tits hanging to their calves. No body-conscious people in sight; they were all topless.

  I was pleased. We should all live as God intended us to. I wondered why America—and the Brazilian wax community—didn’t feel the same way.

  Shameless in our lack of clothing, my parents and I relaxed in lovely white plastic lounge chairs. The sun hit our mahogany skin, turning it darker than the darkest of chocolate.

  Stepping into the ocean was one of the greatest experiences of my life. I slowly realized that this is why I didn’t die—I had yet to live a life like this, free and alive. If nothing else, my near-death experience had given me a new appreciation of life, and of all the wondrous things I had taken for granted.

  Yes, Virginia, There Is a Terrorist. He’s Every Brown Person in America.

  Six months after our Aruba trip, Mom and I decided to make a brief return visit. We arrived in paradise, once more, on September 9, 2001.

  Two days later, we had just come back from the beach to our hotel room when Prakash called.

  “We’re under attack!” he said. “Turn on the TV!”

  We watched in horror at the events that were unfolding back in my city.

  As a result of the attacks, we were stranded in Aruba for five extra days: no planes were allowed to leave or enter the U.S.

  Dad used his frequent-flyer miles to secure us first-class tickets home. When we boarded the plane, we had no idea what was in store for us. You see, we didn’t know that all of the 9/11 terrorists had been in the first-class section. When we took our seats, everyone stared. To make matters worse, Mom had wrapped her black scarf around her head like a cloak—only because she was cold—making her look like an orthodox Islamic woman.

  And then the fun began. When I got up to use the toilet, four flight attendants quickly surrounded me. “Can we help you?” the quadruplets asked, failing to camouflage the panic on their faces. When I didn’t answer quickly enough, a blond male attendant—whose Teutonic vibe would have made the Führer cry with joy—joined the circle. Everyone in the cabin was watching intently—except Mom, of course, who was sleeping all snuggled up in her makeshift burqa.

  As I scanned the flight attendants around me, I felt disgusted. I responded—as loudly as I could—“Yes, you can definitely help me. All of you can hold my penis for a while and then shake it. I have to pee.”

  They lowered their faces and silently slunk away. Unfortunately, this was merely a jarring preview of what I was coming home to.

  As we landed in New York City, I looked out the airplane window and saw countless American flags waving at half-staff. My first response was not sorrow for my beloved country; it was complete dread for my family. I somberly looked at Mom, and said simply, “We’re all dead, all our people.”

  I was right. Upon my arrival, Dad told me that a friend of his, a good-natured Sikh man around the age of sixty, was murdered while working the cash register at a grocery store. A thirtysomething white man, wearing an IT’S ABOUT FREEDOM t-shirt, had walked up and told him, “You destroyed America.”

  Then he shot him in the face, point-blank.

  We lived in fear from then on.

  New York, like the Pentagon and that field in Pennsylvania, had been horribly scarred, but it was surviving. Like most folks, I was horrified by the terror attacks and the lives they destroyed. Now I faced potential harassment, even physical harm, within my own land. I had faith, though, in my dear country’s resilience.

  America had experienced the worst disaster of its life. It would survive. So would I.

  Dancing and Singing and Praying, Oh My!

  Twenty-six was an awkward age at which to have experienced death and rebirth. I had completed my education, but had barely established a career.

  Since I quit the only professional world I knew, public relations, the prospect of a new career frightened me. I had no work experience other than manipulating journalists and TV producers to give my clients some media exposure, and, perhaps, no other skills.

  I refused to go back to the unchallenging world of public relations. Not that I was a genius, but I could use my resurrected brain for something better than promoting racist magazines and figuring out the inane codes of fashion failures.

  So I went to a career-planning workshop at NYU. Quick testing revealed that my primary interests—writing and art—blended sweetly in advertising. I was excited, foolishly believing that advertising was a step up from publicity.

  Tanya was a friend of my sister-in-law who worked in corporate marketing. Over lunch one day, she talked to me about advertising. But first Tanya told me a bit about herself: she was born in Sicily and had given up a child for adoption at age fifteen. She had just left an abusive husband.

  She told me to sidestep details about my brain surgery at job interviews. This was a strong woman, I thought, who could help me, and I could learn a lot from her.

  Calling in a favor, she got me an interview at a leading New York City advertising agency. I met first with the human resources manager. He got to the point immediately. “In your résumé, there’s a large time gap from the date of your last job.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” I said, remembering what Tanya had said about not divulging my hemorrhage. Another friend, a business associate of Prakash, had told me simply to lie. My parents’ Indian chums suggested that I invent reasons for the gap in my work history, such as “I was traveling around the world,” or “I had to take care of my dying uncle in India.” My big bro and parents instructed me to simply say that I had had a health issue, and to leave it at that.

  But I thought there was nothing shameful about my condition, and I intended to tell the truth.

  “I had a brain hemorrhage, so it took all this time to fully recover.”

  “I see.” Curt, non-committal.

  “I had to learn to walk, talk, and even use the toilet again! But here I am, in fine shape!”

  “Are you saying that your brain had some sort of damage?”

  “Well, I’m saying that it did become damaged, and then it was fixed. And now, so am I. Just look at me!”

  The HR man gave me a strained smile and became overly cheerful. “Your résumé looks great. I’ll give your information to the creative director. Her office is next door, but she’s in a meeting, unfortunately. She’ll definitely call you to set up an interview. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rajamani.” His lips were tight.

  I wanted to curry his favor further. I asked what his sign was.

  “I’m a Capricorn.”

  Grinning, I prodded him more. “So you must be dating other earth signs huh?”

  “Actually, I’m getting married next month.”

  I asked what was his lady’s sign, what kind of wedding they were planning, and was he going to have kids?

/>   He quickly looked down at his wristwatch. “Mr. Rajamani, I should go now. I enjoyed speaking with you.”

  I was thrilled, he was obviously hurrying to the office next door to talk with the creative director. I sincerely believed that I had been hired. I can’t believe this! I got the job!

  Strangely, he had left his office before I had.

  Leaving the building, I was ecstatic to finally work again. That weekend, I went to Macy’s to buy ties and a belt, even though the purchases strained my current bank account. But what the hell. I would have a career again!

  Two weeks passed. No word came from the creative director, no summons to her office. I called the HR man and left a quick message. Kinda ghetto-style, unfortunately.

  “Hi, it’s Ashok Rajamani. I haven’t heard back from the director. Wassup wit dat?”

  Not exactly professional, I realized, but only after I hung up.

  Oh well, maybe he’ll think I’m joshing him, that I’m considering him a homey.

  I never heard back.

  After going on two more job interviews, I finally learned to put a cork in the brain-bleed story. I had officially suffered an unspecified illness. If they pressured me, I would say “aneurysm.”

  While I was depressed by the lack of progress on the job market, I at least had my life back. Why look for the same job again? Life was, as I had realized, too fragile and too short for me not to consider new directions.

  So I listed possible jobs that would give my life meaning.

  1. Ballroom Dancer: I loved dancing and wearing costumes.

  2. Talk Show Host: I could be a one-man currified version of The View, doing shows such as “How masala can drive your man wild” or “What to do when you catch your husband wearing your sari.”

  3. Recreational Director: Watching a pretty volleyball instructor in Aruba had inspired me.

  4. Songwriter: I could certainly write any number of inspirational or sad tunes after my near-death experience, from uplifting Jesus-hand-me-a-ladle country ballads to sorrowful my-husband-left-me-for-a-crack-whore heartbreak anthems.