Pinky Madam

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Pinky Madam
If I never step foot on this dark soil; smell this greasy food or speak to these belligerent fools who have titled me Pinky Madam, I will have no regrets. I must now severe all ties to Ashok and India. I can no longer fulfil my vows as wife. But it is not all my fault. His parents never accepted me; the weather here wearied me, and the customs are from a long and forgotten world. If only Ashok could have seen the India that I had to be a part of. But even if this was the case, he would never leave his business; his servants or his family for a modern life in New York. If only we could rewind the clock to our walks in Central Park, dinner on the Hudson River; martinis in Queens. His rooftop rose garden proposal and the 2 caret solitaire diamond was every girl’s dream but these are faded memories and a life together in New York will never happen, so we must part ways and I must start my life over. India was far from the exotic, spiritual playground that Ashok had promised me before our departure from America. I remember the first time I met his parents. His father was dressed in shorts; his blue veins appeared like lumpy knitting knots running up his shins. His poor little tiny feet looked like they were about to explode trying to carry the load. Ashok’s mother was dressed in a sari and rarely made eye contact; she was not warm and spent the entire time fussing over Ashok. Of course Ashok said I was imagining things but the other American women here told me it is because I am a Christian and not Hindu. I can’t see why Hinduism is considered such a deeply spiritual religion. There are so many Gods and spiritual gurus; I came to the conclusion from that start that it was one big spiritual sham. Major decisions are guided by pure superstition that in most cases serve no logic. It’s funny and tragic at the same time. My life in India has become dreary, as my regular days consisted of attending any combination of breakfast, brunch, lunch, high tea,...
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