Forty-Something Years in Ninaland

The Patient Sikh: Part One—Repost


Sunday, August 10, 2014

The Patient Sikh: Part One

This is a story, a fictional story that is entitled:  “The Patient Sikh.”  It is a prequel to my novel and I will be sharing parts of this story on occasion. Hope you enjoy!

novel image (1)

The Patient Sikh: Part One

“I don’t know you,” I want to say to the mirror as I looked closely at what is going to become a zit.  I have a clear face generally speaking.  But I’m so paranoid I won’t because of that bout of acne I had when I was sixteen. I guess that was almost three years ago.  My hair is so long I barely know what to do with it sometimes.  I don’t cut my hair because I’m a Sikh.

I never think about it, except for times like this when I’m explaining it to someone.  I do a lot of things automatically without thinking about them.  I guess maybe I’m on autopilot more than I would like to admit.  I wish I were the pilot of my own life, a little more.  Where am I going?

Oh yeah, the cafeteria.  This boy that was in my orientation is in line ahead of me.  He’s so not cute and not cool.  But he took me aside during orientation told me he thought I was amazing, that there was “Something about me.”  He especially liked that part where I explained about being a Sikh and how it meant something deep to me.

I’m a snob, I think he wanted to date me but I sort of brushed him off because he’s not good looking or “cool.”  We were at the orientation for The University of Michigan.  I got into this school on the skin of my ass, literally.  My G.P.A. was pseudo average but I think my essay was great, and I explained why my G.P.A. was pseudo average.  I got a 4.0 my junior year, so that’s how I really got into college.

go blue

“Hey,” the blonde haired boy who was in my orientation says to me as I pass him in the pasta isle.

“Hey,” I say and pseudo smile.  Everything in my life is a pseudo joke.

I want to tell him to stop looking at me because I have a pseudo zit.  And life’s a pseudo joke.  And sometimes I can’t pseudo breathe.  Sometimes I want to scream in my room at night, when I’m alone.  Although I’m never alone at night because I have this bitchy roommate. I roomed blind, and that’s why you should never do that.  It’s a crapshoot.  I guess I don’t have good luck.

Sometimes I think I’m so insecure I’m insecure about what I’m insecure about.  Well first of all I’m not sure I know anything.  I’m serious, what do I know?  What do I not know, that’s the real question.

I’m only freshman so what can I really know?

I barely know how to get to my classes, much less how to pass them.  I’m taking Statistics which is really boring and confusing.  I really like my Biology for Non-Science Majors class; I find it so interesting. My English class is pretty decent.

I’m waiting, waiting for my life to actually start.   I wish people would stop taking away my Zen.  It’s like they are chasing after it; they want to kill it. And I don’t even know if I have a proper Zen state of mind anyways.  How would I know?  I’m only a freshman.

Stockwell, the dorm I’m in, is an all women’s dorm.  They call it the Virgin Vault.  You hear stories.  There was a woman who went insane in the “pot smoking hall” and was found in a puddle of her own feces.  I don’t want to think about that.


Let me tell you my roommate is no virgin.  Her boyfriend spent the night in our room, and we have a bunk bed.  The bed moved one too many times for my taste, so I went home that weekend.  I don’t like her.

I sit next to Sarita in the cafeteria.  We have been friends since seventh grade.  If anyone really knows me it’s Sarita.  I notice that she has washed her curly hair.

“What up dawg?” she asks me.  Yes we talk like this.

“Not much freak show,” I reply and sit down next to her.  My green tray is full of pasta and waffles with maple syrup.  It’s brunch.  I know about the freshman fifteen, but I don’t care because I’m not fat.

“Alright can we get through one meal without you saying his name?” Sarita asks.  I think that’s an unfair request.  She’s referring to Sonny, the guy I’m in love with.

“But I have to tell you how he hasn’t called,” I protest.

Sarita lifts her hand in front of my face.  “Talk to the hand.”

“I mean do you think he’s gonna call?  Ever?”  I ask and take a bite of my waffle.  Breakfast first then lunch.

Sarita shakes her head at me sideways, neither a yes or no.  Typical, Sarita can’t make a decision to save her life.  And I can’t get over a guy who refuses to acknowledge there must be something between us.

I leave lunch after I finish both the huge waffle and a bowl of bowtie pasta that is overcooked.  I feel a little bit like throwing up.  I have a friend who is bulimic; I never went that route.  Not because I’m noble, but because I could never make myself throw up.  I’m lying on the top bunk of my bunk bed in my room.  My roommate is thankfully not around.

The phone rings.  “Hello,” I answer after jumping off my bed to try to get it on time.

“Hey” he says.  It’s him.  “I’ve left messages for you with your roommate, how come you never call?”

Oh My God that bitch!  Oh My God, this wonderful man is calling me. “Hey,” I say a little nervously.  “I never got your messages.”


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