“Indian guys in the States,” Millie explained. “They’re the sickest perverts. They spend all day in the lab, then they spend all night on the Indian marriage sites. They’re so fucking horny, they invent computer problems just so they can be patched through to Bangalore and talk to an Indian girl. They don’t know we have their name and credit history and previous calls on our screen as soon as they call in.”
– Bharati Mukherjee, Miss New India, p.92
Ha ha ha, what the fuck was all that nonsense (above)?
And y’all believe the drivel that Indian guys in the U.S. are so priapically desperate for the desi choots back home that they call tech support to speak to a Meenakshi Iyengar pretending to be Mandy Smith from Fremont, CA or Chandra Singh from Patiala feigning an American accent and calling herself Cindy McAuliffe from Nashville, TN.
God, who’d have thought the Bong babe Bharati Mukherjee, still a sexy, hot-looking babe at 71, would be so high on weed that she’d fling such bilge at readers!
Blame it all on the lax California pot laws and the unanticipated effects they have!
After all these years in the U.S. and countless hours of idle banter with our fellow desis here, all we can say is that Indian guys here have only one idee fixe – how to move their brown hockey stick into a White girl’s goalpost.
The Indian obsession with White pussy is a strange beast that can easily be explained (yes, most Indians are racist and abhor Blacks).
For desis, the draw of the White gals is likely a combination of color, well-endowed assets of the girls nourished on a lot of milk and cheese and the allure and mystique of a White pussy (more so, if it sports a blonde beard).
A Sikh friend was drooling as he described the process and culmination of dribbling his way into a White goalpost as the highest of all heavens.
And here comes this Bengali babe Bharati Mukherjee telling us that our Indian guys are so desperate for desi choots that they call home to hear a stranger’s voice.
Bharati – Old Acquaintance
As best as we can remember, we first made our acquaintance with Indian-American writer Bharati Mukherjee sometime in the 1980s.
Those days, we still called that Incredible Shithole home.
We had a Loose Paiya Tamil Iyengar friend who purchased the book and lent it to us.
No idea what the book was titled but we vaguely remember not being disappointed with the book.
Time passed and we relegated Bharati to the category of forgotten acquaintances.
She gathered dust in the far recesses of our brain.
Well, the other day as we were idling browsing through the collection in New Books shelf of our local library, who should we stumble upon?
Yes, Ms. Mukherjee again.
And her new work – Miss New India stared at us with a plaintive look pleading with us to take it home.
That we did.
And gave all 328 pages a good reading.
We were not enamored of the book.
One would expect a 71-year-babe with decades of writing behind her to produce a better work.
The book details the story of Anjali aka Angie, a girl from Gauripur, a small town in Bihar who moves to Bangalore to make a career in the call-center business.
Miss New India started off all right.
Gauripur kinda seemed like an interesting place. The small town, Anjali’s family, Peter and his lover all seemed to have a verisimilitude that had us engaged.
It’s only after Anjali arrives in Bangalore that the book became a caricature.
Sure, Bangalore has changed. Which big city in India hasn’t.
But to make Bangalore seem like it’s a transplant from some weird unrecognizable alien civilization robs the book of any charm.
Given what we know of our people, we also found the gay romance between Peter and Ali as well as the ‘adoption’ bit on the last page unconvincing.
In our not-so-humble opinion, Miss New India is a waste of time.