The Occupation Preoccupation

By Sandhya G. Ganti

I dissolutely admit that veracious men with mediocre vocations make great friends but it’s those carnivorous corporate men with hefty expense accounts that somehow get my hormones raging.

 

I was sitting at a swanky bar, sipping a divine Cosmopolitan and waiting for my jappy girlfriend Fifi. The Chanel "allure" seemed to be working because my $20 bill was returned by the bartender who pointed to the gentleman across the bar who had covered my tab. Since these new age acts of chivalry are usually the modus operandi of Danny Devito lookalikes, I warily looked across the bar and almost passed out. Clad in a well tailored suit and nonchalantly sipping a martini, sat an almost attractive desi man. I smiled in acknowledgment and resumed reading Bridget Jones diary, an affirmation of the fact that I am not an aberration but part of an elite cluster of single women who choose to inhabit cities teeming with commitmentphobic men.

A few minutes later cool desi guy strolled over and draped himself awkwardly on the bar stool next to mine. Feeling obligated to start the conversation, I huskily whispered "thanks for the Cosmo." With a wave of his hand he said "mention not," and suddenly the debonair stud was replaced by a gaping geek and I wished he hadn’t walked over and shattered my illusion. I had barely recovered when he went on to the favorite desi opening line, "what do you do?". Completely turned off by now, I told him I frequent bars around the city looking for a husband!

"No really, please tell me so we can talk about work," he persisted and went on to tell me he worked on the technical support team of a major brokerage firm. Completely bored by this socially inept dude with the occupation preoccupation, bragging about his rather stodgy job in the world of corporate glamor, I was looking to bail out when thankfully, Fifi walked in.

As I look back, I was probably still in fetal mode when the cardinal rules of success were drilled into me. It’s what you do and not who you are that matters and only careers that involve some combination of mathematics and science ensure a niche in society. Acquaintances were to be judiciously sifted and friendship was encouraged with individuals headed towards engineering or medicine, because we all know that anatomy and aeronautics build character. Sandi, a nurse I work with, told me about a little Indian girl in her second grade class who walked around with a paper so all the kids could indicate their parental professions. She then received patriarchal permission to pursue kinship with offspring of creditable lineage!

I’m mortified when mother chooses to introduce me to all and sundry as her foreign returned doctor daughter. I visited my friend Asif at his uppercrusty French investment bank last week, when head honcho Pierre walked in. "My friend Dr. Ganti, sir" he murmured, hoping to distract Pierre’s close scrutiny of my boobs, enhanced by an Ungaro halter, but the doctoral title was lost on the big boy as he lecherously continued camaraderie with my chest.

At a recent bash at a Soho lounge, I mooched an intoxicating clove flavored cigarette off a desi dude in retro clothes, flashing a rather nerdy village look. The act of lighting my smoke was accompanied by the standard vocational query. "I work mostly nights and weekends and get paid by the hour" was my unfeigned reply. Baffled, he valiantly guessed I was either a security guard or a hooker. Intrigued but too nonplused to continue the rhetoric, he abandoned me. I bumped into him at Envy a few weeks ago, when his new found affinity seemed undoubtedly related to a divulgence of my noble trade by a common buddy.

Is occupation the clincher for successful mating among desis I wonder. Aliya, a trendy chick just out of design school, thinks that once you get past the sinewy body and tony rags, he better be cerebrally propelled. Seema, a perky physician, avers that all initial encounters should include occupational details, which would help determine potential trysts that would fit into his budgetary confines. Anita, an attorney, begs to differ and vows there’s no greater turn on than discovering that the brawny man who you hitherto treated like a piece of meat actually has a double digit IQ. Still we all agree that the years of parental brainwashing has left an indelible mark on our psyches and we are cursed to judge men by their money-making potential.

Do desi boys only want chicks with bods or does brilliance aid arousal. Sunny, a horny trader, says bimbos are good for nights when the Dow Jones plunges, but it’s the elusive beautiful brainiac he’s biding his time for. Neil, model turned businessman, admits to deficiencies in the cranial compartment and prefers babes with less lofty ambitions. Asif, the dashing banker, says successful desi chicks have an air of confidence that’s appealing and they tend to be more creative in private settings. Most of the desi boys fessed up to bringing up occupation rather early in potentially amorous settings as an objective indicator to gauge personality.

I’m sipping cappuccino at Dtut, an eastside cafe, and pondering over this culturally ingrained preoccupation. I wonder if I can ever dissociate the person from the profession. I dissolutely admit that veracious men with mediocre vocations make great friends but it’s those carnivorous corporate men with hefty expense accounts that somehow get my hormones raging.