There remains a near-extinct species within the South Asian diaspora, one whose plight is rarely championed in the world forums of… wherever such plights are usually championed. Nary a petition, protest, or celebrity-heavy concert exists in its honor; social activists have long neglected this woeful cause. As you sit there reading mindless blogs, this dying breed is gradually being wiped out thanks to the introduction of humidity, Bollywood actresses, and blow dryers.

We are the few. The proud. The curly-haired.

People tend to associate me with a variety of attributes — some favorable, others not so much. My friends will tell you I’m a fast-talking, sarcasm-spewing, NYC-loving, car-dancing, fob-tastic, junk-food devouring magazine addict. Or they’ll just tell you I’m “that girl with the curly hair.”

But here’s a little secret: I’m actually a relatively recent inductee to the Curly Girls Club. I spent the first 19 years of my life in far-from-blissful coiffure oblivion, glumly resigning myself to the fact that all that lay north of my forehead was a landscape of dry, frizzy, untamed black wilderness. There was no shape, no style, no control — and certainly no indication of the signature spiral ringlets that would eventually become an intrinsic part of my identity.

I didn’t even know I had curls until someone told me I did.

How is that possible, you ask? With me, anything is possible. Refusing to allow it to command free reign over my crown, I confined my unwieldy mane to a ponytail for years. Then one Sunday afternoon during my freshman year of college, I stepped out of the shower and my life changed forever. My curly-haired roommate Mel glanced over her shoulder at my wet mop and remarked casually, “Why don’t you put some gel in it and see what it does?”

What “it” did, to my amazement, was reveal a mass of thick, glossy curls. I’d spent so much time willing my hair to be Pantene-Pro-V straight that this other alternative had never occurred to me. Suddenly my hair had personality — and I had to keep up.

As much as I loved my newfound crowning glory, however, it was hard not to be seduced by the straightening iron. I hit up the local Asian salon every few weeks to have my wild tresses coerced into sleek Aishwarya-like glossiness, and I walk the streets feeling, well, kinda hot. I stand a little taller. I toss my shiny new locks over my shoulders. I run my fingers through my mane — something I dare not do when curly. And the response is overwhelming: “Wow, you look so great!” “I didn’t even recognize you!” “Oh my God, why don’t you do this more often?” Apparently I develop a “straight-hair” persona — OK, fine, an attitude. During these identity crises, I often consider getting it done permanently, swallowing my curly-haired pride to admit that perhaps God intended for me to be the straight-haired version, and the curls were just a big cosmic joke.

But at the end of the day, I like that my hair makes me unique. In a desi-girl lineup, these inimitable ringlets make sure I stand out — something to keep in mind before I commit any crimes, I suppose. And while curly girls can go straight, the reverse isn’t quite as simple. There’s something to be said for the dramatic effect of my curly-straight duality.

So it looks like my tribe of curly girls isn’t going to die out anytime soon. We’re just adapting to our surroundings.

Cab Culture 101

On the streets of Manhattan, visitors are easily detected by the manner in which they struggle to hail taxis: their I-Heart-NY-bag-laden arms flail wildly from the safety of the sidewalk as they direct shrill screeches of “Tax-EE! Tax-EE!” toward any yellow vehicles in the general vicinity—completely oblivious to the sacred code embedded within the rooftop lights.

Resident New Yorkers, on the other hand, remain calm, burying their hands warmly in their pockets until the perfect cab is spotted from afar: the one with the solitary middle light, a twinkling beacon indicating its availability in a sea of taken or inconveniently off-duty rides. They’ll descend upon the asphalt at just the right time, casually salute the driver, and steal the coveted cab from right beneath the tourists’ frostbitten noses.

Then in true cabbie form, the driver will hurl his car into the maze of rowdy vehicles without bothering to see if his passenger is securely ensconced within its interior, leaving him to possibly lose a digit or two. In NYC, that’s what we call karma.

New York’s concrete jungle is populated with creatures unique to the island—umbrella sellers, I-bankers, homeless men attired in saran wrap. But the yellow cab is the one beast that reigns supreme over this urban animal kingdom, preying ruthlessly on all its inhabitants.

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Bolly Good?

“So, your last name’s Khan, huh?” a guy at work randomly asks one day. We’ve always smiled and waved in the hallways, but until this particular summer afternoon, our congenial interactions haven’t really progressed beyond assessments of the weather and mutual despondency over shared cases of the Monday blues. “That’s Indian, right? Like Shah Rukh?”

Ummm, say what? Before I know it, Colin, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, rugby-shirt-clad chap — who’d fit in more at a polo match in the Hamptons than in line for the latest masala offering from India’s moviemaking capital — is extolling the musical merits of the chartbuster “Rock ’n’ Roll Sohniye” and professing his love for Rani Mukherjee.

The secret’s out. Looks like Bollywood ain’t just your ammi’s cup of chai these days.

Today, Aishwarya Rai flutters her lashes in L’Oréal commercials, Stephen Colbert consults a bhangrometer before settling major disputes, dhol beats reverberate from speakers at mainstream clubs, America’s Next Top Model stages elaborate Indian-inspired photo shoots, and Shakira gyrates those infamous hips in an all-out Bollywood tamasha at the MTV VMAs.

But what about us who’ve grown up with Bollywood? Our hips have been telling the truth for years. Just ask Helen or Madhuri.

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Every species has its natural rival. Cats have mice. Wolves prey upon deer. Zebras are hunted by lions. Mailmen are weary of dogs.

Sarah Khan’s arch nemesis? The water bottle.

Possibly the result of a widespread conspiracy, water bottles strongly object to be opened by me. I twist, I turn, I grunt, I moan, I beseech the higher powers, but the stubborn containers responsible for my despair sit there, poker-faced, taunting me with their obstinacy. Dasani, Aquafina, Evian, Fiji, Poland Springs—they’re all in it together. I once spent an entire evening engaging in combat with a bottle of Gatorade, attacking it with pliers and stabbing holes in its cap with a knife, all to no avail. Eventually, my rather diminutive roommate came home and effortlessly unscrewed the top, all the while chattering about her day. I like to think I’d loosened it for her, of course.

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Check this column out in the new issue of Divanee magazine

Balle Balle on a Thursday Thursday

I admit it: Back in college, I was a dancing queen — desi style, that is. I choreographed the all-girls dance three years in a row, performed a mean “Bole Churiya,” and twirled my way through an entire dizzying garba. So armed with a resume of bona fide Bollywood-bootyshaking credentials, I decided to give the ammi of all desi dance forms a try—which is why I’m here today, standing in front of the New York Sports Club on 40th Street, heading into a bhangra workout class.

Everywhere you look, India is in vogue, and judging by the scores of non-desis lining up for Bollywood films, chicken tikka masala, and eyebrow threading, Sarina Jain knew what she was doing when she fused one of America’s biggest obsessions (fitness) with one of India’s (bhangra, oy hoy!) to start the Masala Bhangra phenomenon nearly a decade ago. Since then, thousands of uncoordinated white folks have bought her hugely successful workout videos and gone on to “screw lightbulbs,” “raise the roof,” and “scatter seeds” in their own clumsy interpretations of Punjab’s harvest dance. If they can do it, so can I!, I decided eagerly, and now I’m about to take a crack at a dance created by a race characterized by the robust masculinity of its people… even the women. Who cares if I’m petite and fragile and no more virile than Elton John? Bhangra doesn’t stand a chance against these hips. Brruah it on!

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Armed with a healthy measure of Beantown-inspired nostalgia, my remote, and clearly, some good fortune, I surfed my way onto HBO just as Fever Pitch was starting.

The opening bars of “Dirty Water” accessorized the shots of Copley Square, the Charles River, the Citgo sign, and – of course – Fenway Park that flickered across the screen, and my homesick heart was content at last. “Well I love that dirty water… Boston you’re my home!”

For the most part, I’m not too concerned with athletics. Athletes, sure. Athletics themselves, not so much. I follow BC basketball and football, and I like March Madness and the Super Bowl just like anyone else (that might have more to do with the pools and the parties, but that’s neither here nor there). But baseball never fails to amaze me with its singular faculty for putting innocent victims (er, fans) to sleep with monotonous displays of athletic lethargy.

Maybe I can hold my gender accountable for my apathy. Dave Barry – who you may be familiar with as my hero – said it best: “If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving infant’s life, she will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there is a man on base.” I am perhaps just that callous a woman.

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My brother and sister-in-law recently moved to New York, and my bro’s on this “I want to do all things New York-y” kick. For some people that would involve visits to Central Park, the Statue of Liberty, Coney Island, and Carnegie Deli; for my brother, that means making pilgrimages to talk shows.

Last week I made the rounds with him as he paid his respects at Late Night with Conan O’Brien and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I had my own reasons to join him in the long lines: Conan’s from my ’hood (Boston), and Jon’s my future husband. But the real appeal (apart from taking my relationship with Jon to the next level – that is, having him maybe become alerted to the possibility of my existence) was the lure of seeing some serious celebrities. Many of the greatest talents of cinema, music, politics, and idiocy have graced these very stages; who knew who I might be fortunate enough to exchange recycled oxygen with in two surprisingly cramped studios?

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You haven’t really bonded with your girls until you’ve spent 15 minutes trying to help your best friend out of her pants.

Over the years, we’ve all spent thousands of dollars on events. Tickets to grant us admission to concerts and conventions and galas galore. Flights to send us to the destinations where we can put these tickets to use. Cabs to ferry us to and from venues. Outfits to reduce or add curves, as and when necessary.

But at the end of the day, what do you remember most from the long weekend you wasted in some godforsaken suburb of Atlanta attending the wedding of the neighbor of your third cousin twice removed? Probably the mad dash you made through the hotel lobby in your sweats when you rolled in from the salon just as the guests started arriving.

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(* With all due respect to the wonderful folks at the Lemelson-MIT Program and their annual Invention Index.)

If you’re reading my blog, it’s probably because you check in with stalkerish dedication each day, eager to partake in my wisdom on, well, everything. Or you’re my mom. (Hi, Mom!) Lucky for you, bsk fan(s), today I’ll share with you my opinions on the world’s greatest inventions. (My blog does not count as an invention, but how sweet of you to suggest it.) After an extensive survey of myself, I present to you my useful findings in the form of this, the antithesis of my earlier Useless Blog.

Floss Sticks – There are few positions in life more awkward than the one millions of people find themselves in each morning when they stumble to the bathroom, still groggy and bleary-eyed, proceeding to force their jaws into ungainly angles, haplessly struggling to maneuver a slippery strand of string in between teeth they could have sworn weren’t there the previous morning. With floss sticks you can easily eliminate this dental dilemma while absentmindedly checking your e-mail — so you have no excuse for icky teeth! However, this means I must now find something else to blame my utter unkissableness on.

Keys – If we didn’t have these, robbers would have it way too easy. And then keeping them locked up in jail thereafter would prove to be quite the challenge.

Shoelaces – Oh sure, you dismiss this as just another one of my quirky idiosyncrasies. But envision with me, if you will, a world without shoelaces. Floppy sneakers that soar off your feet and decapitate the poor running enthusiast on the neighboring treadmill. Gladiators so preoccupied with how to fasten their sandals around their calves that they forget to not be eaten by lions. Baseball players still rounding third base when their shoes sail home. Pole-vaulters’ sneakers going airborne well before they themselves do. Bowling shoes racing down lanes in hot pursuit of the bowling balls. If all you’re thinking right now is What about Velcro or loafers, you tool, then go find another blog. And an imagination, while you’re at it.

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[Manhattan, as seen poorly photographed from my helicopter ride]

Quoting Sex and the City is the easy way to pretend you’re profound yet hip. Pensive but worldly. A complexly sexy intellectual; a modern woman deeply attuned to the rhetoric of our times. I’m generally of the opinion that writers who wish to be taken seriously on the basis of their own merit should avoid making a habit of quoting Sex and the City. But to hell with the rules. Sometimes that show is just so on point.

“If you only get one great love, then New York may just be mine… and I can’t have nobody talkin’ sh*t about my boyfriend.”

My love affair with New York began back in college, with a road trip to the city to protest the impending war in Iraq. I slept on the floor of a cramped NYU dorm, the weather never rose above a not-so-toasty 15 degrees, we walked about 350 miles, my nose ran for the entire duration, and I subsisted on a diet of bagels and hot chocolate. I was cold, miserable, and dressed like a scrub for three days straight – and somewhere along the way, I fell wildly in love. Given my somewhat unsavory appearance that weekend, I suppose it’s no huge surprise that the Big Apple took so long to reciprocate.

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