FATHER

As I ride the elevator, I plan on Indian food.  Please, let it be the father selling, that son is so rude.
Man in front of me is white.  Rumor has it he was married to an Indian, still likes Indian food.  The son is very friendly with him, the two chatting sports.
Son's look turns to total disdain, "yes, madam?"
"Tandoori chicken please."
As he fills my order, he smirks, "gotta stop buying.  Cooking skills'll get rusty.  Never find you a husband."
Father brings a tray from the back, "leave her alone.  Polite with the paying customers, you hear."
"Dad, mind your own business.  This one is a fraud.  Passing herself off as a real Indian.  For shame.  Look at that face.  Is that a real Indian?"
"This isn't a modeling agency for Bollywood movies, it's a food court."
As I sit, I ponder.  Come on I'm Indira Persaud.  From Guyana.  How much more Indian can you get?
Coffee break I prefer going outside.  But this is Canada, it is winter, and today the wind chill is savage, almost in scientific notation.  So I opt for the Revenue Canada employee lunchroom.  I pick up a copy of Chatelaine magazine from the reading rack.  Hey I'll get a chance to find out how many fashion sins I am committing.  I sit in an easy chair, right next to a tall divider.  Other side has tables and chairs.
I groan inwardly as I hear who's arriving.  Those four awful Arab-looking girls.  The ringleader, a 5'9" goddess who always speaks as if she is 30 seconds away from an orgasm, says, "so, anyone get a load of what the stinky little Pak is wearing?"
Another guffaws, "be more specific, you just described 50 of our staff."
"Don't be a wiseacre. You know which one, the 4'10" wonder in Error Corrections Unit.  The one who dresses likes she's auditioning for a bit part in "Gone with the Wind"."
"Oh, that one.  That green floral dress bin outa style for 150 years, maybe more."
It has not, I think acidly, stylish in Guyana, maybe not here though.
"So, why on earth we wasting our time on trash like that?  Why not talk dope, guys, clothes, parties?"
Yeah, good question.  Why do they waste their precious break time on ME?
The ringleader's voice elevates 10 decibels, "look moron, I don't really give a hoot in blazes how she dresses.  Her funeral if she wants to dress like that, never find her a guy.  But I tell you, I just cannot abide a phony like that.  She makes me wanna barf."
"Phony?  Whaddya mean?"
"Little Miss Ankle Length Dress is always parading herself around with that purest of the pure Indian act.  But look at that face.  Yeah, I grant you, it's the Indian shade of black hair and yes the nose is pure classic Indian.  Rest of the face, whaddya see?"
"Uh yeah, now you mention.  Afghan blood in her."
"See what I mean.  Now all them self-righteous hypercultural Bollywooders walk around acting like they're sooo much better than us."
"Yeah, well nuff of her.  Let's talk weekend."
End of my break, I exit through the door on the easy chair side, so they won't see me.  I stand in front of the bathroom mirror.  Nah, no way, just ain't so.  Well, maybe so.  See my face, lot rounder than most Guyanese.  In fact, I am considered ugly back in Guyana because of it.
Now my mother was such a forbidding sort you just never dared ask her a question on anything.  All she said about father was, "dead, child, Starship officer, ship blew up in the big battle near Zeltar Five."
It's time to go to the university library, do some research.  Saturday morning, I stop off in a coffee house, buy an espresso and take a window seat.  Four older, Arab-looking, professor-looking women sit next to me.  One is unabashedly staring at me.  Another says, "enough Sonali, leave her alone."
Sonali stands, takes my face in her hand, gently turns it to and fro. "Now girls, ignore the nose, look very carefully at the rest of the face.  Who do you see?"
Gasp, "spitting image of Admiral Damani.  His flagship bought the farm.  Rest of the fleet did ok."
Sonali smiles to me, "when you're done the espresso, you come with me.  I'll show you around the materials of the time."