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At the conclusion of the 2000 Kentucky Derby, I sat in the infield amongst the rowdy, drunken masses, hoping for a glance at newly crowned champion Fusiachi Pegasus. In the chaos, I lost my buddies and found myself alone. As I searched for my friends, I was stopped by an attractive older woman, in a traditionally garish hat, her eyes slightly shut, her breath heavy with the scent of Mint Julips. “You’re not Irish!” she cried, pointing at my t-shirt, which requested a kiss on just those grounds. Perhaps my golden brown skin gave it away. “True,” I replied, “but I am Punjabi…that’s got to count for something.” Her eyes widened, and when she grinned widely, she looked a lot less attractive, and quite a bit more frightening. “Oh it does…more than you know.” To say my flirting had backfired was understating it. I learned a valuable lesson that day. A mention of your Punjabi nature guarantees a lot of deep-fried Southern lovin’.
- Anuj
