Random thoughts

Yet another cliched Mastercard moment

2007-09-11T05:43:00.000-04:00

Working 15 hours straight, every single day, 7 days in a row, month after month.

Exhausting.

Being too tired to carry-on with social niceties and being labeled a social recluse.

Inevitable.

Realizing that being on-call every Holiday and every long weekend in the coming year.

Sucks.

Having a dream and believing in it.

Hard.

Keeping the faith when all hope is lost.

Harder still.

Living your dream every single second........ Priceless.

P.S. Having no time to blog, sad.

Realizing the dwindling number of footsteps treading the blog, sadder.

Discovering there are still some ever-hopeful souls who visit the blog, amusing.

Dear Blog,

2007-07-23T06:00:00.000-04:00

My deepest apologies for having been gone without a trace for all this time.

And may be this does not come as too much of a surprise to you. I know I have been playing this love-hate relationship with you for quite a while now. I post in a frenzy. Then I get depressed. Or stressed. Or both. And ignore you for a bit. And then I bounce back in a flurry of apologies and hope to be received with wide open arms.

So here I am. Yet again. Hoping to be welcomed back.

And to be honest with you a great deal has been going on with my life lately and someday I will sit down and tell you all about it. Someday when I have the time.

In short, I am back. From a quick trip to Calcutta.
And I changed my career path. Yet again.
And no time or energy to blog. So you will have to be patient.

But do you believe in Miracles?
I do.

Hang in there. I'll be back.

~M

Give the Spouse a Break

2007-06-01T06:59:00.000-04:00

Is it just me or has anyone else ever wondered why we need to celebrate every Mom and Dad on the face of the Earth on Mother's Day or Father's Day, irrespective of who's Mom/ Dad they might be? I mean I do understand the purpose behind celebrating 'Motherhood' or 'Fatherhood' and I am totally with you on the fact that we should celebrate our folks for everything that they have done for us and keep on doing whether we want them or not. But what I don't get is why I need to celebrate someone else's Mom/ Dad considering that I have my own set of parents or in-laws to take care of anyway?

You know what I mean, right? Take for example this Mother's Day that we had a couple of weeks back. I was talking to my cousin who said he was taking 3 generations of 'Moms' out for dinner. His own Mom, his Grandmother, and his wife. And this was after he had got each one of those Moms a present. And I was left wondering what the poor guy had done to deserve this. Shouldn't someone else be taking care of the other 'Moms'? I understand that they are all related, but shouldn't his 'Wife' who is most definitely not his 'Mom' be getting the cards and presents and dinners from someone else? Her own children for example? Yes, yes, I know they are still children and cannot afford to go to a store and buy things for her. Yet. Because they are only babies. But how does that transfer the responsibility on to the Dad who ends up footing the bill for the next 15- 16 years until the kids grow up and earn enough dough to buy Mom a present?

Am I the only one who thinks this is unfair? I mean 'Dad' already buys 'Mom' a present for her birthday. And then there is this other day earmarked to celebrate the spouse bit. That's called an 'Anniversary'. So there's enough celebration already. Why does anyone need another day that requires you to buy gifts and cards on behalf of some underage offspring for the next 20 years or so until the kid grows up and assumes responsibility?

I think the people who have newly acquired the roles of Mom/ Dad need to realize that they have to wait a reasonable amount of time until their offspring is at an age where he/ she realizes how important the parents are and can work enough to celebrate Mother's day/ Father's day. And that they should not be laying guilt trips on their spouses to buy them the Every Kiss begins with Kay pendant or the 18 volt Hitachi DS18DMR cordless drill. And that if they need any celebration from their kids they should brainwash their kids to get self sufficient as early as possible. Drill it into their tiny little toddler heads that Mom/ Dad is very important and that they need to find a way of earning money to go buy them a present that says how much they love their folks. Because that's the only way Mom/ Dad will be able to tell that they mean so much to their kids.

Coming to think of it I think that is a brilliant idea. Not only will we have more motivated kids earning their keep by mowing the lawn and doing chores and working at MacDonalds, but it takes the pressure off the spouse while teaching the kids that it is not okay to sit around and have Mom/ Dad do all the 'celebration' that they were supposed to be doing in the first place. And it also teaches the Moms/ Dads that they need to live through years of Motherhood/ Fatherhood, survive endless diapers, sleepless nights, constant attention seeking, rowdy and out of control behavior, tantrums and all the other shit that comes with having kids before they are allowed to have a day earmarked to celebrate everything that they have endured and lived through.

Becoming a parent is the easy part. It is being a parent which calls for special skills. And I think everyone needs to earn the right to celebrate being a parent through years of patience and endurance.

Post Script: For my Bong readers/ if you're interested in reading a post laden heavy with Bengali and sepia tinted memories of Calcutta, you could also check my other post on the Calcutta Blog (which by the way was badly in need of a new post).

The Power of Zero: Give or Take a Few

2007-05-16T11:22:00.000-04:00

I've never been good at numbers. Especially those which have a long trail of zeros running after them trying to keep pace.
I can count up to 10 on my fingers. And I believe I can count up to 1000 in my mind. But anything beyond that, you lose me.

Which is probably why I just don't get these numbers and how on earth they are supposed to make sense.

This is what we are spending for ~~the War for Oil~~ the War in Iraq.
And then, this is what we are spending for making the Nation free from the suffering and death due to Cancer by 2015.

500 Billion for a War. 5 Billion for Cancer Research. What's the difference? Just a few zeros trying to keep pace.

Didn't I tell you that you'd lose me after 1000?

The Rope Question

2007-05-10T14:27:00.000-04:00

A long time back a friend had posed this question:

"You have a tennis ball and the earth. You have two ropes. 

One rope ties the tennis ball along its surface. It fits exactly. 

The other rope does the same to the earth,

i.e. exactly covers the circumference of the earth.

You now increase the length of each rope by 1 inch.

Form a circle with each rope covering the tennis ball and the earth
respectively.

Is the distance between the tennis ball and its new circle greater
than that between the earth and its new circle?"

She was looking for the logic and not the Math.

Now since neither my logic nor my Math skills are anything to talk home about, I turned to someone who might have done justice to the problem.

This is the answer I got back:

"Is this a trick question?

If it were, I would ask,

1) What kind of a rope was used, i.e. what was the modulus of elasticity? Did you twist the rope during the process?

2) What was the tension in the rope while it was stretched?

3) What were the temperatures during the experiments?

4) What is the coefficient of thermal expansion, in case there was a temperature variation?

5) How fast was the measurement done? (may become important if we are thinking in speeds near that of the light)

6) The question that has always haunted me since childhood.....how can you tie a knot (to add that 1 inch) without altering the original length?

(That will be close to Heisenberg’s heart too.)

7) Question 6 alone can generate a whole set of debate, like how tight was the knot?

( I won't even get into the uncertainty in measurements!)

8) If you asked my Graduate school advisor he'd ask, "Did you repeat the experiment?"

9) My present boss would ask: "Did you write that up?"

(Just in case you didn't know what writing up is all about, it refers to writing up a US patent)

10) And his boss would suggest," Sign an NDA (non disclosure agreement) before you answer the question!"

11) The Corporate VP would ask, "Can we get the problem solved in China?"

12) Tom Skilling would ask, "Was there a Jet stream in the upper atmosphere pushing the rope?"

13) Dubya Bush would say " Are you sure it is not an act of terrorism?"

14) My Dad who loves a gourmet meal and is a secret poet at heart would ask, " May I hope, to eat the rope?"

15) My health freak brother would say, " Jump the rope 20 min a day to get rid of the extra calories."

16) My sister who is always looking for an excuse to scold me will say, " Who asked you to get in to such a mess with ropes!"

17) My Mom who spent her entire trip to the US trying to find a way to wash and dry her sarees would ask, "Can we dry our laundry on that rope?"

18) And last, my wife who is forever trying to stock up on things will say, " Can we have another rope? Then we can do the experiment with one and keep the other in stock just in case we need it later."

Thanks for asking. Hopefully I answered your question."

Needless to say I was left speechless.

*I'd like to thank AB for the question and AR for sending me the reply.

The Measure of Success

2007-05-01T10:22:00.000-04:00

How do you measure Success?

Do you look at people who are considered successful and see how you measure up against them?
Or do you set your own standard and see how you measure up against yourself?
Or do you let someone else decide for you? Let some stranger tell you if you are successful. Or will be successful. Ever.

"Don't ever let someone tell you, you can't do something."

"You got a dream, you gotta protect it. People can't do something themselves, they wanna tell you that you can't do it. You want something? Go get it. Period." ~ The Pursuit of Happyness

Period.

When it hits closer to home

2007-04-17T07:55:00.000-04:00

Couple of months back we visited this idyllic college campus, a peaceful small University town, nestled in the beautiful Shenandoah valley. We loved the campus and talked about how laid back life must be if one was a graduate student there. We met some students and professors in the Engineering department. And we thought it was one of the nicest places to send one's kids to college if one lived in the DC Metro area.

And then, this horrific thing happens.

As I watched the tragic news unfold on TV in utter shock and disbelief, trying to come to terms with what happened and why, and figuring out if all the people we know who go to Virginia Tech are okay, I couldn't help but feel a strong sense of helpless anger at the people who put guns into the hands of crazy, mentally unstable people, capable of such barbaric acts of violence. And deep inside I know inspite of all the outcry and media attention, this too shall pass and people will forget and move on. And we'll still be able to go out to a store and purchase a gun to go kill a few more innocent kids in school. It makes me sick.

For the people of Blacksburg, VA and the students and faculty at Virginia Tech, for the ones who lost a child or a friend or a classmate, for the ones who will be scarred forever with the images of the massacre, my thoughts and prayers are with you.

Update: A very nice post that echoes my thoughts can be found here.

What else are we missing?

2007-04-11T15:29:00.000-04:00

Okay I know you are a little surprised to see a new post so soon after my last one. In fact the truth be told, I'm a little surprised myself. I mean, I did say that my blog posts would be few and far between. And that wasn't so long back, was it? But then again, I said a lot of other things that I had a hard time to adhere to. Therefore, you cannot hold me to that.

Anyway the reason for this rather hurried post was this article that I read in the Washington Post in the morning (Hat tip: Mohit). The first time I read it, I went through the whole thing at an incredible speed, devouring every word in absolute disbelief. It seemed preposterous that something like this could happen. In the heart of D.C. During rush hour with hundreds of thousands of morning commuters filing past him. I was shocked to say the least.

To quote bits from the article that caught my attention:

It was not until six minutes into the performance that someone actually stood against a wall, and listened. Things never got much better. In the three-quarters of an hour that Joshua Bell played, seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and take in the performance, at least for a minute. Twenty-seven gave money, most of them on the run -- for a total of $32 and change. That leaves the 1,070 people who hurried by, oblivious, many only three feet away, few even turning to look.

"At a music hall, I'll get upset if someone coughs or if someone's cellphone goes off. But here, my expectations quickly diminished. I started to appreciate any acknowledgment, even a slight glance up. I was oddly grateful when someone threw in a dollar instead of change."

This is from a man whose talents can command $1,000 a minute.

"The awkward times," he calls them. It's what happens right after each piece ends: nothing. The music stops. The same people who hadn't noticed him playing don't notice that he has finished. No applause, no acknowledgment. So Bell just saws out a small, nervous chord -- the embarrassed musician's equivalent of, "Er, okay, moving right along . . ." -- and begins the next piece.

And the interesting bit:

There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.

And the reason?

People just said they were busy, had other things on their mind. Some who were on cellphones spoke louder as they passed Bell, to compete with that infernal racket.

"Couple of years ago, a homeless guy died right there. He just lay down there and died. The police came, an ambulance came, and no one even stopped to see or slowed down to look.
People walk up the escalator, they look straight ahead. Mind your own business, eyes forward. Everyone is stressed. Do you know what I mean?"

The conclusion:

We're busy. Americans have been busy, as a people, since at least 1831, when a young French sociologist named Alexis de Tocqueville visited the States and found himself impressed, bemused and slightly dismayed at the degree to which people were driven, to the exclusion of everything else, by hard work and the accumulation of wealth.

Poignance:

If we can't take the time out of our lives to stay a moment and listen to one of the best musicians on Earth play some of the best music ever written; if the surge of modern life so overpowers us that we are deaf and blind to something like that -- then what else are we missing?

I have since gone back and re-read the article atleast five times. Poring over each word. Checking out the video clips. Watching the way people were reacting. And asking myself the million dollar question. What if I had been there? I have passed the station a hundred times at least when I used to commute to work by the Metro. Would I have stopped in the middle of my mad morning rush when I heard a familiar tune? Would I have recognized my all time favorite artist even if it seemed like the most impossible thing in the world? Would I stand there in awe and disbelief and be able to talk to Joshua Bell? Up close and personal. Seems too good to be true. But it actually happened. And as I write this I am convinced that I would know him. Anywhere. Even in the middle of L' Enfant Plaza Metro station on a weekday morning.

But then again. We will never know, shall we?

"This part of my life is called"....

2007-04-09T09:51:00.000-04:00

....the pursuit of happiness.

Couldn't be more true for me.

And if you haven't seen it yet, please do.

"And it was at that time that I thought about Thomas Jefferson writing that Declaration of Independence.
Him saying that we have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
And I thought about how he knew to put the 'pursuit' in there, like no one can actually have happiness. We can only pursue it."

Makes you think.

Dear Mummy,

2007-04-02T07:50:00.000-04:00

For as long as I can remember I always wanted to look exactly like you. I hated it when people said that I looked like Daddy. Daddy was short and dark. I didn't want to be short and dark. I wanted to be tall and fair and pretty. Just like you. And I also wanted to be strong and efficient. Just like you. But I fell short in most every way.

And I don't think I've ever told you how much I have wanted to be like you. And that I think of you often. And although I never tell you how much I love you and miss you, I hope that in your heart you know that. And how much I've always wanted to be like you.
Just like you.

From my treasure-chest of memories:

I am 3 years old. I'm playing on the kitchen floor with my brightly colored pieces of Lego. And you are at the kitchen counter making a trifle for dessert. I hold out my hand and you give me some of those edible sprinkles that you use to decorate the trifle. You keep the little bottle in a drawer that is way out of my reach. I love eating trifle.

It is my first day in school. I watch you leave and I start crying. Your heart is breaking to walk away while I stand there at the window sobbing.

Daddy is taking me to school. You wrap up two chocolate cookies for me in a tissue to take with me. I fall down a slope on my way to the car. You watch me fall from the kitchen window and come running. You wipe away my tears and kiss the pain away.

We are going out. You dress me up in a dress with white frills and red polka dots. You make me wear red socks and I hate it. I still have a photo from that day.

We are out shopping and I am tired. I ask you to carry me in your arms. You say 'no'. You tell me that I am a big girl now and you cannot carry me any more. I wish that I had not grown.

I am studying in the evening. You sit with me, helping me when I get stuck. It is a hot, sticky summer evening and there is a cool breeze coming in through the open window. A cockroach comes flying in and I scream. You scream too. We both run away. We find Daddy to kill the cockroach.

I just come back from a Math test and give you my question paper with my answers written next to each problem. You find out that I made silly mistakes. You are devastated and you cry. I promise myself that I would never ever make you cry again.

I come home from an Art class and show you tubes of water color that I took from another girl because I did not like crayons and wanted to do water colors like the big girls. You scold me and tell me that I cannot just take something from someone because that is called stealing. And if I ever want something I should just ask you. You get me a whole box full of Camel water color tubes. I just fall in love with painting.

We get off a tram and you realize that the person behind you just pinched your purse. You confront the person and demand that she return the purse. The person freaks out and runs through heavy traffic and boards a running bus. We cannot chase her. You lose your purse. But I think you are the bravest person to go up and confront someone like that.

I have a science project at school. You show me how to sketch. You show me your old lab notebooks. With diagrams that you did when you went to school. I think it is the neatest and most beautiful lab notebook that I had ever seen. I try to draw like you. I even try to write like you. You have the most beautiful handwriting. You tell me you learnt it by trying to copy Dadu.

You learn how to drive. So you can drive Dadubhai to work every morning. And drop me off at school too. We stop at a railroad crossing everyday and I laugh when the car rolls backwards on the slope. You tell me that it stresses you out everyday to get over that slope.

We are in a boat in Nepal. The person who is rowing the boat is about 6 years old. You are scared to death. You don't know how to swim. You are convinced that the boat will sink and you will drown. Daddy takes a picture. We still laugh about how scared you looked that day.

You tell me about growing up. About adolescence, puberty and sex. I listen wide-eyed and decide that it will be our little secret. When friends talk about sex I just listen and never tell anyone that I already know.

Daddy answers the phone. A guy is asking to speak to me. My first ever phone call from a guy. Daddy is confused and gives the phone to you. You say 'hello' and the guy hangs up. We laugh about how Daddy freaked out.

I tell you about all the guys who are after me. The ones who send me cards, the ones who hang around my school gate, the ones who follow me from tuition, the ones who call up and profess undying love. We talk about how silly guys are. I think you are totally cool.

We are in a bus and a strange man is trying to molest me. I tell you and you shout at the man and he is forced to get off the bus. I am so embarrassed that I wish I had not told you.

We are buying cards at the Archies gallery and you call me by my name from the other end of the store. I pretend not to hear you. You ask me what is wrong and I tell you never call me by my name in public because everyone turns around and stares. But you don't get it. Because you do the exact same thing another day. I give up trying to explain.

You want me to stop chewing on my nails. You tell me if I quit then you will buy me every single shade of nailpolish that is available on the market. I still haven't managed to stop biting my nails.

We are practising a duet. Tumi aamar Ma aar aami tomar meye originally sung by Sandhya Mukherjee and Srabanti Majumdar. You start crying as you sing it. I don't. Now, even thinking about the song makes me cry.
As does this song we learnt while we were in school.

You buy me dahi-phuchka from a stall in Deshapriya Park during Durga Puja. You tell me not to tell Daddy because he will eat you alive for having exposed me to a sure-shot case of cholera. I never tell him. I didn't get cholera.

I come back from a three week trip that I did with my Dad. You couldn't go because you had to take care of Dadubhai. I burst into tears when I see you at the airport. I missed you so much that I vow I'd never go on a trip without you. Ever again.

You never tell me that I have to top my class. You never tell me that I have to be a doctor or an engineer to be successful. You just tell me that I need to grow up and have a career. And be proud of what I do. I learnt that I got through the Medical Joint Entrance Examination the day you had your 25th wedding anniversary. You told me that it was the best present ever.

I tell you that I want to live together with my partner before I decide to get married. You ask me why. We talk about pre-marital sex and I think you are a little shocked. But you do not judge me or try to reason with me or tell me that I am wrong. You just tell me why you think the way you do and let me decide.

I tell you everything. Every little thing. You are my best friend. But I don't tell you about one thing. That I have fallen in love. And I lie to you for the first time to cover things up. And I keep on lying. Because it is easy. Because I don't want to share this secret with you. And I think we start moving apart. I think I am hurting you. But I am too self-engrossed, too blind to even realize that. You know I am lying. You know I am hiding things from you. You hurt. You feel alone. You cry yourself to sleep at night. You keep praying for me.

We talk about my relationship and where it is headed. I say things that I don't mean. I hurt you because I think you don't understand. You are no longer my friend. You are my mother. You are being judgemental. And I resent it. I make you cry.

And yet, through it all you keep on loving me. You keep on giving. As always. And after all these years I want to tell you that I am sorry. For hurting you. And that inspite of everything, I have always wanted to be exactly like you. And in my efforts I have realized that I can only try. But there will never be anyone quite like you.
I love you Mummy.

Happy Birthday!

"The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more"

2007-03-23T11:26:00.000-04:00

She is 3 years old. Sitting on her Daddy's knee while he sings to her one of her favorite songs. Dagor, dagor chokhey keno kajol dile.
She asks him, "Daddy do I have dagor dagor chokh?" He says yes.
And she believed him.

She is on a school trip to Chandipur. She holds hands with her best friend as they listen to Ali Haider's Purani jeans aur guitar for the first time.
And she still misses her friend when she hears the song.
Bas yaadein, yaadein, yaadein reh jaati hain
Kuchh chhoti, chhoti, baatein reh jaati hain
Bas yaadein..

She has just started college. She meets a guy with two major misconceptions. One, that he is in love with her. Second, that he is the next Kishore Kumar. He sings Hume tumse pyar kitna at a college fest.
She has disliked every song sung by Kishore ever since.

She is trying to pay attention in class. Her friend leans over and whispers, "Don't you think Diwana hua badal is the most romantic song ever?" She starts humming the song and agrees.
She still thinks so.

She is 21 years old. She thinks Bangla Adhunik is nyaka (pretentious) and Rabindrasangeet is ek gheye (boring). She drops by her friend's house and meets a bunch of guitar-strumming, convention-defying, jhola-carrying young guys who write their own songs, compose their own music and redefine the word 'style'.
Chura liya hain tumne jo dil ko. She is in love.

It is strange how we associate songs with specific memories. Certain places, special people, a specific moment in time.....all tied down to a particular melody, a tune, or a song. And how we always remember that person, the place, the moment, each time we hear the song. Good memories and the not-so-good ones. Happy memories and sad ones. Of days spent playing in the afternoon sun while the radio played on somewhere in the background. Of the whole family gathering around the TV to watch Chitrahaar. School days and college. Growing up and falling down. First crushes and crazy infatuations. Falling in love and getting heartbroken. Making new friends and losing some more. Rain drenched evenings and the heady smell of jasmine. Morning ragaas. Evening commutes. Darjeeling. Santiniketan. Moonlit nights. Prem (love), biroho (separation) and the whole nine yards. Memories. Nostalgia. And above all, of days gone by.

And talking about song related nostalgia, I'd like to direct you to two posts that echo similar sentiments. The first one was this post which I totally loved. Every song. Every phase in life. Every sweet memory. Beautifully captured. And then the more recent one that talks about the same music associated nostalgia.

And if you are looking for a scientific explanation you should read this.

Smile and the world smiles with you. Cry and you cry alone.

2007-03-19T09:34:00.000-04:00

I think grief is a very private emotion. Unlike most other basic human emotions which find comfort in expression. Like joy. Or happiness. Or good cheer. Which you can share. Spread around like some magical shimmering fairy light. Or say anger. And hatred. You let it out. Express your self and feel relieved. And then there is love. Which always needs to be expressed and shared for it to grow and bear fruit.

But grief is in a different league altogether. Because it cannot be shared. Or expressed. Or understood by anyone else. And you live it everyday. Through broken dreams and faltering faith. Through unshed tears and dying hope. And yet, I don't want your pity. Or words of comfort saying it will be alright. Which is why I want to be left alone in my grief.

Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.

Riding the waves

2007-02-27T13:44:00.000-05:00

Been struggling of late to come up with a brilliant post. Something that is profound. Or has a purpose. Meaningful. Insightful. Makes a statement. A Save the World kind of post. Or a Protect the Dolphins and Whales of the world post. Or make an appeal for saving endangered species. Educate, motivate, inspire. Do something good. Rescue an animal. Or help a friend. Something that makes me a little more human and a little less selfish.

Unfortunately I failed.

Miserably.

And although I can't write anything awe-inspiring, I came across a couple of really beautiful and touching posts.
This is the kind of stuff I wish I could write. And this is why she is and will always remain one of my favorite bloggers.
And then this one just made me want to run and grab my paint brush. And paint. The myriad hues of rain. And love.

And as I sit here waiting for that one moment of truth, when everything comes together in a flash of light and life can fall into place and everything works out the way I hope it will, I realize that in the meantime the only thing that I can actually do with any sort of authority, is write about me, myself and my life. And although I want this blog to have a little more meaning than being a record of my personal life, I have accepted the fact that I cannot find the pathway to inspiration where I can write something meaningful or profound. So what the hell!

And please don't say things like, "oh good to see you back". Don't. Because I'm not sure I was gone. Or even if I am back. Or whether I was missed. Or whether it matters that I am writing another meaningless post.

Life's a rollercoaster ride. And you hold on as tight as possible.

Confessions for the New Year

2007-01-04T12:30:00.000-05:00

They say a lot of things about a New Year. New beginnings. New hope. New resolutions.

A fresh new start.

And over the past weeks I have come to realize that this blog has long lost its purpose. Its meaning and what it had started out as. It has transcended from being a statement to being a personal journal. It started out as being my voice and ended up being my heart. And with the new year the winds have shifted and it is time to set sail in a new direction.

I wanted to thank each one of you who has taken the time to stop by my blog and read the crap I have been churning out week after week. It never fails to amaze me why anyone would do that. And still come back. Which is why I feel I owe each one of you an apology. And the reason why this blog still exists. I'd also want to thank you for including me in your blogroll and linking me. But at this point I'd also like to say that posts will be few and far between. So feel free to remove me from any of your links/ lists.

This is not saying that I am giving up blogging. But I am giving up blogging the way I have known it so far.

Happy New Year!

New beginnings. New hope.

A fresh new start.

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! Please?

2006-12-18T09:11:00.000-05:00

Come December and the holiday cheer descends upon us and everywhere you look there are people shopping, stores decked out with seasonal items, aisle after aisle of wreaths and Christmas trees and holiday trinkets and candy, houses twinkling with icicle lights, Christmas carols that haunt you long after you've turned the radio off, grocery stores that put out the turkey and the ham, the pie and the cake up front where you can't miss it, and a lot of smiles and good cheer and people in red sweaters.

But everytime I think of Christmas the first thing I picture is a lot of snow. I guess I can blame the stereotype that the media has plagued us with since we were kids. Even back in India the greeting cards featured snow laden roads and Santa's sleigh, mistletoe and a big snowman and kids in boots, cap and sweaters riding sleds on snowy terrain. So when I picture Christmas I always visualize snow and cold and mittens and boots, a warm fireplace, and subzero temperatures. And all the time I've been in the US I've never been disappointed. It always snows.

And then we have something like this. A whopping 70 degree Farenheit a week before Christmas. Bizarre to say the least.

And no, it doesn't feel like Christmas at all.

Crazy little thing called love

2006-12-12T08:02:00.000-05:00

You know you've been married for a while when.....

you meet your husband after a week and you notice lipstick on his collar. And you can joke about it.
you're having a romantic dinner and your husband is checking out other girls. And you are helping him do it.
you find it highly amusing when you see someone being overly affectionate in public with his spouse. And you assume it is not his wife.
you tell him to start using Rogaine and he tells you to buy some anti-wrinkle cream.
he forgets your anniversary. And you still forgive him.
he goes to the night club with a "hot" girl from work and you're not worried.
you don't rush to do your hair and put on make up just before he gets home but greet him in your PJs and oil in your hair.
he no longer finds your burnt dinners 'different but delicious'.
and when his idea of a romantic dinner is take-out chinese, you don't sulk simply because you are glad that you did not have to cook for that one night. Or do the dishes for that matter.

Marriage.

It changes you in more ways than you can imagine.

That's Amore

2006-12-08T06:52:00.000-05:00

You are....

the morning sun that streams through and lights up my world
the toothbrush sitting next to mine in a yellow cup
the damp towel flung carelessly across the bathroom floor
and the set of wet footprints leading away from the shower
the messed up closet, the misplaced comb
and the unfinished cup of coffee I find under the sofa
the milk in the cereal bowl that I finish up everyday
and the banana peel that sits on the counter for me to throw away
the hug and the kiss that rushes off to work
the missing car key that I look for each morning
the car at the stop sign that waits till I can catch up
the smile and the wave as I drive past
the concerned phone call that I get if I'm late reaching work
and the relief in the voice when I call every morning
the chocolate in my lunch box, the half eaten candy
the email that gets me smiling
the message that has me worrying
the reassurance that I look for
the call that has me waiting
the song that I am listening to while I'm driving back home
and the car that I keep seeing although I know it's not you
the smile that is waiting when I walk in through that door
the walk by the stream, the flower in my hair
the warm conversation
and the candle in my room
the take-me-out-to dinner
and the smile in my heart
the salad on the table and the mower in the yard
the treadmill in the basement
the toilet that needs fixing
the camera that takes my picture in a hundred different ways
the pictures on the wall that hang in a straight line
the matching cushion covers that lie on the floor
the wallet on the table that has my picture in it
and the carelessly tossed clothes strewn across the floor
the bottle of Jim Beam lying on the counter
the freshly cut amaryllis sitting on the table
the basil in the pasta, the extra spicy sauce
the package that gets delivered
and the surprise on my face
the hand that I'm holding when I walk down a narrow path
and the light that shines through when darkness engulfs
the hope that keeps burning
the answer to my prayers
the soft spot beside me where I can lay down to rest
the hope that keeps me going
and the words that warm my heart
the dreams I snuggle up to
and the last thoughts of the day

you're the
void in my heart right now
the tears in my eyes
the longing to be together
the missed heartbeat

and the one thing I want right now is for you to be back home where you belong.

Time in a Bottle

2006-12-06T07:33:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: This is a very soppy kind of post. So if you're not in the mood you'd be advised to skip it.

You've never been the one for overtly romantic gestures and whispering sweet nothings, yet you've never given me any reason to complain. We've never dated the way most people do, held hands under a table in the restaurant, snuggled in a dark movie theatre oblivious to what was going on screen, dedicated romantic songs to each other on a radio show, had the chocolate-flowers-Valentine's day card kind of romance. And yet, it still filled my heart. And my life. And you've taken me by the hand and walked me through life. Through all these years. And here we are, standing here, remembering the past with fondness and looking at the future wondering what it has in store.

And do you remember those heady days when we'd steal furtive glances across a crowded room and smile when we'd catch each other's eye? Or when we'd wait hours for that one phone call, unable to get anything else done? And write page after page of love-laced letters trying to express what was in the heart. And held hands. And loved. And felt like this was the most perfect thing in the world. And that the world was such a perfect place to live in.

That was then. And this is now.

And we've grown and matured with time. With years of being together and understanding each other. And now we know that the world is not such a perfect place. And that each day is more like a struggle. To get through. To survive and to live. And love is not about holding hands and sweet love letters. And days are more about bills and chores and getting things done. And they are a stream of fixing leaky sinks, working the yard, groceries and laundry and cleaning the house. And quality time is spent doing mundane things. And I have wondered if reality and married life can shove romance out of the window.

But then I just realized something. Love endures. Even in the everyday kind of life. In the morning cup of coffee. In hurried telephone conversations. Over paying the bills and rushing through the grocery store. Through sharing joy and wiping tears. In failures and venting frustration. In a hug. A smile. In our ordinary everyday life. And I realize it now more than anything because you are gone. And there's no joy in living the everyday kind of life. The coffee sits on the kitchen counter, untouched. Bills lay around, unpaid. Unwashed laundry piles up. The house needs cleaning. The bed needs to be made. Food needs to be cooked. And eaten. Life needs to be lived.

I miss the warmth of our mundane existence. I miss having you around.

"If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
'Til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day
Like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you" *

* Jim Croce 'Time in a Bottle'

A Dedication

2006-12-05T09:01:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it is hard to find words to say what you want to say. And sometimes, words are not enough to express the multitude of emotions that you may be feeling. But if I could for once make you understand, have you see and hear and feel, this is probably what I would be saying:

"I hope the days come easy and moments pass slow,
and each road leads you where you want to go,
and if you're faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.
And if one door opens to another door closed,
I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,
if it's cold outside, show the world the warmth of your smile,

But more than anything, more than anything,
My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more than you can hold,
and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish.

I hope you never look back, but you never forget,
all the ones who love you, and the place you left,
I hope you always forgive, and you never regret,
and you help somebody every chance you get,
Oh, you find God's grace, in every mistake,
and always give more than you take.

But More than anything, Yeah, more than anything,
My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more than you can hold,
and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish. Yeah.

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more than you can hold,
and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish. " *

* Rascal Flatts "My Wish"

Vacations, Stomach bugs and Wonder drugs

2006-11-28T04:13:00.000-05:00

Never thought I'd be blogging while on vacation. Which is why I explained my absence in the last post to quell queries about the lack of posts and my whereabouts. However things can change fast. Thanks to some unexpected circumstances a trip to one of the finest beaches got cancelled and left me stuck in a city for much longer than I had intended to stay. So while hubby dear goes about his business and I spend my days doing nothing much except staring and admiring the gazillion shops in this crazy city and browsing the internet. Which brings me to what I wanted to write about in the first place.

Okay so here I am in a foreign place, unfamiliar surroundings, being careful about what I eat and drink. Remember years of living in the US has robbed you of all your immunity, warned my Mom before I left for my vacation. So I tried to be careful. But looks like the US can really mess up your constitution and years of building a strong immunity through fighting all those Indian germs have deserted me completely in these few years. Within a week of landing in this South East Asian city, I get diarrhea. Now what is the big deal about diarrhea you ask. I mean I've had diarrhea before. And it's never been much of an issue. Lay off the spicy food, easy on milk products, plenty of fluids per mouth and it takes care of itself. Even the most watery and cramping kinds. So when I started frequenting the restroom a little too often I thought I just had to be a little careful and it would heal on its own. Except I was wrong.

As my Dad put it, I was fighting an Asian stomach bug and it required more effort than a fluid diet. On the second day of my diarrhea with no signs of improvement I realized that I needed to find a pharmacy and get some sort of medication. Unfamiliar with the kinds of drug one can find over the counter in this place I went to the drug store next to my Hotel and asked the lady to help. She pointed me to a shelf containing activated charcoal and smiled. I shook my head and said I needed something stronger. She says, "you need doctor". At this point I am still not sure whether one can get anti-diarrheal medicines over the counter. I ask her where I can find a doctor. She directs me to a clinic half a block down the road. I follow her instructions and go to the clinic only to find out that they do not see patients on weekends (yes, it was a Saturday) and I would have to go to the Hospital pharmacy to see what they could give me. Thankfully the Hospital was quite close, on the next street.

I go to the Hospital pharmacy which looked much better and well equipped than the one I had been to in the morning. I walk up to the Pharmacist and ask her if she could give me some anti-diarrheal medicine.

"Is it for you?" she asks.

I nod my head and say yes.

Then she asks me, "What medicine are you looking for?"

And I almost roll my eyes at the question. This was like being at a grocery store and being asked what kind of tomatoes I was looking for. What if I weren't a doctor and I had no clue. What am I supposed to say? What kind do you have available?

"Something like Lomotil or Imodium," I say with hope in my voice.

The girl looks at me and asks me, "What kind of diarrhea are you having?"

The unwanted kind. The bad kind. The kind that is killing me. I try not to sound irritated as I tell her "watery diarrhea".

"How many times have you gone since morning?"

"I lost count."

"More than five?" she asks.

I nod. She then asks me about signs for dysentery, dehydration and infection. And I shake my head saying "no" to everything.

But she suddenly decides that I look pale, with sunken eyes, dry parched lips and tongue and says, "You are having mild dehydration and you have to go see a doctor. You need intestinal antibiotics which require a prescription."

At this point I am really feeling tired and exhausted and cursing myself for not travelling with anti-diarrheal medicines. I ask her where I can find a doctor and she says I need to go register at the front desk and they would help. Except by the time I figure out where I had to go register I was told that doctors were gone for the day and that I needed to go to the Emergency room. Now I was really getting tired of the entire charade. I just had diarrhea and there was no way I was going to go sit in the ER for half a day for something so trivial.

So I march back to the Hospital pharmacy and this time get to talk to the senior Pharmacist. I tell her that I needed some anti-diarrheal medicine and that I was taking plenty of fluids and assured her that I did not have dehydration and that I would see a doctor on Monday if she would just oblige and help me for now. I guess something touched her. And she took out a pack of Imodium and hands it over to me. I could have hugged her with joy. She gives me the usual warnings that come with taking the medicine and I walk out of the pharmacy feeling victorious.

It took almost 48 hours for the medication to kick in, check my diarrhea and regain my appetite. But it worked and I am glad. And I'm never stepping out of known territory without an array of medication that I may need. Which my Mom still cannot believe that I actually did.

Doesn't matter where you are going you always take an emergency supply of medicines. And this is Asia for crying out loud!

Yes, now I know. The hard way.

But the good news is I'm back on my feet and ready to tackle the next culinary delight. Right on!

You can tell that you are obsessed about blogging.....

2006-11-23T00:30:00.000-05:00

.....when you have to check your blog from half-way across the globe!

Okay, I am out of the country and will be unable to blog until the first week of December. My vanity has been forcing me to believe that my absence was noted and I was being missed. Hence the update......

Thanks to anyone who has checked in on me. And I'll be back soon.

The unheard

2006-11-13T11:42:00.000-05:00

Some things are better left unsaid. Because you fear that it may change when you put them into words. Someone once told me that walls have ears. But what about the words that form inside your mind? Can the walls hear those too? Would someone be able to enter that much guarded space of your mind and look into your thoughts, your emotions, your innermost feelings and steal them from you? The way you feel, the way your felt, the tears, the smiles, the insecurities, the reassurance, the anticipation, the relief. What you see, what you know, what you believe in.

Love is beautiful.

And yeah, somethings are better left unsaid.

Time and Distance

2006-11-09T10:52:00.000-05:00

How far can one travel in 23 hours?

Halfway across the world. That is what I've been told.
I would think that it would make you come a full circle. Back home. To me.

Just so you know

2006-11-02T09:44:00.000-05:00

You think that you know him better than me, understand his needs more than anyone else. AndI know that we've never had this conversation before..... but there are some things that I would like you to know. Like the way I met him, bonded with him. The way things used to be.

Like a whiff of fresh air he came into my life. And suddenly there was a whole new meaning to everything around me. As I held him, gently caressed the soft skin, watched him sleep, for nights on end, rocked him in my arms when he woke up, sang him sweet lullabies and watched him dream, it felt like there could be nothing quite as beautiful as that little baby in my arms. The countless nights that I stayed up to feed him, nurse him, comfort him, the endless days that I fed and bathed and took care of him, watching him grow and smile and take his first wobbly steps. I held his hand as he went to school, full of apprehension and fear of the unknown. I sat with him every single day as he learnt his tables, recited his rhymes, read his book. I took him to the playground every afternoon and watched him run and play and fall and get hurt. I wiped away his tears and dressed his wounds, I read him stories of Kings and little Princes and watched his eyes light up with joy, I waited for him to get home from school, run through that door and call out to me, impatient to tell me about how well he did in class, what he had learnt in school that day. I made him his favorite food and watched him gulp it down in a rush to be able to go out and play.I washed his clothes and saw him get mud and dirt all over his starched pants. And I listened to his dreams and what he wanted to do in life. I watched him grow and take his first steps. Into the world. And out of mine.

The first time I saw you with him I knew I had lost him. The look in his eyes as he talked about you, the way he smiled and watched you as you spoke, the way he held your hand, the love in his eye, told me everything. And that moment I knew he had found someone to spend the rest of his life with. And I had spent so many hours praying that he finds you someday, yet suddenly I felt empty. And alone. Like the whole world was closing in on me. And I wept. Because I was so happy for him. And the two of you. And it was so hard to let go. He was my baby after all. The most important person in the world to me. And I used to be his world once. His window into the world. And now suddenly everything was changed. He had found someone else to talk to, be with, share his innermost feelings, his dreams. His life. And I was left standing on the outside. Just clutching on to memories. My memories.

And please don't get me wrong. I love you too. I love you for loving him. Taking care of him. My baby. I see the two of you together lost in your world, making plans, building your future. And it fills my heart with love and pride. I see the love in his eye when he talks about you, tells me everything that you do for him, and how you make his life complete. And I pray that his happiness lasts a lifetime. And that all his dreams may come true. I see the passion in him as he explains some math problem to you or the fervour when he explains the workings of finance or engineering or something else that has him fascinated....and I remember a time not so long back when he would do the same to me as I tried my best to keep up with his zest and enthusiasm. But looks like I have fallen back. Unable to keep up with his pace. And now he has found you. To walk with him every step of the way. As I sit back here and watch him walk. Away from me. A step further away with every passing day.

And I keep trying in my own way to make him happy, keep him smiling. The way it used to be. To have his eyes light up when I make his favorite food, or have him smile when I buy him something that he wants, a hug that means the world to me, words that I hang on to reassure myself that he is still my baby. And I hurt when he says he'd rather have you do things for him. I hurt when he turns to you instinctively when he needs something. I hurt because he does not need me anymore. To baby him.

And I live in my memories. Of how it felt to hold him for the first time, have him smile at me, or call me 'Ma', the first steps, the first days of school when I cried everytime I left him there, the way he laughed, or cried, his success and his failures, his happiness and his sadness, the way he bought something for me with his first paycheck, the way he would throw his arms around me and tell me that I was the best Mom in the world. And I wish him well and always pray for his happiness. And sometimes you may think I am being unreasonable. But always know that he is my baby. And this is the love from a mother's heart.

Rated R for content

2006-10-26T10:16:00.000-04:00

One of the biggest worries I had about watching TV as a child was the sudden, unexpected, never-discussed, so-called taboo things that would pop up and be the cause of much embarrassment to myself as well as my parents. You know what I'm talking about. Those ubiquitous ads on condoms and birth control pills and sanitary napkins that we all knew existed but would refrain from making it a topic of discussion at the dinner table. The things that would make me turn red in the face and wish I could be in another room instantly. And may be my parents felt the same way but we'd all sit there staring at the TV screen and pretending it was just another ad for light bulbs or Titan watches. And then once it was over everyone would start talking about something totally irrelevant.

And the way we would react was partly determined by the stage in our life when we were exposed to these things. For example there is the not-knowing-anything-innocent-kid stage. Like my cousin who at the age of 7 took a particular fancy to the jingle of a Mala-D advertisement, that required exercising a totalitarian sisterly rule to keep him from constantly breaking out into Zara si sabdhani zindagi bhar aasani. That was followed by the not-so-sure-but-bet-it's-naughty stage, where one had the strongest desire to probe and ask questions but knew better than ask the parents. Which meant a lot of speculations and discussions in school about certain ads that one wasn't really sure of. And that of course provided the basis for a whole bunch of secrets that we were willing to carry to our graves than ask the parents for a clearer picture. And then just like that we knew. About puberty, boys and yes, sex. And suddenly everything made sense. And thus provided new room for embarrassment. Because now not only did you know what the ads were trying to tell you, everyone in the room knew that you knew. And that led to a lot of delicate moments while watching the Saturday night movie on Doordarshan.

And the same went for movies. Well when we were kids it was restricted to the ones from Hollywood. I would dread the moment when the hero would start kissing the heroine. Because we all knew what would happen next. The couple would end up in bed. So first there was the stage when even a kiss could cause mild discomfiture. And that also included the old classic kiss, the hard and long smack on the lips, no groping or tongue action kind. But those were the really old movies and the hero and heroine would continue their activities someplace other than in front of the camera and would not cause too much of a problem for me. But then the stars started getting bolder. And the kisses started getting more explorative. And they'd always show the couple between the sheets the next morning. And sometimes also show a little skin. Now that is what we started calling the "love scene" or "bed scene". And boy did that cause problems. For the kids, as well as the parents. As we all pretended that we did not notice or realize what was happening. So I tried my utmost to stay away from watching a Hollywood movie with the family. Just to be on the safe side. Hindi movies were fine. Because the most anyone would do was run around trees and sing and dance and maybe hold hands. Until that changed too. The heroines started getting bolder, the hero did not think twice about grabbing and kissing the heroine in full view of the camera and then horror of horrors they even put in "bed scenes". So it was curtains for watching movies with the family. Any movie!

So was I glad when I moved out of parental control. I can watch anything I want. Any movie. As much TV as I want. Without the squirming and discomfort and the fear of being embarrassed. And that feels great. However I still have to be a little careful about picking movies when the folks come visiting. Because although the ratings on the movie are for people to decide whether their kids can watch a particular movie, for me it is the decision of whether my parents are allowed to watch the movie with me.

For the ones

2006-10-24T10:40:00.000-04:00

It is Bhai Phonta today. I went back and read this and ended up feeling nostalgic. Because that is what Bhai phonta is all about. Family.

So to all my brothers: the ones that are far away and the ones that are close by, the ones that I grew up with and the ones that I found, the ones that I love and miss and the ones who miss me, the ones I fight with and the ones who still love me, the ones who stand by me and the ones I can lean on, the ones who make me feel special and important and ones who I can depend on.
Here's wishing you a lifetime of happiness, good health and fulfilment.

Thank you for making my life so complete!

The trauma of shoe shopping

2006-10-17T11:28:00.000-04:00

Someone once said shoes are like comfort food to a woman. Shoe shopping can be emotionally satisfying, psychologically therapeutic, self uplifting, mood elevating and can even improve your sex-life. Or so I have been told. And although I could never hold a candle to Claire or Carrie, needless to mention Imelda Marcos, there was a time, back in India, when I would go shopping just to find the perfect pair of shoes. And yes, it was everything shoe shopping is made out to be.

That is.....until I came to the US. Yeah I know you noticed it too. In fact I put that last sentence in there on purpose. Just to grab your attention. We try every trick to get our readers to keep reading till the end of the post. But I digress.

The truth is I have stopped looking at shoe shopping as emotional therapy and psychological healing. Instead shoe shopping has been extremely traumatic everytime I have gone to buy a pair of shoes in the US. Did you ask why? Well try buying shoes for a size 5 when the only women's sizes available are between sizes 6-11. And if you check that link for international shoe size conversions you'll see US shoe size 5 is probably the smallest women's size available. And assuming that most American women have feet that are comparable to their physical proportion, there doesn't seem to be a demand for small shoe sizes and therefore most stores don't even bother to carry a size 5! Which can lead to a great deal of frustration and aching legs when you have to go from store to store only to realize that there isn't anything available. That is, if you are considering a pair that can be distinguished from one of those horrendous contraptions that Miss Marple would find "sensible". So with my limited options when it comes to a "selection" while buying shoes, it is quite apparent why shoe shopping has taken on such traumatic proportions in my life. For the most part I am asked to try the girl's section which of course has it's range of Mary Jane's and sugar pink sneakers. But what if you have outgrown them and need something with a wee bit more sophistication than a Mad Tea Party? What is a girl to do?

Which is why I can never be a Carrie Bradshaw. Which is why I hate shoe shopping. Which is why shoes can never be my best friend anymore. Atleast diamonds don't need sizes. Or do they? Come to think of it I've never been able to find a ring that fits me either! But then, that's another post.

Even Cowboys cry, sometimes

2006-10-11T15:15:00.000-04:00

Does being romantic come in the way of being macho? I've always wondered how a guy knows where to draw the line.

When I go to buy a card and read all the mushy things that Hallmark has to say it touches a chord within. Like all the things I want to say, wish I could say being handed to me on a platter....er... a card. And yes, I totally love receiving those wordy-feely-drippy cards myself. And I can't for my life understand why it is embarrasing for guys to buy cards like that. Don't they realize that buying a card like that will earn you points, no matter what?

And all those things that guys dismiss as being cheesy, soppy, schmaltzy, and mushy, like flowers and chocolates and candle-lit dinners and gondola rides and kissing under the mistletoe, seem like reasonably romantic gestures to me. And I'm not saying that guys don't do all of that. Some of them actually do. But they make it out to be such a task, like it was something they wouldn't have done under normal circumstances. Or so they brag to their "men" friends. Because it is not considered "macho"?

I love watching hopeless romantic movies and I will sit and cry my eyes out when Cary Grant finds out why Deborah Kerr did not meet him on top of the Empire State Building in An Affair to Remember, or when Clark Gable kisses Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind or when Richard Gere comes riding the limosine waving a bouquet for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman or that scene from A Walk in the Clouds or When Harry met Sally or that last scene in Ghost. I cry because I am happy that there is so much love around. Love makes me cry. Yeah, I am kind of crazy that way. And I just cannot picture a guy sitting around and watching those movies with me. And wiping tears of joy. Or even appreciating the fact that it is all so beautiful. Guys just laugh, smirk, call it a "chick-flick" and walk away. Leaving you with a box of tissues and a runny nose.

Okay so guys draw the line when it comes to being soppy and emotional. But when that translates into being romantic what is a guy to do? How would a guy know why the arrogance and pride of Mr. Darcy appeals to so many women if he has dismissed Austen's Pride and Prejudice as chick lit? Or why Edward Lewis (Richard Gere) of Pretty Woman appealed to millions of females across the globe in spite of his character's infidelity and sleeping with a 'hooker'. And why Bryan Adam's (Everything I do) I DoIt For You broke all pop chart records. Guys will never get it, will they?

A pity. Because I would find a guy macho even if he shed a few tears and held my hand during a movie. Okay may be not tears, but handing me a tissue would be nice. And then decided to buy me a present for no reason at all. And no, an oil change gift certificate from Jiffy Lube does not count. Perfume, lingerie or chocolate would be nice, thank you. Perfumed candles, bath oils, a dozen roses....bring 'em on. And I think a guy going down on one knee with a ring in his hand is mighty sexy. But that's just me. And I'm a woman. And that doesn't count, does it?

On blogging

2006-10-11T12:10:00.000-04:00

Why do you blog? What does blogging mean to you? These are questions that have been posed a number of times over the past year that I have been treading the world of blogs or the blogosphere, as it has been termed. And before you misunderstand I would like to emphasize that these are not red carpet questions and that I am not a celebrity by any accounts. Just that as more and more people are being introduced to blogging and are displaying mild curiosity and even interest in some cases as to the purpose of maintaining a web-log (blog), I feel bloggers owe it to their readers to explain why week after week, post after post, they inflict such torture upon the poor souls who come visit their blogs.

Why do I blog? Well at the onset it seemed like a novel thing to do. Something to keep up with the times. Something that everyone was doing. To be trendy. To be hip. To be heard. It was the desire to say something meaningful, support a cause, protest against something else, and establish kinship among like-minded individuals. Where else would I find total strangers quote Yeats in response to my blogger name? Where would I find support, advice and goodwill from strangers across the globe willing to spend a few minutes of their day reading what I have to say? It is an amazing potpourri of thoughts, words, feelings, expression, opinions all coming together on the web. And to be a part of that movement feels quite uplifting.

With time blogging has started taking on newer meanings for me. It is like having an extended family of readers who keep coming back to read, to comment and to make themselves heard. Every post is like a conversation, a discussion, a time frame that I can revisit over and over again. Before I started blogging I secretly harbored the desire to be a writer. I guess there’s a little voice inside all of us that wants to be heard. And like most people that little voice thought the world needed to know what it had to say. And so I started blogging. When I blog it is like entering a world of my own, a world that I can paint in any hue, write about things that I believe in, and hope somewhere someone finds a reason to read it. The very same reason that I am searching for when I browse the internet to read other blogs. To find a kindred spirit. A connection. A reason to rejoice in someone’s joy, or share the pain, even if it is someone whom you will likely never meet. I blog to deal with my own frustrations, get over my bouts of depression, and stand up for what I believe in. I can share my thoughts with ease because it is easier to be open to strangers than it is with people who know you. Blogging brings us together. From far away places. A melting pot of myriad cultures, beliefs, expression. A place to connect and to learn and find a niche for that little voice within.

I blog because I enjoy blogging.

Bong men can't cook (unless they get married)

2006-10-05T07:49:00.000-04:00

Okay the title of this post is an invitation for trouble. But before any of you fly off your handle and start protesting violently do read through this post and give me a fair hearing.

I was talking to someone the other day who was trying to tell me about his culinary prowess. Now the fact that this person was male, unmarried and a bongoshontan* made it a little hard for me to believe that he could and would be able to rustle up a meal. The truth of the matter is almost every single unmarried Bong** guy I have come across seems unwilling to spend time in the kitchen unless there is a dire emergency. And by that I mean either severe gastric pangs. Or a girl-pataoing, impression creating, show-off involved. Outside of those circumstances I refuse to believe a Bong guy will toil for hours in the kitchen preparing ras malai and palak paneer.

I know you will toss statistics around about how most of the famous chefs are male and how men are passionate about their skill and do it out of the sheer love of cooking, unlike women who do it because historically speaking they have always been expected to prepare the food. And then we have people like Gordon Ramsay who go around spreading stories like this. And I am not denying any of that. It could very well be true. I am talking about a completely different genre here. And that is Bong men. And yes, I am stereotyping. And generalizing. Because every single Bong guy I have seen has never willingly tread the culinary path. And I think I even the know the reason for such apathy. It's the Bong women!

You see right from the beginning the little Bong guy is taught that cooking is a woman's forte and the kitchen is Mom's domain. A haven where men do not trespass. So the Bong Mom cooks and cleans and spends hours inside the kitchen while the menfolk get fed and coddled and protected from any sort of culinary exposure. Take for example my Dad. A typical Bong male who went from the pampered preserve of my Grandmother's sanctuary straight into the one prepared by my Mom. I have never seen my Dad fetch a glass of water for himself, let alone getting his own food. Yes, that is how mollycoddled he has been. And the strange thing is no one in my family finds it unusual. And we have a long line of culinary-dysfunctional males in the family. Every uncle, every cousin, every single male member has never had to cook or work in the kitchen. Ever.

So I know what you are saying at this point. That it is a problem in my family. A strange familial malfunction. But the fact is I have seen this same problem in almost all Bong male friends. Take P for example. All his life P has never had to fend for himself because Momma always took care of him. And then P decided to step out of his known territory. He came to the US for higher education. And P learnt that Momma wasn't around to prepare food anymore. So what would any normal person do in this case? They'd learn to cook and feed himself, right? But not P. He found a place where they sold Indian food and started having lunch and dinner over there. And P was quite proud of his ability to prepare the occasional Ramen noodles (if you can call that preparing). And it was exactly the same for A and S and D and AD. Eat out every day and have instant noodles when they were in a "cooking" sort of mood. That is until they got married. A-ha! You did notice that this entire generalization was against the unmarried kind (save the exceptions from another generation like my Dad).

Once these malfunctioning men get married things start changing. A little. They start learning new things. That the kitchen is not meant for the woman alone. And that a little help goes a long way (and I will refrain from elaborating here). And that cooking isn't all that difficult to begin with. And may be once in a while it can even be fun. So they start with cutting and slicing and doing the dishes to watching the milk so that it doesn't boil over and move on to more technically challenging things like following a recipe and preparing food. I have seen a newly wed Bong guy trying to impress the missus with an "apple" curry where he chopped up potatoes and apples (for the lack of any other available vegetable) and got dinner together before his wife came home from work. Needless to say the wife was very specific about the kind of help she desired the next time she asked him to cook anything. But Bong men learn fast. And one guy who tried to substitute cooking oil with cream cheese, cooked chicken in it and ended up with a charred, half-cooked mess that no one would eat, can now boast of making the best chinese food this side of the Atlantic.

So what is it about marriage that makes the guy want to wear the apron? Is it the desire to help the wife with household chores? Is it a new-found interest that they inherit along with the wedding band? Is it the fact that they have a person who will endure all culinary experiments and appreciate every effort? Or is the desire to survive the "unable to cook" reputation that is almost as unpalatable as the one with Bong nicknames.

So please bear with me while I wipe away tears of laughter when I hear an unmarried Bong guy say he makes the best Biriyani and Chicken chaap.

* bongoshontan son of Bengal
** Bong Bengali

Happiness comes in small packages

2006-10-02T12:24:00.000-04:00

They say music unites.

And it does. Across age and generation gaps, across religion, across continents and great divides. You gave me more than one reason to be proud of you.
Cactus rocks!

Shubho Bijoya......

Two reasons for happiness this Monday morning:

This mention, that would have gone unnoticed unless pointed out by him and him.

And, this (tip: Bongopondit). I always knew it would happen. But never realized how good it would feel.

Update: Continued from the last link, more can be found here.

Pujoy chai notun juto *

2006-09-27T11:33:00.000-04:00

"Sasthi te ekta notun jama porish ontoto"**, my Mom tells me over the phone. And like always I assure her that I will. And even though I do not have the five days of Pujo to adorn myself in new sarees and jewellery, I will still wear a new t-shirt over my old and faded jeans when I go to work tomorrow. After all it is Sasthi. The first day of Pujo.

And much has been said about Pujo. The concept of Pujo, Pujo in Calcutta, Pujo overseas (probasi Pujo), missing Pujo, adapting to Pujo abroad, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And this year I wanted to make it a point not to lament about not being able to be in Calcutta during Pujo. Because over the years it is a fact that I have accepted. And honestly, I am in much better shape now than I was, when I first came to the US and had my first ever Pujo away from Kolkata. Back then one had to scour the internet for one brief image of Pujo back home. And now you do a search on google for Durga pujo and you can come up with a zillion links complete with images of pandals and Thakur and the latest information from Calcutta. If the internet has made the world smaller, then it has brought Pujo right to my doorstep.

So what do I miss so much about Pujo? The much anticipated dressing up in new clothes bit. The pre-Pujo excitement of shopping for clothes, for shoes that match the clothes, for jewellery that accessorize the outfit, hours of beating the crowds, braving the heat and the humidity, in the endless search for that elusive unique dress. When I was a kid we used to have our clothes tailored a month in advance. I remember those days when we would pour over catalogs picking out a style, a particular dress that caught our fancy and get the tailor to whip up something similar. Then there would be a day set out for fitting and trial, to have last minute adjustments, a nip here and a tuck there. And every year there would be a new fashion. If this year dhoti salwars were the rage, then the following year drain pipe churidars would reign. It was a constant dilemma trying to decide whether the dupatta would hang down the side over one shoulder or whether to have it draped across the nape of the neck. Whether the length of the kameez should come down to below the knees or stay halfway across the thigh. If ankle boots were cool or slingbacks were cooler. Whether we should get jewellery that was terracotta or ones that were oxidized metal. So much to choose from. And such important life decisions. Because there lay a thin line between being cool and being an outcast. And nobody wanted to tread the path of the uncool.

So we fretted and fumed and spent hours deciding, laying out outfits, planning out each day to the last detail. I would pick clothes based on what I had planned for the day. A day spent with friends walking from one pandal to the next across a few hundred miles meant comfortable shoes. So high heels have to wait for the day I spend sitting it out in Maddox square checking out other people. But then again, cannot get my heels all messed up in the mud that will be there in the park after a thunderstorm that almost washes out plans for the Pujo. Okay so the heels have to wait for the day when I go out for dinner with the folks. And then of course there is always the last minute change in plans. When your friend tells you that she will be wearing a saree for Ashtami's anjali, you have to cajole Mom into letting you wear her laal paar tangail so that you can be all grown up too.

Yeah, I miss all that action. The ladies fighting each other at Manohar trying to get their saree blouses ready before Pujo, people stomping over each other as they try to grab the tangail from Basak, the Puja sales and the mad shopping. I miss having ten different outfits to choose from. I miss having to decide between shoes and accessories. I miss having a hundred different things to do and a million places to go to during Pujo. I miss being in Calcutta during Pujo.

So now I make my own Pujo. There's no mad scramble for the perfect outfit, no crazy shopping, no interest in keeping up with the fashion. And I don't need a Hum Aapke Hain Kaun blouse to make it big on Ashtami evening. And I don't need to worry about my hemline. I can get by with what I have. But I still fret over what to wear on the two days that we celebrate Pujo in the US. I still lay out all the sarees that I have as I try to decide between the blue Baluchari, the red Bomkai and the golden Kanjivaram. And I love spending hours trying to accessorize with the right jewellery. Because dressing up and feeling good is such an integral part of Pujo. And I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Sharad Shubhechha to everyone out there!

* Want new shoes for Pujo
** Atleast wear a new dress for Sasthi

Fears revisited

2006-09-25T09:16:00.000-04:00

What does one think of in the minutes precceding a near death experience? When you suddenly see it all coming to an end. In a second. Do you see your life flash before your eyes? Remember your loved ones and what you are leaving behind and how much you wish you could have one last day to spend with them? Do you have regrets? Do you forgive and forget? Or do you go out at peace with love in your heart and a song on your lips?

I have wondered about this before and what people might be thinking of right before their car crashed into something.

Well.... now I actually know.

Update: Nobody was hurt and I'm doing fine. Just shaken up.

Overheard

2006-09-18T11:13:00.000-04:00

Mrs. Banerjee has recently returned to Calcutta after having spent a few months visiting her kids and grandkids who live in America. Her son who is an engineer is married with two kids and live in San Francisco. Her daughter who's been married a little over an year lives in New Jersey. On returning home Mrs Banerjee was asked by her friend and next door neighbor,

"So Didi, how did you like it there? How is Tukun? Is she liking her new life in the US? How is your new jamai*?"

"Oh Tukun is doing very well. Her husband Jayanto is such a nice boy. He does everything he can to help around the house . From groceries to cooking to doing the dishes and cleaning the house. He is so good with his hands. And he also takes her out every evening. Either to the Mall or for ice cream or a movie. Tukun just loves it over there. She lives like a queen. And why not? She deserves every bit of it. She is such a sweet kid. I couldn't be happier for her. Although her in laws are not very nice people. They are always asking Jayanto to send them money. And Jayanto's mother tries to make Tukun's life miserable. But Jayanto is an absolute gentleman and takes such good care of my daughter. "

"And what about your son? How is he doing? The kids must be growing up real fast!"

"Yeah, the kids are growing up and I miss them already. But my stay with them was such a miserable one I don't think I will go visit them the next time I go to America."

"Why is that Didi? What happened?"

"Oh don't even get me started on that. My daughter-in-law Rima is such a nasty person. She did not like my staying with them. She makes my Bubai work like a horse. She makes him do all the housework. As if Bubai didn't have enough things to take care of. He works so hard in his office all day. Then she makes him cook and clean and take care of the kids in the evening while she sits and watches TV. Such an irresponsible and scheming girl. Had I known I wouldn't have appoved the alliance in the first place. She will talk to her mother on the phone everyday and plot new ways to make Bubai miserable. She cannot cook at all. My son has lost so much weight. How can he stay well and work so hard if he doesn't get a nice homecooked meal? She comes home from work and orders take out. If you ask me she should stay at home and learn how to cook some rice and daal! And then she is so strict with the kids. I cannot even give them chocolate and sweets without her jumping down my throat and saying nasty things about making her children "hyper". I am sure she even takes them behind closed doors and hits them. Bubai is so scared of her that he cannot say anything. Who would have known that such a quiet and shy girl would transform into a shrew in seven years! I feel so sorry for Bubai who has to put up with her. And also with her mother. Did you know her mother is going to visit them end of this year? And that too for 4 whole months! Some people are so insensitive!"

* jamai: son-in-law

No more tags please

2006-09-15T08:48:00.000-04:00

Lately too many people have asked me to reveal myself. You know the name thing, who you are, what you do and things to that effect. I even got tagged for that picture tag that is going around (which I politely refused of course). Isn't it quite obvious that had I been remotely interested in going public I would have blogged under my real name? The mere fact that I don't have my name out there suggests that I am quite happy at maintaining my anonymity. Although with all the information I have poured into my blog over the past year or so, it might not be an impossibility to piece together my identity. But still I try my hardest to remain faceless. And so, let's just give it a rest, shall we?
Now I got this tag a while back from Brown Magic which I've been putting off for too long. So let's say we didn't have this issue of anonymity here. Here's my list of six bloggers that I have come to know through blogging that I would really be interested in meeting someday.

Priya: The one blogger I can relate to completely and feel like I can talk to forever. Where would we meet? Calcutta of course. In some place where we could talk for ages. Like the old Flury's they had on Park Street. Now most of my memories of Cal are old and faded and I know nothing of all the trendy new places and hangouts they have these days. But Flury's had such an old world charm about it, with the servers in starched white uniforms who seemed like they had stepped out of some colonial play. And who would let you sit and chat for hours over a glass of cold coffee (no lattes and capuccinos then) without once telling you to pay the bill and leave. Yes, that would be just perfect.

Rimi: One of the earliest blogs I started reading. Her zest for life, youth and wonderful style of writing kept me going back for more. Yes, I would definitely want to meet her. And most definitely over some wonderful hot chocolate fudge vanilla and raspberry torte icecream in a waffle cone with a cherry on top. Most definitely a cherry on top. And we'll throw in some brownies too. Or may be some of that delicious mishti that she seems to have mastered the art of.

J.A.P: Because I am curious. And I owe him one. So may be we could go to the coffee house for some infusion?

Rohan: One of my earliest inspirations for blogging. Sensitive, sensible, Mr Nice Guy. We'd meet in Calcutta again and go all over town. Just so I can prove to him how much nicer it is than Delhi :)

DD: Just 'cause I really like his honest blog. He reminds me so much of my brother. And he's into classical music which I am in awe of. So we'd meet at one of his concerts after he has wowed the audience with a rendition of Yaman Kalyan.

Sagnik: Yet again one of the first blogs I read and absolutely loved. Funny, witty Sagnik. To see if he is for real. Where? I have no idea. He can choose as long as he shows me how he comes up with the funniest things to write about. Oh, and may be after he gives me a ride in his shiny new car.

Yay, I'm done with the tag. No more tagging. I just refuse to do any more tags. Because tags are somewhat like those silly chain mails that we get that either promise you a million dollars or your wish come true if you can forward it to ten people, or threaten to maim, harm or kill you or your loved one unless it gets passed on. And I refuse to comply with either.

And just for the record I don't enjoy doing tags.

The Madonna

2006-09-14T10:35:00.000-04:00

Hugs and kisses. And best wishes.
Notun gurer paayesh *.
Hallmark cards.
Raspberry truffle cake.
Gifts galore and blessings abound.
Bitter-sweet memories. Soppy emails. Long distance phone calls.
Friends and family.
Loving and being loved. Across the miles.
Happy tears.
Feeling sad.
And incomplete.
Without you in it.
The one person without whom this day would not exist.
I miss you. More and more with every passing minute. And I know you are thinking of me. Right now.
Will you call me? Please?

* rice pudding laced with date palm molasses

Oh, the things that we do

2006-09-11T09:00:00.000-04:00

Men will always be men. And men will always turn and look at an attractive female. Call it nature, call it hormones. It happens. And I have resigned myself to the fact that I live with a man, and that my man will follow his instincts and never disappoint a female if she happens to be attractive. He will always turn and look when one is in the vicinity. It's like this little radar that men have that starts beeping like crazy everytime a potential victim steps within range.

"Sexy, tall, gorgeous female in the short skirt straight ahead"
"Little to the left bombshell in tight pants"
"On the right the blonde with terrific legs"

He seeks them out. Without fail everytime. And I'm walking right next to him and he may be talking to me about mundane things like bills and buying detergent. But all I'm hearing is the "beep" "beep" from his radar and I'm too busy trying to see who he is checking out. No wonder I miss half of what he is saying. I'm too preoccupied trying to intercept the signals that are being transmitted.

Okay, now that I have mentally accepted the fact that I cannot stop the radar from latching on to signals that are being generated all around me, I have decided that the least I can do is to set up a filter of some kind and have a say in the ones that catch his fancy. So everytime I hear the beeper going:

"To the left, straight ahead sexy dropdead gorgeous"

I turn to see who the signal's coming from and see a woman in a skimpy top and mini skirt. And I turn to him aghast and say, "Sweetheart you can't be serious. That woman's a bitch and she's dressed like a tramp. You cannot possibly be checking her out!"

B looks at me and smiles, "But I like women who dress like tramps."

"But she's old. And she has a kid with her!"

"I've always liked older women."

Now I'm positively shattered. Not only is my husband checking out other females while he is with me. But he's checking out middle aged, trashy females. With kids! That has to be quite the limit. I mean, the least he can do is to look at nice young attractive females. Let me be proud of the ones that are catching his fancy. But not someone who looks like my middle-aged next door neighbor in hot pants. That actually goes ouch! Like a slap in the face. And that is simply unacceptable.

So now when we go out I have my own radar up and running and I take the utmost pains in picking out the very best and drawing his attention to them.

"Honey to your left... over there..... the one in the black skirt.....the one in the tank top.....over there in red".

Of course my radar language is way tamed down compared to the one his radar speaks, but we both understand what we are talking about here. And for the most part I can get him to see what I want him to see. But occasionally signals from his radar can get in the way and cause some interference.

And he goes, "No that one is too skinny. I don't like skinny girls. But on the other hand you see the woman in the tight skirt....she's hot."

And I immediately say, "But you're saying that because her neckline's almost down to her navel. She's old enough to be my mother. Showing some cleavage doesn't make her hot. And just so you know, she's got implants."

I give him a triumphant look.

He looks at me with eyes as wide as saucers and goes, "No way! How the hell do you know that?"

One knowing look later I say, "Sweetheart check out that girl to your left. The one in the spaghetti straps."

And he turns immediately.
I smile.

How green was my valley....

2006-09-07T10:00:00.000-04:00

I was looking at some photos my cousin sent me from his recent trip to Calcutta. Photos of the city, of the people I love and grew up with, of places and times that I left behind when I came to the US. And as I went through photo after photo of known places and loved ones I was gripped with pain and sadness. It appeared to me that every little thing I knew and remembered was changed and different now. The city looked old and dirty, the people looked tired and aged. And nothing seemed to be the same anymore. And suddenly I realized as a sharp pang of regret shot through me that the only thing that was probably changed and different was me and how I viewed things now. And I wept. For times that were gone and lost. For family that I had moved away from. For days that I had spent growing up loving a place, missing it every single day, only to realize how distant I had become and how things were not the same anymore.

I left Calcutta with happy memories of my childhood. Of growing up basking in the love and affection of an extended family. Of sunny days and warm memories. Wild adolescence and much awaited adulthood. The joy of being able to do everything I wanted to, of being anyone I wanted to be. Of learning, maturing and being who I am. That is what I hold in my heart. That is what makes me smile everytime I remember home. When I think of Pujo. Poila Baisakh, Christmas, Bhai phonta.

And then yesterday happened. I saw the photos my cousin sent me. Photos that he had taken from the balcony of our house. Photos he had taken of familiar places. Of that shop down the road where we would buy stationery from. Or the library where we would get books from. The dhobi who ironed our clothes. The bus stop where we would wait endlessly in the scorching sun. The uthon-bari where we would play kumir-danga all afternoon. And they all looked so different. Everything looked old and moss-covered and like they had been picked out of some ancient bangla movie (see below views from the balcony and a house down the street). Like it was some suburban township in the middle of nowhere. Yet this was very much Calcutta. In the heart of the metropolis. There was a picture of a waterlogged street (see below). Something I had never bothered much when I was there. But now it bothers me. Why, oh why?

I looked into the faces of my uncles, my aunts, my grandparents, family friends. And everyone looked so much older than I remembered them. It was such a rude awakening. It felt like I was stuck in time and everything else had moved on without me, aging and withering away. It made me cry.

My Dad tells me that Calcutta has improved over the last few years. There are flyovers and less traffic jams, spanking new shopping malls and multiplex theatres. The city is cleaner and better. And I am sure it is all true. But why do I not see it in the places I love and want to remember that way? Why is the street still waterlogged after a shower? Why is the uthon bari not painted or the dhobi shop not fixed up? Why does looking at the photos after all these years make me want to cry? For myself. For having changed. And for finding everything else changed. I wish I had an answer.

Teacher's Day

2006-09-05T10:32:00.000-04:00

The date on my computer tells me that today is September 5.

Many, many years back September 5 used to have this entirely different meaning for me. Me and countless other kids who went to school in India. It was Teacher's Day. A day set aside every year to celebrate the people who taught us everyday, who tolerated our silly antics, who led us down paths of discipline, quenched the thirst for knowledge and brought order into our lives. Yet the most enjoyable part of the entire Teacher's day routine was the fact that there were no classes that day. It was a break for the teachers. And it was a break for us. And that meant we would have a day filled with fun activities. Well we'd be allowed to go to school in our "party clothes". And we would have all these song-dance-drama routines for entertaining the teachers. And we'd have misty eyed teachers. Even the strictest and grimmest of all the teachers (Mrs A and Ms S) would smile and forget to punish us for talking during assembly.

And today I cannot help but smile when I remember those days back in school. And I'd like to thank all my teachers who've helped me become the person I am today.

SC for teaching me to love the language, embrace and truly understand Shakespeare, for coming back unharmed after the car accident and loving me like no other.
RDG for being one of the nicest teachers ever and for making me want to be more like you. A person that everyone loved.
SB for some of the funniest moments that still provide so much amusement when we talk about you and Bangla class.
MB for making me fall in love with painting. All over again.
V for making me think that Life Science was the most fascinating subject on earth. I wouldn't have gone that path if weren't for you and the way you taught the subject.
Sr. J I may have been a completely different person had you not instilled all those moral science lessons in us.
R for teaching me Math and getting me to love it.
M I have always given you the most credit for my getting through JEE and into Medicine. And you are the only teacher from my plus two years I care to remember and thank.
PKS for making Anatomy classes the most enjoyable ever. For mneumonics and snippets that made the hardest things come alive for us.
AKS for making me want to go into ENT. Almost.
DKB I wouldn't have learnt Surgery if it weren't for you and your early morning class at 7.
PGO for being my guide and advisor and seeing me through unchartered waters.

And there are countless others. People who have held my hand, people who have taught, trained and guided me. To everyone who has held a light for me and helped me find my way,

Happy Teachers Day!

May you continue to teach, guide and change lives.
Shape lives.
As you have shaped mine.

Live like you were dying

2006-08-30T09:31:00.000-04:00

Heard Tim McGraw's 2004 Grammy winning Live like you were dying on the radio this morning. And it made me think about what I'd do if I had a chance to do it all again.

What would I do different?

What would I change?

What would I do if I knew this was the last day of my life?

"And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter
And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying
And he said one day I hope you get a chance
To live like you were dying"

What would you do?

The Bong immigrant

2006-08-21T12:52:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer: This post does not intend to offend anyone. All characters are a figment of my imagination with some help from SC. Any stereotyping is purely intentional but does not aim to cause any offense to anyone.

There is a strange social heirarchy among people here in the US depending on their immigration status. And nowhere is it more apparent than in a large social gathering of desis. Take for example the community Durga Pujo. If you've ever been to a Pujo in the US you will know what I am talking about. The first few words coming out of the mouth of any Bong at a Pujo is a dead giveaway as to which strata of the heirarchy he belongs to.

The largest number of any single category comprises the naturalized citizens. The immigrants of the 60s and 70s, primarily engineers , some doctors and a few others who had the dream and the money to make it to the US during that period. They are the easiest to spot. They are usually in their ethnic best, beautiful fanned out dhuti, gold rolex peeking from under the sleeve of the giley kora punjabi, everything that spells out the success story spanning the last three or four decades. The women are equally adorned in the most gorgeous of sarees, the brightly colored silks, the Bomkais, the Balucharis, the Valkalams, complete with tons of gold jewelry that would put any bride to shame. They are usually the ones who are running the show, the people you turn to for help and advise regarding everything, from which car needs to be sent to bring the priest over, to where the spare vessels are, and where one can find aamer pallab. They are the ones who will call everyone bhai or bon and one always refers to as dada or didi, no matter how old they may appear to be. They are the eternal Santosh-da, Malabika-di, Shyamal-da and Konika-dis of the Bong community settled in the US. When they sit down together to talk about things you hear them discussing on whether to invest in a second home, or whether they should finally have the pool in the backyard and whether it is worth holding on to the ancestral home in Mallick-bajaar or to give in to the demands of the promoter who wants to build a huge apartment complex.

The second category of people you see are the ones who are waiting to gain the "settled" status. They are the working force, the ones on a working visa, the H1B. They are much younger than the previous lot, resplendant in their Pujo attire. Their punjabis are usually a little longer than the previous generation and reach down below the knees almost obscuring the fine craftmanship of the dhuti from Kolkata (usually of the colored silk category). And they always have a long uttariya (stole) round their necks. They usually cluster in groups to discuss about the current situation of the Government, the Dow Jones index, the housing market, investing and most importantly the green card status.

Then you have the other side of the work force, the research scientists, the exchange scholars, the ones on a J1 visa. Considering Bongs are prone to giving in to higher education and acquiring degrees, every gathering has their share of postdoctoral fellows. The ones that are in the US on a short term proposition. Although some of them plan on eventually returning to India, most would like to spend a few working years in the US earning enough money to get their savings account going strong and generating a few papers in international journals before they ultimately go back home. They can often be seen sporting a long kurta (courtesy Fabindia) over a pair of jeans with white Nike sneakers begging for attention. Their conversation generally revolves around visa issues, getting waivers from the India Government, the H1B cap, and funding problems with diminishing research grants.

And then you have the students. The ones on the F1 visa. The lowest rung on the social ladder. The ones that will arrive in groups. In second hand Nissans and Toyotas. Carloads of eager, bright eyed kids, bursting at the seams with enthusiasm, with unwashed hair and bleary eyed from too much Bacardi and beer the previous night. The ones that everyone bullies around. To help with decorating. Running errands. Poribeshon. The ones who will sport a volunteer badge to get free admission. The ones who will stand in line twice to get two helpings of food. And the ones who will be seen at the entrance flashing their student ids.
"Dada student achhi. Discount deben?" *

Yeah, the all too familiar social scene at my local Pujo. And its almost here. I can almost feel it. The Pujo-Pujo gondho (smell) as the quintessential Bengali will tell you. When the sky is all blue and the air is crisp and there's a slight nip in the air at dawn. I can barely wait.

* I'm a student. Do I get a discount?

How was your weekend?

2006-08-18T07:26:00.000-04:00

One of the things that still bothers me even after all these years in the US is the "how was your weekend" question I get every Monday morning. I mean I understand how sought after and wonderful the weekend is after a hectic work week. And I know people are supposed to go all out and have fun to feel revitalized to face the challenges of the week ahead. But what's with this constant obligation of having to do something interesting every single weekend?

I mean for the most part I don't do anything worth talking about. And it is kind of embarrasing to have to tell people, "Ummm....well....I didn't do anything much. Except you know....went grocery shopping, cooked meals for the the week ahead, did the dishes, cleaned up the kitchen (to remove all traces of oil and residue from the Indian kind of cooking), dusted the furniture, vacuumed the carpet, polished the hardwood, took out the trash, cleaned up the garage, weeded the lawn, watered the plants, cleaned up the bathrooms (yes all three of them), did the laundry (and yes folded them too), ironed the clothes, paid the bills.....and no I ran out of time to catch a movie, read a book, stretch out in front of the TV, go to a concert, sing, dance, socialize, and oh my God couldn't even go bungee jumping, water skiing, white water rafting, or a quick trip to the moon and back!" How pathetic is that!

And the strange thing is most people I pose the very same question always have something oh so wonderful to report.
"We went to this awesome food-fest. Have you been there? Oh you must go."
"We were in New York for the weekend."
"We went camping in West Virginia."
"We went to California for a wedding."
"We went sailing in the bay."
"We went rock climbing."

And all I can think of is how in the world can these people get all their work done around the house. May be these people with exotic lifestyles have a little Genie at home who magically gets everything done and their house is always clean and pretty, and clothes washed and folded, food cooked and waiting to be eaten.
Yeah.... that must be it.

Got to go out this weekend to a garage sale and hunt down an ancient lamp that I can rub and get myself a Genie. Then, I'll show them what my weekend's all about.

I swear by Apollo the physician.......

2006-08-09T12:30:00.000-04:00

There are people we meet who touch our lives and change it forever.

I heard a story yesterday that truly inspires. It is about a young girl X. X was just 24 years old. She was bright. She was pretty. And when I say pretty, I absolutely mean it. Now everything was going great for X. She had a loving husband and she had just given birth to a beautiful baby. Things couldn't have been better for her. And then suddenly things started changing. She started noticing changes in her appearance. She was gaining weight. She did not feel well. Her beautiful long hair started falling out. She went to see a doctor who told her that it was probably because her hormones were all crazy after the birth of her baby and things would be okay with time.

But things just kept getting worse. She could not bear to look at herself in the mirror anymore. It was like looking at a total stranger. And she started noticing increased facial hair. At first she tried covering up using makeup but then it got a point where she had to shave to stop people from staring at her. She went to see more doctors. Yet every doctor told her that it must be a side effect of her pregnancy and childbirth and would go away soon. Then she started getting these streaky marks along her lower abdomen and thighs. Grostesque purple streaks. Like stretch marks. Terrified she went to see her doctor. And he asked her if she was being abused physically at home. She denied it and begged him to help her. She showed him a photo that had been taken two years back on her birthday. She burst into tears just looking at the bright and happy woman in the photo. What had happened to her in these few months? She looked nothing like the person she was before. Now she was a grossly overweight, ugly woman with rough features, hoarse voice, beard and a mustache.

So they started investigations on her. She seemed a clear case of Cushing's syndrome. Her cortisol level was way over the limit. Her ACTH level could not be suppressed. Yet all investigations drew a blank. There was no pituitary tumor, nothing apparently wrong with her adrenals. And there she was withering away everyday. No one knew where the cortisol was coming from. But they had to keep her from dying. So the endocrinologist decided that they would have to take out her adrenal glands. Even though it would mean lifelong treatment, it would keep her alive.

So they took her for surgery and the surgeon takes out one adrenal gland. Right at that time the surgery resident notices a slight enlargement of one of the ovaries of the patient. So they removed the ovary that appeared to have a cystic teratoma and sent it for a frozen section and examination by a pathologist. The pathologist took a look at the slide and immediately sent word to stop the surgery and prevent the surgeon from removing the other adrenal gland. Although not apparent at the first cursory glance , the pathologist knew right away that they had hit upon the right organ. The ovary in all likelihood was the source of the problem.

Further examination confirmed the initial suspicion. X had an active pituitary adenoma that had been growing within the ovarian teratoma and had resulted in the hypercortisolemia leading to the manifestation of Cushing's syndrome. Within days of removal of the ovary the patient's condition stabilized. Her cortisol levels fell to normal and her physical appearance started reverting to her pre-Cushing state. The patient left the hospital with most of her gained weight gone, her features restored, her voice and skin normal and no traces of hirsutism.

And if it weren't for the young surgeon who noticed the ovarian tumor and the pathologist who recognized the tumor for what it was, X would have withered and passed away. Says a lot for the doctors, the techniques and medical marvels that go on to save people's lives, every single day.

I heard this story from the pathologist who saved the life of the young girl. I saw her picture, both before she fell sick and after she was hospitalized. And also when she left the hospital. And honestly, it left goosebumps on my arm.

"If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all men and in all times." The Oath of Hippocrates of Kos, 5th century BC

Another Tag

2006-08-07T14:01:00.000-04:00

This one's for you Seashells. But the tag stops here. I don't always see the point of the tags and therefore do not wish to tag anyone unless someone wants to volunteer. But I said I would do it. And you did make such a cute puppy face.

i am thinking about...
uncertainities,
next year,
home and family,
life,
sad thoughts,
wishful thoughts.

i said...
things that I have regretted having said.

i want to...
do so much and yet never find the time or have the inclination to actually do most of it.

i wish...
that I can be what I want to be, do what I want to do.

i hear...
voices around me.

i wonder...
how I can be a better person.

i regret...
not having done things at the right time.

i am...
a regular person who wants to make a difference.

i dance...
in the privacy of my mind.

i sing...
to myself all the time.

i cry...
very easily.

i am not always...
the person I want to be.

i make with my hands...
my future.

i write...
to let out bottled up emotions.

i confuse...
people who are nice with people who are pretending to be nice.

i need…
love, reassurance, encouragement,
and a little bit of prodding to get me going in life.

Eating right

2006-08-07T10:40:00.000-04:00

To continue on the theme of how the West has changed us here are some observations on the way our eating habits have evolved over the last few years.

I married into a bloodline of gastronomically strong people. There are stories surrounding the consuming capacity of the household that have reached legendary proportions. The story goes that my great-grandfather-in-law passed away one night after having consumed an insane amount of luchi (puris) for dinner. The males in the family, right up to the generation of my father-in-law were quite accustomed to sitting down for lunch with food being served in a huge silver thali and accompanied by atleast eight to ten bowls of various vegetables, fish and meat, while someone would stand by and fan them with a pakha (hand fan) while they ate.

So when I got married and moved to the States the expectations were high to say the least. Needless to say I had never done any cooking prior to tying the knot, so my entire knowledge was dependent on the three cookbooks I had brought with me from India. And I fared pretty well. I guess there really wasn't that much to cooking after all. I grew quite adept at preparing regular daily fare of rice and roti and vegetables and curry. But what B was more interested in was the more exotic stuff. The delicacies of Indian cuisine. And we experimented. And we ate. To give an idea of the volume of cooking and eating we were doing, I went through 11 gallons (approximately 41.6 liters) of cooking oil in less than 5 months! And yes it showed. B gained 30 lbs within a year of our marriage. And that is when we realized that something needed to change.

We usually ate dinner late which meant we would have an evening snack that comprised mainly of fried snacks. So that was the first thing we decided to change. Dinner would be in the evening, as soon as we came back home. Because we were hungry and starving eating a proper meal made way more sense than senseless gorging on junk food. That alone drastically cut back on our consumption of fried food and chips. Which was great. That also was the time B switched from regular soda to diet soda. We tried to adopt to eating more healthy. More salads, more veggies, less carbs and fat. No crazy diet. Just smaller portions. And making better choices.

The transition took a while. Some years actually. But now B checks the nutrition information on the side of everything he consumes. And has started abandoning things containing high fructose corn syrup. And no more soda. Especially no more diet soda. He counts calories. He eats right and exercises. He has lost 30 lbs in the last 6 months. And I am happy for him. Except now I don't know what to cook anymore. Or what to buy. Everything in the grocery store has high fructose corn syrup. It's a pain to look through the nutrition information of everything that you put into your shopping cart. And everyday we are adding to the list of items that are not fit for consumption.

B's parents are alarmed. They probably think he has gone off his rocker. His Dad is scared that B will be a kolonko (disgrace) to the family name by not living up to the eating standards of his clan. And it amuses me to no ends to hear B trying to persuade his Dad to give up on sweets and fried food.

It has been a long journey. But I think we've arrived.

Going home

2006-07-28T11:46:00.000-04:00

There is something that all desis really enjoy doing. That is going back home on vacation. One could be living in India in a different city or even outside the country, but home is where one grew up and left behind all the memories (and sometimes family and friends). And like all desis I really look forward to going home on vacation. Except years of living away from home changes you in so many little ways, that it hits you hard the moment you step out of your familiar everyday turf.

The flight:

For example take the flight back home. We decide that we will catch up on sleep to compensate for the last couple of sleepless nights, when we were busy tying loose ends and trying to finish our packing. But just as I begin to make myself comfortable in the cramped space of the airplane seat, the person right next to me (who by the way is always an elderly, somebody's parent kind) decides to investigate a little into my background, which part of India I hail from, who I am visiting and for how long, what kind of job I have, how much I earn, what caste I belong to, whether I am married and for how long (quick check into B and whether it is a good match), if I have kids and the reason for not having them yet, making me wish that I hadn't agreed to taking the middle seat while letting B sit in the aisle. By the time I am through hearing all about the various accomplishments of my co-passenger's son and daughter, and can give the IRS an accurate account of their finances, B is snoring, making any attempts at sleep quite impossible. But I still try. God knows how much I need this rest since the trip back home will be one of whirlwind activity with very little time for rest. And just when I think that there is a God and I am drifting off into a tranquil slumber, someone prods me in the ribs, almost making me jump out of my seat. It's my co-passenger. Well of course it is.

"Beta could you let me out. Bathroom jana hain."

Apparently God has a peculiar sense of humor and He's going to prove it to me through the duration of this flight.

Strangely enough I survive the flight. In fact I even catch an hour of sleep right before the plane lands in Bombay. When I wake up I'm sure there must be some kind of mistake. It appears like I've been transported into a different flight while I was napping. Where did all the passengers go? I mean the ones that boarded the flight with us. I could have sworn atleast half the flight comprised of bright young women dressed in the same way I was. Yet now in the brief span that I was guilty of sleeping, these women had magically transformed their jeans and T-shirts into beautiful ethnic garb of sarees and salwars, complete with jewelry and bindis. It is mindboggling to say the least.

First impressions:

So we get off the flight. The first thing that hits us (literally) is a blast of warm humid air that is stifling and leaves us gasping for some oxygen. It's like you're way up on some mountain where the air is very thin and you cannot breathe unless you make a laborious effort. Or when one steps inside one of those 37 degree rooms that we use for growing cell cultures and not being able to leave. By the time our body acclimatizes to the sudden increase in heat and humidity I become aware of my shirt suddenly sticking to my body. Suddenly everything is icky and sticky and I can smell the person standing next to me. That smell which I had almost forgotten, of stale body odor, sweat and unwashed shirts. Almost forgotten.

We get through customs. And I sort of start getting used to the throngs of people pushing and jostling each other. I almost begin to enjoy myself. I'm home. Back where I belong. I can identify with these people. Minus the body odor. And the pushing. The next thing I know there's three different men trying their best to wrestle my cart away from me. As I try to stop them from robbing me of my possessions I realize all they are trying to do is transfer my luggage into the bus that will take me to the domestic airport. Welcome home. Where people can be paid to do your physical labor. I take a ten rupee note from my purse, only to find the guy shaking his head and saying,

"No, no. No Indian rupees. Only dollars".

I can barely believe what I am hearing. I let B handle the situation. But I don't think he fares any better. We tell ourselves that we are in India now and we have to get used to the haggling and bargaining and the people taking advantage of you bit.

So now we are waiting at the airport for our connecting flight to Calcutta. And I'm dying of thirst. I tell B that we have to careful about drinking water and he is to buy bottled water to keep us from having cholera (which is what I've been told since I was a little girl). We see a guy selling bottled water and we get one. The price: Rs 30 (which I discovered later was supposed to be Rs 10). We drink it and comment on how bad the water tastes. Sort of metallic and salty. And then we see it. There's this place for drinking water. A mammoth sink with a dozen taps where people are drinking water straight out of the tap. And our man is filling a couple of dozen Bisleri bottles with the tap water. And then I knew. I had just paid thrice the amount to buy a bottle of tap water. And just put ourselves in way of coming down with cholera. Needless to say I didn't drink another drop of water, bottled or not, until I reached the safety of our home.

The flight to Calcutta is wonderful. They offer us three choices for breakfast. Three choices! I mean, I am so used to having a miniscule pack of pretzels thrown at me on the domestic flights in the US, that having to choose between continental, South Indian sambhar and idli and North Indian paratha and sabzi has me all confused and worked up. It was just beautiful. We were home and it looked like it would be a beautiful day.

We arrive in Calcutta amidst a whole troop of relatives that had descended upon the Dumdum airport to greet us. Thank God none of them had bouquets of flowers or garlands, unlike some of the others who were there to welcome home their prodigal child. The drive back home was traumatic. Cars zip past us without any regard for oncoming traffic. I couldn't bear to look out the window for fear of shrieking every second. By some miracle we reach home without crashing into another car, man or animal and without having anything crash into us.

Home:

Okay so I don't get to go home (as in my home) right away. Well you see I got married before I came to the US and my rightful place in India is my shoshurbari (sasural/ in-laws place). So I bear through the next couple of hours while we shower and eat and unpack the chocolates (before they melt completely) and stash them in the fridge. Then we are allowed to go home. My home. I immediately go on this exploratory tour of the house. Checking out each room to see if things have changed. Everything looks different. Different curtains, new furniture, strange bedspread. And everytime I go, "hey that's new", someone informs me that it has been changed three years back, reminding me that may be the only thing new there was me.

Sights and sounds and the smells:

We both lose our voices within two days of landing in Calcutta. Everyone tells me it is the pollution that chokes your voice. So we have to resort to hoarse whispering and a great deal of nodding and shaking of the head. And even though there really isn't too much of jetlag for some reason I always feel exhausted. May be it is the sheer strain of having to travel through such chaotic traffic, blaring horns, throngs of suicidal people who prefer to walk on the road than on the sidewalk, the heat and humidity and the constant exhaust from cars and buses that cling to the air and choke your insides. I suddenly become aware of a hundred different sounds that are around me at any given time. Sounds that I had started to forget. Almost. Like the cacophony of cars honking, as they honk on every corner before they make a turn just to let you know that they are approaching. Or the guy with the metal bucket who washes our car every morning and makes sure he lets everyone know that he is doing his job. Or the people selling their wares on the street "Didi ekdom joler dorey" (as cheap as water). People are everywhere. Yelling, shouting, making themselves heard. And the smells. Of rotting garbage. Of clogged waste-water drains. Of smoke and motor exhaust. And amidst that, of tempting street food. Of rolls and telebhaja (fritters). Of peanuts being dry roasted. Of deep fried shingara and spicy chowmein.

How the West changes us:

Well we try to claim that things haven't changed much and we're pretty much the same folks who left the country a few years back. But somehow we've changed. In subtle ways. Like now I have an accent. I swear I didn't try to acquire one. It just crept in on me. May be when I was teaching undergrads in the University. May be when I was just trying to fit in. And now......it's just a part of me. And people look at you funny when you open your mouth. Like you don't belong there anymore. And I guess we even get a certain bideshi (foreign) aura about us which make hawkers run after us with handicraft items and try to bargain in broken english,
"Very good item sir/madam. You pay dollar?"
What is this obsession with dollars in India these days? So now we have two currencies doing the rounds? You can pay in rupees or in dollars?

And people stare. Unabashedly. You may be sitting in the privacy of your car and stopped at a traffic light. While the person in the car right next to yours will be looking into your car and just staring at you like you were from a different planet. Staring is not considered rude. And meddling in other people's affairs is normal.

The other thing that bothers me is our expectation of getting a job done on time. Like when I went to the bank to withdraw money from my account and expected it to be a real swift operation. After all it is my money and I have every right to take whatever I want from my account. But that wasn't meant to happen. Because they had to verify my signature which by the way has evolved a great deal since my signing days in India. When that posed problems they needed further identification, things like passport which I had to go home to fetch. And then there was this business of passbook and updating the information in that. And I get shuttled from one counter to another, one where they fill out the form that expresses the desire to withdraw money, to another where they review it and give you a little note that you take to a third counter where they give you the money but make you go back to pick up your passbook from the first counter. And all this while I am missing my ATM back in the US. Missing it bad.

Or the time when I walk into a store that sells kurtas for men. (Kimbadanti for those of you who'd really like to know.) And it's a little weird because you have to tell the shopkeeper exactly what you are looking for and he will "show" you the items that he has stocked which meet your specifications. And I stand there patiently waiting to be "served" and the guy is merrily chatting with another guy who happens to own a shop next door. Now we are spoilt here in the US. We are told things like "the customer comes first" and the "customer is always right" and people who are selling always greet you with a smile, they ask you if you found everything okay and if there's anything they can help you find. There is something called 'customer service' and I love it. But it is sadly missing back home. And while we wait and wait with the expectation of being attended to, the shopkeeper could care less. And that I cannot take. Not anymore. So I walk out. Without having bought anything. And the shopkeeper really doesn't care. How crazy is that!

Getting used to it all:

Two weeks into your vacation your voice comes back miraculously. And you are less conscious about the stares. And you don't complain about the heat anymore. You fan yourself with a magazine while you sit it out in the traffic. You have resigned yourself to being in a constant state of diarrhea. And you are getting the hang of bargaining. In the shops, in taxis, everywhere. Like they say, it's only a matter of time.

And all too soon, it is over.

And before we know it we're on a flight back to the US. And we're on familiar ground. Where it is nice and clean and pretty, and people are smiling and polite and the non-staring kind, and lines move fast and things work with clockwork precision, where the roads are wide and the cars follow rules. And it all looks and smells so familiar. So predictable. And there's no acclimatizing, no getting used to anything. It's like we never left.

I feel a gush of emotion as I see my house. Exactly the way I left it. I go in and check on my plants. I go to every room and touch my things. Exactly where I left them when I went to India. And strangely it feels very comforting.

I whisper to myself, "Welcome home".

To err is human

2006-07-26T13:14:00.000-04:00

Me, I'm not a very forgiving person. Nor do I forget easy. I trust people blindly. And when they destroy my faith I just shut them off from my life.

Take MC for example. We were best friends through college. I still own a treasure chest of memories from those days. Memories that warm my heart when I revisit them in my mind. Yet MC and I drifted apart. Because she hurt me. In more ways than one. And I realized that she never really was my friend. She had just used me for all those years.

So I dropped her. From my life.

And even though she has tried so many times to make things right, I just can't trust her again.

Sigh! Looks like I'll never attain divine status.

The view from here: ramblings of an "only child"

2006-07-21T09:32:00.000-04:00

Before I say anything I'd like to say that I am the only offspring of my parents and everything I say here is my personal opinion and may not agree with a lot of people.

So, why is it important to have more than one child? For one it makes the child a little less selfish. Now before any one of you fly off the handle protesting what a selfless "only child" you were, or start nodding your head in absolute agreement remembering the disgustingly selfish "only child" you knew in school, I'd like to say that I'm talking about something that is relative. I mean everyone is selfish to a slight extent. We do think about ourselves a lot and what we like and don't like. So everyone's entitled to be a little selfish. We owe it to ourselves. But what I'm talking about here is the way the "only child" views things.

Unlike what most people think an "only child" does not think that the sun, the moon and the stars revolve around him/ her and do not always demand for the very best. That I think is a personal trait and I know many kids who have siblings but are known to be more demanding than others. But when you have one child the kid grows up being a little bit more possessive about his/ her things than the other kids around. I'll tell you a little incident about myself and how I learnt to recognize the possessive streak in me. This was the time when I was getting out of school and starting to go to college. My Dad told me about this young girl who had completed her Medical degree and had started working with him to train to be a gynecologist. Both my parents were in praises about how nice this girl was and how she wanted to be friends with me. Now all my life I have had my parents all to myself and for the strangest reasons took an instant dislike to this intruder whom I had never seen nor met, but who seemed to be taking away a part of my parent's affection that was rightfully mine. Her name was US. For the next couple of months all I heard was US did this and US did that and how well she was doing and how great she was. And I hated her more everyday and did my best not to meet her by staying out late if I knew she would coming over. And then oneday we did meet. She had come over to show my Dad some lab reports. And she stopped by my room to talk to me. And we talked. For hours. It was like I met a long-lost friend. The sister I never had. I absolutely loved her. She was bright, she was pretty and she had the most endearing nature. I knew instantly why my parents were so enchanted by her. Over the next few months US and I became really good friends. She would come over every afternoon to chat with me. And we'd talk about life, studies, boys. She knew every little thing that was happening in my life and I knew everything that had ever happened to her. I was so ashamed of myself for having shut her out of my life for all that time while she was trying her hardest to be friends. She saw me through all my frustrations, my truimphs and failures, my difficult college days, my turbulent love-life. And I watched her fall in love and get married. Then she moved overseas. And looking back I remember US with the fondest of memories and strongest of affection. She is the closest thing I ever had to having an older sister. And I don't mind sharing my parents, my things, my life with her. But I had to cross that boundary, that hurdle to get to this point. And I have always blamed my inability to share my parents easily on being an "only child".

I think being an "only child" gives you the impression that certain things belong to you. It makes one a little bit more possessive about things, about people, than anyone else. I try my hardest to be a little less possessive about the people I love. But it is a habit that is difficult to unlearn. I still get mad when people borrow books, CDs, DVDs and then just "forget" to return them. I don't mind lending them as long as people give it back to me and I can put things where they belong. B thinks I'm too possessive about everything (which includes him) and is always teasing me about being a "spoilt child". Well may be that is true. Just a little bit. But don't ever tell him that I said that.

The other thing that bothers me about people having single childs these days is that it takes away some beautiful relations that we were fortunate to have in our lives. I grew up basking in the affection of my kaka, pishi, mashi, mama.....I had one of each. My parents had multiple kakas, pishis, mashis and mamas. Unfortunately my child will not have any mashi, kaka or mama. And may be my grandchild will not even know what it is like to even have these wonderful people in your life to shower love, affection and blessings. And that will be so unfortunate. Because some of my fondest memories are with these people and knowing that I can always turn to them for anything.

And even though I had the most wonderful childhood I always wanted a sibling, like my other friends. Someone I could share my life with. For the longest time I had a strange notion that my parents had another child, a son who was older than me, and whom they used to hide in a secret passage that existed within the walls of our house. I believed in this fantasy for ever so long. I would go tapping on the walls all day just to open up the passage and reveal their secret. I would lie awake at night hoping to catch them bringing him out of the secret passage. But I always fell asleep before they did. And till date have not met my "brother".

Yeah I know I'm a little crazy. But whattodo. I blame it on being an "only child".

Basking in fame

2006-07-19T14:38:00.000-04:00

This mention shot up my visitor log by 4 times .

Hmmm....what a little bit of publicity can do for you!

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage

2006-07-17T11:49:00.000-04:00

I've been reading quite a bit about about marriage on the blogosphere lately and it seems to me that a lot of people are thinking, considering and reflecting on marriage and going over the why, when and whom issues (see here, here, here, here and here). That brings me to something that's been on my mind regarding why people want to get married and how other people perceive it.

Like this question I've got from quite a number of people regarding having kids. It seems to me a lot of folks believe that two people should settle down and tie the knot primarily so that they can have kids. What the hell! I mean, isn't that the most ridiculous thing you've heard of? Of all the reasons I would have considered for wanting to get married that would probably be something I'd never have come up with. I mean, yes, it is nice to have a family with kids and all but not my reason for wanting to get married. Okay so I'll have kids at some point. But that will be when I'm ready for it. Not because I have the license to have them. Because it appears to me that for a lot of people that's what marriage is all about. A license to have sex whenever you want to and start a family. Give me a break. Please.

My next door neighbor tells me that her daughter's been married for over two years but she couldn't get pregnant until now, because her husband was still in school and they couldn't afford to have kids until he graduated and got a job. Point noted. She seemed mighty unhappy that her daughter married someone who couldn't afford to raise a child and that they had to be "careful" for two goddamn years even though they were married. Alright so marriage equals procreation. And anything that comes in between is considered strange.

We had rented a cabin up in the mountains for our sixth wedding anniversary and the lady who let us in was shocked at the fact that we didn't have kids. She was like "you've been married for 6 years and you still don't have kids"!!! Like we were some kind of freaks. She looked at me and goes "why?" Like it was her business and I had to tell her about some secret malfunctioning organ that I had which prevented me from getting pregnant or something. I was really shocked at her reaction.

And then yesterday someone else goes "you've been married that long and you still don't have kids?" Will someone please tell me if reproduction is the next natural step to getting married. Fine, society expects married people to produce babies and also people producing babies to be married. Not to say that there aren't exceptions. But that's what they are. Exceptions to the general rules of society. And I'm not saying that having babies is bad or something that I don't want. Like most other girls I always dreamt of having my own family and the "living happily ever after" bit. But only when I am ready for it. Not because I'm married and I can or am expected to. That I find ridiculous. A child is precious and parents have to be ready to welcome the baby into the family, into their lives. You don't have a baby just because you're married and you don't have a clue about contraception.

So why is it that so many people equate getting married with having babies? Can't people just marry because they are in love and want to spend their lives together? What about companionship and spending quality time together? Aren't those enough reasons to want to marry someone? You marry because you love and want to be with a person. More than anything else in the world. More than anyone else. And may be someday have a family too. But not simply because you want to start making babies. Come on, you don't even need to marry to do that these days. In fact you don't even need to have sex for that. Just go adopt a kid if you are so badly in need of having one.

Okay I agree that when people talk about family they envision kids. And I have nothing against that. I adore kids. Except I just don't like looking at me with incredulous eyes and thinking that I am some sort of a freak who is unable to procreate. I don't like people going "why haven't you had kids if you've been married for such a long time". All I'm saying is that we got married early, before any of my friends did, because we were in love and we wanted to be together. And that is good enough reason for me.

And that I would think would be the only reason why someone should get married.

In a land far far away

2006-07-11T12:38:00.000-04:00

In light of what happened in Bombay yesterday I have been feeling esp. depressed. And missing home even more. I had started writing this post earlier.
This one is for everything India stands for. And how much it means to me.
Here's to the spirit and the resilience of my people.

I was talking to my friend the other day and he was questioning why most Indians tend to precipitate together at office parties and social gatherings. Oh yes, and I'm talking specifically about the Indians abroad who are away from their home. And it got me thinking. True I have friends who are not Indian, but a large chunk of my social circle comprises of Indians, and coming to think of it mostly Bongs. And I think I know why. It's the common ground that we share, of similar backgrounds, cultural bonding and understanding that can be traced back to our pre-immigrant days.

Every Indian I know here in the US misses home. India is a treasure chest of sepia-tinged memories and nostalgia. And at the slightest mention of old and fond things from back home the memories get rustled up and we gravitate towards strangers to catch up and talk about India. This is especially true if the people come from the same city. All the more fun as many more memories can be exchanged and shared. We can talk about schools and college experiences and the "do you know so-and-so" banter, resturants and places we used to hang out, how much things have changed and when was the last time we were visiting. The list goes on. So why do Indians precipitate? I guess because of the familiarity and easy identification with each other.

My Dad always said that the main reason he did not settle abroad and kind of rushed back to settle down in India before I started going to school was his fear of raising a daughter in a foreign place, in a culture that he was not comfortable with. And as a kid I envied my cousins who were growing up in UK and USA and hassled my parents for not giving me the chance to grow up and live abroad. But now after all these years I realize what a blessing it was to be able to grow up in a place among family and friends, living and learning about our cultural heritage and being able to identify with things that I would never have known otherwise.

There are things that I would laugh about when I was in India. You know the kind which one tries to deny when they are trying their best to emulate the West. Things that I did not realize the value or significance of, while I had them easily available. Things I could care less about back home in India. Yet now, with the whole uprooting and isolation in effect I have started realizing the importance of so many things. And I miss so much. So very much.

The rain. It rains a lot over here in Virginia. But somehow it doesn't have the same feel as a sudden summer norwester in Calcutta. The swiftness with which one takes shelter under the leaking roof of a roadside shop. And watch other people hurrying past with their wet umbrellas. And the water beginning to accumulate in huge puddles. And sloshing through the waterlogged streets in the uncomfortable Sandak sandals from Bata. God how I hated those shoes! But then nothing would convince me to soak my fancy leather sandals in the rain water.

And returning home to find hot tea and fried pakora. And may be khichuri for dinner.

Drinking tea from matir bhar (earthenware). This I especially associate with my college days when we would stop by a roadside stall after night-duty and drink tea from this enormous bhar. It was priced at Rs 5 which was a luxury considering a regular bhar of tea would cost less than a rupee. The tea tastes so different in a bhar. I think it takes on the smell of the earth which adds flavor.

Window shopping at Gariahat. Gushing over the gorgeous sarees that they would have on display at Trader's Assembly and Indian Silk House. And ending up buying earrings from the hawkers who traded on the streets.

Talking of sarees I think it is the most beautiful dress an Indian girl can wear. Almost every Indian female I know looks absolutely ravishing when they wrap a saree around them. I find it elegant as well as sexy. I had decided that once I got married I would only wear sarees and leave aside my usual wardrobe of jeans and skirts. And true to my word when I got married and came to the US my luggage did not contain anything but sarees and I spent the first few months going everywhere dressed in the traditional saree. We were living at that time in a really small town in the Midwest, a place which was primarily white American with a handful of foreigners. Needless to say I would be catching attention everywhere I went. People would wave at me and smile and stop to admire my "dress". It was a little awkward to be honest. Then I started to go to work and that required me to be dressed more appropriately and I had to go to the store to buy clothes more suited for the work environment here. I miss not being able to wear a saree.

Durga Pujo. Lal-paar saree. Sakha, paula, nowa (traditional bracelets of conch, coral and iron). Dhaak. Sandhi Pujo. Thakur baran. Well, can't say enough about Pujo in Calcutta. Therefore I'll leave it at that.

Lakshmi Pujo at home. Uposh (fast) and alpona (decorative motifs on the ground with rice flour). Alta pora ( I don't know what alta is but it is a red liquid which women in Bengal use to decorate the feet) and poribeshon kora (serving food).

Biye bari (weddings). Dressing up and looking out for eligible bachelors. Sticking together with friends and giggling at the slightest pretext. Staying up all night in the bashor, singing, dancing and eyeing the groom's goodlooking friend.

Rabindrasangeet. There was time when I found Rabindrasangeet monotonous and boring. But that was before I even started to realize that it went so much deeper than the melodies. Given the proper context they can drive me to tears these days.

Phuchka, jhaalmuri, alukabli. Egg-chicken roll. Mutton chop and fish fry. Chinese from Tangra. Biriyani from Shiraz. Momo at Elgin road. Kwality ice cream.

Bunking class to catch a matinee show at Nandan. Skipping the movie. Sitting aimlessly near the jheel. Adda.

Cricket at Eden Gardens, boat ride on the river, book-fair at the Maidan, circus at Park Circus, rowing in the Lake, books in college street, infusion at the coffee house, double-decker bus and trams. The sound of the conch-shell at dusk and women lighting diyas.

Inspite of the non-stop blaring of horns, incessant traffic that knows no rules, roads full of potholes, throngs of people that spill over into the streets, badly damaged sidewalks crowded by stalls, decaying rubbish piling high, homeless people in makeshift shelters, poverty and pollution, it is still home. These are still things we identify with, talk about and remember with some affection. We talk about Jyoti-babu and how communism has ruined the potential of Bengal for such a long time. We talk about Lalu and his regime in Bihar. We feel pride at all the technology and global advancement that India has made in the last decade. We seek out each other in lands far away from home. To talk. To bond. To feel at home.

Because our roots are still embedded over there.

That is where home is.

Bathroom woes

2006-07-07T13:08:00.000-04:00

I have always been obsessed about bathrooms. Even as a child I had a bath all to myself in India. It was done up in a pretty pink to go with the overall pink decor in my bedroom: pink tiles, pink marble, pink washbasin and toilet, pink shower-mat on the floor, pink shower curtain, even pink toilet paper (don't ask me where my Mom used to get that from). I have no idea why everything was so pink, considering it isn't like my favorite color or anything. May be my Mom decided upon it because it was her favorite color. Or may be I was being stereotyped for being a girl. Anyway, there was a lot of pinkness in there. And I didn't mind at all. Because it was done up so nicely and everything was kept so clean and beautiful. Like I said earlier I obsess about bathrooms. I cannot go to one unless it is clean and dry. And that means no water on the floor, no mess anywhere and it has to smell good. Because you see, my bathroom has always been my haven, a refuge, a place where I can spend time with myself. Since locking my bedroom door was not looked upon favorably at my home, I would often take a story-book with me into the bathroom and read it curled up on the bathroom mat. I just loved the tiny little space the bathroom would create for me and would hide in there for hours until someone came looking for me.

I was terrified of using the toilet anyplace other than home. Public toilets in Calcutta (in clubs and malls) were dirty and stinky and I would never ever visit one unless I was dying. I could go on for hours at a stretch without needing to go to the loo. That also meant I would never go to the bathroom in someone else's house. Most houses I've been to did not have a separate shower and there would always be residual bath water on the floor of the bathroom, something that I detested. So that meant I never did sleepovers at a friend's house. And I could never explain to my friends why I would just have to go back home at the end of the day.

And I absolutely hated it if someone destroyed the sanctity of my bathroom. Like this one time when my parents were having their 25th wedding anniversary and there were a million people invited to our house for the occasion. And all was well except for the fact that hundreds of people were using my bathroom and leaving it wet and dirty. I was waiting for the guests to go home when suddenly I see water trickling from under the bathroom door into my bedroom. Horrified I run to open the door only to see the bathroom flooded. It seems someone had pooped and the toilet got stuck and it overflowed all over the bathroom and into my bedroom. It was just disgusting. And my poor Mom had to clean it up and get the toilet up and running. You see I blamed her for having invited all those people and letting them use my bathroom. After that if we had guests coming over I locked my bathroom door to prevent people from using it.

And then I had a Math tutor when I was in school who had this strange habit of peeing all over the toilet seat. The first time this happened I thought may be he was unaware that men had to lift the toilet seat before going in. So I made sure before he came each day that I left the toliet seat up and I wouldn't have to clean up his mess once he had used the toilet (which he did everytime he came). And the weirdest thing was he actually made sure that he put the seat down and then peed all over it. Now is that disgusting or what! It just beat me as to why someone would do that. And I was too polite to actually tell him that he made me clean up after him everyday and that it "pissed" me to no end that he didn't have the sense to appreciate the fact that I would leave the seat up for him. Boy was I glad when I passed the class and he was gone.

However the absolute worst incident that I can recall is when a friend from my tuition needed to go to the bathroom real bad and since my house was close I took her home so that she could use my bathroom. Now I was under the impression it would be a quick come and go for her. But when the minutes started dragging out I started getting a little uneasy. After about a half hour she emerged from the bathroom, thanked me and left in quite a rush. I went in to check the condition of my bathroom. It was my worst nightmare come true. The toilet was stuck and there was water that had overflowed all over and this girl had used my bath towel to clean up her mess which resulted in shit all over the towel, the wash basin and even the walls. I couldn't believe it! What kind of individual could do something this gross and then leave without saying that she was sorry and offering to clean up? If any one of you have watched the movie Along came Polly you will have a fair idea of the kind of disaster I'm talking about here. It took me and my Mom over an hour to clean up the mess and get the shit-hole (literally) to start looking more like my bathroom. It took like a week to get it to smell like the way it did before this female invaded my territory. And I still have not been able to forgive the girl for what she did. Needless to say she never dared to speak to me again in her life.

So now you know what I mean when I say I obsess about my bathrooms. I have 3 full baths and a powder room in the house that I live in now. They are all tastefully decorated (no pinks thank goodness) and they smell great. They have matching shower curtains and decorative towels. There is recessed lights, candles and the works. My bathrooms are my haven.

And I hate it when people leave their mess all over.

Mirror Mirror On the Wall, Who's the Fairest of Them All?

2006-07-05T14:00:00.000-04:00

The first thing my mother-in-law said to me when she saw me last weekend was that I had lost weight and turned darker (ki roga aar kalo hoye gechhish). And my Mom totally agrees with her on that. And I realize I will never be able to conform to the age-old notions of beauty in our society.

I live in a place where people live on salads and run two miles everyday just to stay in shape. They lie out in the sun for hours trying to get a tan that gives them a bronzed look. You'd think with my petite 100lbs and complexion I would be what most females here would want to look like. But not where I come from. You see in Bengal the beauty in a female is her fair skin and well rounded proportions, something that is referred to as doodhe-aaltay rong (peaches and cream anyone) and Lokhi-sri (a la Goddess Laksmi). People never reprimand you for having put on weight. Oh no! That is looked upon as something good, a sign of prosperity. And hence the term Lokhi-sri.

And don't even get me started on complexion. A girl-child who is not fair is doomed for life. Or so it would seem. I remember countless occasions when I have seen some overweight, meddling, female relative or neighbor shake her head at me and tell my mother in the saddest voice possible, tomar meyer mukh ta eto shundor kintu tomar moto gaayer rong ta pelo na (your daughter is pretty but she did not get your complexion). Which saddened me because I have always wanted to be as pretty as my Mom. And I would spend hours in front of the mirror to see if I really was kalo (dark complexioned). Thank God I grew up before these petty complexes could get to me and realized that there was more to me than being called ujjol shyambarna (bright dusky complexion).

I knew when I was getting married that there would be some talk about the bride being on the dusky side since everyone on B's side of the family including him was really fair. However B assured me that he was enamored by girls who were darker because he thought they had really big, bright and beautiful eyes. So I wasn't exactly worried. But in the two weeks following my wedding I was victim to various home-made recipes of instant brighteners of the skin that included dahi, haldi, and cucumber among others.

And now living in the US, I hardly ever spare a thought about things like sun-tan and dark complexion. I do hours of gardening in the scorching Virginia sun. I go out and play tennis in the sun and lie out on the beach without worrying about how dark I am getting. Until I meet people from back home. With preconceived notions of beauty. Admiring fair maidens with plump cheeks and well-endowed proportions. And it makes me want to scream. For the sheer frustration of dealing with things like this. For having people disapprove and shake their heads at me. For not being the typical traditional conformist that everyone craves for.

And then I look at myself in the mirror. And I see who I really am.

I am, therefore I am.

Snapshots from her life

2006-06-29T11:00:00.000-04:00

She was born first, a couple of minutes before her brother was born, healthier and the bigger of the twins. She survived. Her brother did not. She always felt guilty about holding on to life while her brother could not.

She grows into a beautiful baby. She has her mother's smile. And she hardly ever cries. She is the apple of her Dad's eye.

She is 6 years old. She starts going to school. She has a lot of friends. They play in the yard during lunch break. She is a fast learner and she can't wait to tell her Mom all the new things she learnt in class that day.

She is 10 years old. She tops her class in her final exams. Her Dad buys her a wrist-watch that she proudly wears to school the next day. She swims and paints and learns classical music in her spare time.

She is 15 years old. She dreams of becoming a doctor like her cousin. She looks at herself in the mirror everyday to see if she is as beautiful as her Mom. She has her first crush on a guy who lives a couple of houses down the road from her. She watches him from her window.

She is 20 years old. She is in love with a guy from her class in Medical school. They study together and prep each other for the upcoming test. She decides to be a Pediatrician. She loves little babies.

She is 27 years old. She is getting married. She couldn't be happier. Her Dad cries when she leaves for her in-laws.

She is 35 years old. She is a successful doctor. Her husband is a surgeon. They have an apartment in Jodhpur Park not too far from where she grew up. She has two kids, a girl aged 4 and a baby boy who will be 1 next month.

She is 47 years old. She watches with joy her children growing. Seems like yesterday that they were born and now they are all grown. Her daughter tells her about her boyfriend, a guy she met at the club. She worries a little and wants to meet him at some point. Her son wants to be a tennis star.

She is 56 years old. She is at the airport to see her daughter and son-in-law off as they leave for the US. Her son is studying to be a doctor.

She is 70 years old. She has three grandchildren, two from her daughter and one from her son. She hardly ever sees them as they all live abroad. She has retired and spends her time reading. They decide to buy a place in the country where she can spend time tending to a garden. She is still as much in love with her husband as she was 50 years back.

She feels fulfilled.

She wishes she can go on experiencing life. The way she has been. But she can't. Because she had to live her entire life in one brief moment as she lay on the hospital bed dying from hepatic failure. She was only 15.

AM passed away 6 years back on this date. But her memory lives on, as fresh as ever. I wish she had a chance to live her life. One that held so much promise.

Wonderful read

2006-06-29T09:33:00.000-04:00

Here's a link for a very nicely written story. Do read it.

Matchmaking and more

2006-06-23T09:01:00.000-04:00

Like I said I had to write up a new post to keep people from reading about my weirdness. I was reading this post and wanted to comment, but realized that I had so much to say regarding this matter that it warranted a separate post by itself.

Wikipedia defines marriage as "a committed relationship between or among individuals, recognized by civil authority and/or bound by the religious beliefs of the participants." Arranged marriage is the same except when dictated by parents, family and social pressure. One of the most frequent questions I get from my US based friends and co-workers is whether as a girl raised in India I had to go through an arranged marriage. And they seem quite surprised when I tell them that I never had to face any kind of pressure from my family when I decided to get married. And honestly I don't entirely blame them. Even in a time when India is poised at the helm of a global economy with so much new information and interest in the country, its culture and traditions, there are still questions in people's minds about "elephants" and strange "Hindoo" practices. It probably seems unreal for them to accept that coming from India I may have had a childhood and upbringing that is not so dissimilar to what they had in the US. And yes when it comes to making choices and taking decisions about my own life I do have the freedom to do what I think best.

It seems to me that more and more people from the Indian subcontinent are taking their own decisions when it come to tying the knot. Most of my friends and cousins have had the so called "love marriage" where they were allowed to decide on who they would marry and spend their life with. When I look at the generation that preceeded mine I can count on my fingers the number of couples I personally know who were allowed to marry person's of their own choice and still be left with fingers to spare. On the same hand. And if I look at the generation that preceeded that......well, some things are better left alone. So honestly yes, things have come a long way from what they had been a few decades back. And yes, society is learning to accept and even embrace the "love marriage" concept.

But inspite of all the changes there are still certain taboos. For example things like caste and religion. When my great-grandfather was getting married, his family not only made sure the bride would be from a traditional bengali brahmin family but also that she had to be part of the "kulin" section which allowed him to marry into the same strata of social heirarchy. Decades down the line when my cousins and I were getting into the marriageable age, no one really cared much for what caste we were marrying into as long as we ended up marrying a decent person. But I know people who have met with resistence from family because of caste issues which still mean a great deal to a lot of families. Religion again is a whole different ballgame. I know a handful of people who have married outside of their religion and each one of them have had a hard time getting their family to accept the fact.

As I said most people I know are taking their own decisions for marriage these days. The key word here is "most'. What happens to the ones that are unable to find their mate? B has a cousin who is about 26 years old, finished her Masters degree and teaching in a college. Her parents have been trying to find her a groom for the last couple of years. Unfortunately it appears all the good men folk have been taken during their academic years and the ones that keep coming up are total jerks. Like the one who declared that he had a large family and required a certain amount of dowry. Or the one who refused to let her work once she got married. Or the one who had a history of mental illness. Whats irks me to no end is this endless search for a groom is leaving such a debilitating effect on the poor girl. She is pretty, she is smart, and she is a genuinely nice individual. She would make a wonderful wife for anyone. Yet, she is paraded in her finest to anyone who wishes to "see" her, made to sing so that some weirdo can judge whether she can sing him a lullaby when he goes to bed, bring in a tray of refreshments so her potential in laws can visualize her in the kitchen, show off her artwork and needlework and handcrafted items so people can say whether she is good with her hands. I guess the only thing that she is unable to show her future husband and in laws is whether she is good in bed. Which judging from the men that are stopping by I would imagine was the only thing that they care about. And everytime a family stops by and passes judgement it leaves the girl with her self-esteem a notch lower and feeling less wanted than ever before. And it makes me want to throw up. I ask her parents as to how they can do this to their own daughter and why they let her be humiliated publicly. And they say to me that their hands are tied and society dictates that their daughter should be married off by a certain age and as legal guardians this is the best they can do.

So what is it about a "certain age" that society feels should be binding when it comes to getting married? I remember getting my first marriage proposal when I was fifteen. Some "friend" of my Dad suddenly decided that I would be the perfect wife for his seventeen year old son and wanted to make sure that he "booked" me in advance by having us engaged. Needless to say my parents were shocked at the idea and turned him down on the grounds that it was way too early to be thinking about my marriage and they would let me decide when the time was right. The strange thing was both me and the other guy were still in school and people were already thinking about marriage! All through college I have been faced with situations where people have tried to set up alliances. Any social gathering is fair game. Especially weddings and Pujas. They are the holy ground for people to single out prospective brides and grooms and figure out who they are, what family and caste they belong to and try and set up some sort of connection to get the ball rolling. Two months before I got married I was at a friend's wedding when a rather enthusiastic lady came up to my Mom and introduced herself as Mrs so-and-so. She went on to say that she had found me very attractive and having found out that I had just completed medical school she thought I would be an ideal bride for her nephew who was a doctor. Before we could say a single word she added her nephew had finished his FRCS and was returning to India to set up his own practice and needed a wife who would understand the call of his profession and therefore it would be good if she was a doctor too. However the family was not too keen on a careeristic woman because she would not take care of the family and would I be okay with not pursuing any post-graduation but staying at home. I almost thought that I was having a nightmare. First of all here's this woman who we had not ever seen or heard of until like two minutes back. Then she was standing there trying to set up an alliance with someone I had no clue about. And most importantly she had the audacity to propose the most ridiculous offer I could imagine. Could this woman be for real? Before I could say anything my Mom told her that I was getting married in less than two months and wheeled me away from the woman. I was almost on the verge of asking her how she proposed to find such woman for her nephew. Till this date I wonder whether that family found a suitable bride for the guy, someone who would be so enthralled by the offer of being his wife that she would be more than willing to stay at home and give up her career.

This is turning out to be one of the longest posts I've done and I think I shouldn't torture anyone who has had the patience to read so far, anymore. My whole point was not trying to say that arranged marriages are bad and don't work. That is generalizing. There are probably more examples of people in arranged marriages who have held on than people who had love marriages and broke up. But that would probably be due to other reasons. Expectations for one. People who fell in love and got married have a certain amount of expectation from their partner as opposed to an arranged marriage where you go in blindfolded not knowing what to expect. And when a partner falls short of expectations that's when things start looking a little rough. Another reason why arranged marriages in the past fared so well was because women were dependant on their husbands and the family. With more women working and financial independence comes self-esteem and the knowledge that one can get out and still survive. In today's world I guess that point would be evened out.

I am not passing judgement on anyone here but personally I would never go the "arranged" route. I feel the whole procedure of the "arrangement" is demeaning to the girl and her family. People should be encouraged to take decisions about their own lives and allowed to live with their decisions. And if it happens to be a mistake, then what the heck.......you only have your ownself to blame.

Update: Found this really nicely written post on the matter and couldn't help but link it here.

Tag me weird

2006-06-22T09:29:00.000-04:00

Dreamcatcher tagged me a while back and I have been procrastinating in doing this post. First because I don't like tags (and therefore will refrain from tagging anyone) and secondly because I did not want people to find out how weird I really am. But I'm going to go ahead and honor her request.

"The Rules:-- Post six weird facts/habits about yourself.- At the bottom name the six people you will tag next.- Leave them a comment to let them know they've been tagged and to read your blog."

First, I have a weird way of walking on the sidewalk by always stepping within the squares and avoid putting my foot down on the junction of two squares. If I have to step on one of those lines I always try to give my other foot the same treatment by making sure my next foot lands on a line.

Second, I have a certain order in the way I arrange things around me. For example I have a spice rack in my kitchen, one of those that turn around and have holes with bottles stuck in them on each of four sides. Well my bottles always have to be in alphabetical order and the label has to read the right side up. So whenever I'm looking for something I know exactly where to find it. If someone messes it up I get very upset and have to put it back the way it is meant to be right away!

Third, I talk and walk around in my sleep. And sometimes that lands in embarrassing situations. Like once we were staying over at a friend's place and I walked out of our bedroom in the middle of the night, went to the living room where our friend and some others were sitting and chatting over drinks and told them that it was late and they should go to bed. The weird thing was I was fast asleep and unaware of what I was saying or doing and our friend found it most puzzling as to why I should suddenly take it upon myself to put them to bed!

Fourth, I have flexible joints and ligaments. For example I can bend my wrist inwards to make my thumb touch the inner side of the wrist. Freaks people out.

Fifth, I read really fast. I always read entire sentences at a time which makes me read books very fast. Okay, that's not so weird. Agreed. But I'm running out of things to say about myself here.

Last, I cannot sleep with a pillow under my head. I used to fluff up my pillow and place in the center and then sleep diagonally across the bed with my head on one corner of the bed and my feet in the opposite corner, the pillow untouched.

Okay that does it. Now I have to write up another post real soon so that not too many people read this post :)
And like I said, no tags....unless you are dying to do one.

Edit point no. 5: When I re-read the post I suddenly realized my fifth point does not really classify as "weird". Therefore will add a new weird trait for no. five.
Fifth, I started sucking my thumb as a baby and continued to do so right upto when I was in class 8 (talk about insecurities)! No matter how much I was scolded, how much my Mom tried to put bitters on my thumb so that I would refrain from sucking on it, I persisted right into my teen years. And then, just like that......I stopped.

Do I make you proud?

2006-06-19T10:51:00.000-04:00

You'd think seven weeks would be enough time to say the things you want to say. Sadly, it still falls short. There are so many things that I wanted to tell you, so much I wanted to share, and yet as the time draws near for you to leave, I find it increasingly difficult to find a way of letting out those bottled up emotions, those pent up feelings.

There are times in my life when things happen. And I want to rush up to you and tell you every little detail, every boring bit, in excruciating detail. But I can't. Because you are not here. And I tell myself that I will store the memory. And when I see you next I will let it all out. Everything. How I felt and how I missed not having you here at my side. And I have imaginary conversations with you. I imagine what you'd say to me and how you would react. And then time goes by. And I see you after all these years. And all those stored memories, all the bottled up feelings want to come out in a rush. And the thoughts trip over each other in their mad scramble to be let out of my mind. And everything is a confused mess. And I stand there just looking at you wanting you to know how much I miss having you in my life. Our lives. And the words remain unspoken, trapped within my mind, trying to fight it out. And you never know.

All my life I just wanted you to be proud of me. I've tried to be the best I could. Because you have taught me to aim high. And even as you pack your bags to leave, I feel like I have not done enough. Haven't said the things I should have, spent as much time as I wanted to, given as much joy as I could have. But I am grateful for having you here with me for the past few weeks. You'll never know how much it means to me to have parents like you.

I love you Mom and Dad.....have a safe trip home.

And today's special is........

2006-06-07T12:35:00.000-04:00

I had chowmein for lunch today. My Mom made it. Just like the old days when she would prepare lunch for me everyday. For years and years. All through school and college. I would always take lunch from home. And unlike some girls in school who got thick slices of bread with a layer of butter, hard-boiled egg drizzled with salt and pepper and a slightly soft, spotty banana in their "tiffin box" (that's what we used to call our lunch box), my Mom always made sure I had the most delicious meals in mine. My Mom's a perfectionist. And she believed that I needed to eat well to survive the long hours outside home. And since I was a picky eater she always prepared lunch the way I liked it with things I enjoyed eating. I know what you are thinking. Yes, I was a pampered kid. Which meant I never opened my tiffin box to find a cold mound of Maggi that had taken the shape of the box and needed to be sliced into pieces with a knife!

The flip-side of having gourmet lunch was everybody in school was aware of the contents of my tiffin box. Which made a whole bunch of them flock to my side to partake of the meal. And that doesn't mean during lunch break. That meant as soon as the first class would be over. In the interval between departure of one teacher and arrival of the next I'd have some already hungry girls checking into my tiffin box and quickly devouring my ham sandwiches. Which meant by the time we would have the official lunch break (some four classes down the line) I would have a near empty tiffin box with very little food for myself. And the sad part about this whole ritual was that I could never eat the tiffin these other people brought with them because I really couldn't bring myself to eating slices of bread or cold Maggi. It came to a point when one of my class-mates in LH stopped bringing lunch because she would gorge on everyone else's lunch and have her fill. When my Mom started finding out about the misdirected food trail she started providing me with lunch enough to feed four people. But alas, I'd still be holding an empty tiffin box at lunch break. Because no matter how much food I'd carry with me, it would never be enough to feed an army of hungry school girls.

So I spent my entire school life with very little to eat for lunch inspite of carrying an extremely large tiffin box brimming with all kinds of goodies. By the time I went to college I realized it was sort of uncool to carry a large tiffin box with food while the others would be enjoying all the forbidden delights of the college canteen. So I convinced my Mom that we did not have a proper lunch break and we had to eat in the canteen when we managed to find time. Mom was skeptical but I think she understood my need to grow out of the tiffin box. Those were the years when I learnt to enjoy greasy dimer devil, super jhhaal chowmein and gorom cha. So gone were the days of lugging around my tiffin box.

And now after all these years I get to eat Maayer haate banano chowmein (chowmein made by my Mom) for lunch. And I get to eat all of it. By myself. I savored every bit of it and licked the box clean. Gosh it felt good!

What the devil!

2006-06-06T09:37:00.000-04:00

In light of all the buzz about today's date and news on women who have induced labor early to avoid having a baby born today, this is probably the most unreal of them all.

"As your demon child willfully pushes and kicks, causing your lady hole to dilate to the size of a drainage pipe, keep your knees locked together at all times. "
Lady hole....WTF!

"This will give your demanding child a wonderful, early lesson that he can't always have his way. "
Life lessons even before you are born!

"The most reliable method known to Creation Science to get a mother to go instantly into labor is to jump in front of her when she least expects it and scare the dickens out of her."
That's what we do every time we get a post-dated pregnancy.

"make sure that the child is kept in a chicken cage on the hospital floor, and that there are at least two full grown hogs within four feet of the cage at all times. "
All hospitals will be christened zoos henceforth....

" the so-called "taint" (the disagreeable area between the genitals and the anus) is where demons are most likely to post messages for each other."
Why don't they just sms each other?

"Our laboratory and research center will pay $18 a pound (17 cents a pound for mixed race infants) for any child under the age of 6-months. "
Mixing races can cost you dear!

And while you are at it read the ads on the sidebar..... "accept Christ and get a free playstation 2"!

When God Closes a Door, Somewhere He Opens a Window

2006-06-01T09:21:00.000-04:00

I guess He does. Except sometimes it is hard to see beyond the closed door. And we go banging our heads on it. And end up getting hurt with a bump on the head. And still being stuck behind the closed door.

But if we just look around we may see the light coming through the window. And while it may not be the way we wanted to go, it still might be more refreshing than being stuck in a dark room.

Since I've been staring at the closed door for way too long decided to have a peek through my window and here's what I see:

Meeting my parents after all these years and sapping up all the attention and love.

Graduating....officially.

Getting my paper published before all the other competition got theirs out.

Discovering my thesis is being sold on amazon.com which has dubiously given me the distinction of being an author.

Being able to take time off every weekend to go on holidays, from the mountains to the beach.

Being able to spend a lot of time with my nephew and niece who are absolutely adorable and becoming their favorite aunt.

Being able to see beyond the closed door....and seeing the window that is bringing light into my life.

Pulled over

2006-05-30T08:39:00.000-04:00

Got a speeding ticket on the interstate yesterday. This one's a first. Making a sad face and pleading eyes did not cut a deal with the Sheriff. Damn!

More fears (updated)

2006-05-24T14:30:00.000-04:00

Had a tick clinging onto the back of my leg for 55 hours without my knowledge (or permission).

Will I get Lyme's disease?

Update: To answer the question about the 55 hours that so many of you had, I believe I know when the tick latched onto me. This was Sunday early afternoon. I was vacationing on a beach in North Carolina and felt something bite on the leg. I jumped up and shook my leg and saw a big beetle-like insect crawl away and assumed that I had been bitten by that creature. In retrospect, I think the beetle was just taking a stroll near me and it was the tick that had bitten me instead. But I was wearing long pants and did not see the real offender. And I did take a shower right after that and also after returning home and still did not see the tiny critter. It was the back of my leg, for crying out loud, and I did not feel a thing. And I do not have a full length mirror in my bathroom to preen in front of. Therefore....it went undetected until Tuesday evening when I took a shower after returning home from work. And the thing was still clinging on to me. And it was still alive! I have it trapped under a glass for identification purposes.
And no, I do not have a rash or fever or other symptoms.
Yet.
But it is way too early to say. It takes atleast seven days for the disease to start showing symptoms.
Only time will tell.

The fears

2006-05-18T09:46:00.000-04:00

I have a cousin who never used the Calcutta Metro because he had this innate fear of being stuck underground and dying in the train. And then there is Professor T who will drive hundreds of miles to get to a conference rather than taking a flight for fear of the plane crashing. And my mom will never get on a boat because she is convinced that boats are meant to drown and she doesn't know how to swim. People have all kinds of fear. The all pervasive, predominant fear is of dying. No one really wants to die (except may be some lost victims of unrequitted love). And yet, no matter how we try to play it safe by avoiding cars and planes and ships and trains, we never know how things may turn out to be when the time comes. And the truth is one may try his/ her hardest by staying at home thinking it is safe and still be hit by a hurricane or tornado and die. Or just have a heart attack. And die.

Yesterday there was a multi-car pile up on the interstate when I was driving back home which resulted in delays that took upto two hours to get through. And as I sat there in my car wondering about the people who were involved in the crash I had the strangest feeling. What were these people thinking of right before the accident? Were they thinking about some unfinished work in the office? Were they thinking about their family and how much longer it would take to get home? Were they thinking of dinner? Of taking the kids out to the ballgame? Did someone try to cut across another car thinking it would make him go a little faster and end up being the cause of the accident? I have no clue. I don't even know how many people were involved and whether they were alive and okay. But I know of people, friends, who have had accidents on the road. And died. It happens. It happens all the time. And I had the sudden urge to rush back home. To be safe in the arms of my family. To be able to tell them that I love them and how much they mean to me. And that I try to drive safe. But sometimes things happen that you have no control over. People make mistakes. And they suffer. And they make others suffer.

And I couldn't help but think of what it was like for people who are involved in an accident. And what it is like for the family who hear the news. I remember when B was rear-ended on a state highway and his car went and hit the car in front resulting in a three car accident with his car being smashed up on both ends. I saw a picture of the car after the accident and it is unbelievable that someone could walk away unscathed from that. And yet, B did walk out. Unscathed. And I have never been able to thank God enough for that. But I remember the exact moment when I heard the news. And I knew they were taking him to the ER. And although B kept reassuring me that he was okay I was scared out of my wits, sick with worry that he wasn't telling me the whole story. And the only thing that seemed important at that moment was that I needed to reach him and be at his side. Which wasn't easy because he was in Virginia and I was in Chicago. But I did get a flight with relative ease that let me reach his side.

And I know how much B and my parents worry about me driving to work everyday. The rush hour traffic, the thousands of people trying to get to work and home as fast as they can, the cars cutting across lanes squeezing in what little space there is, and the constant stress of staying awake and alert. And I know taking the train is a safer and less stressful option. But I save almost two hours everyday by driving instead of taking the train and I'd rather spend those two hours at home with my family.

So I drive. And I try to drive safe. And I pray that nothing ever happens to me on the road. I pray for myself and I pray for my family. Because I don't want to die. I don't even want to be injured. Like that girl from College Park who had an accident last Thanksgiving and is still in rehab. Or R's brother who is undergoing physiotherapy to get back on his feet, four years after his accident. No, I don't want that to happen to me. Or my family. But one can only hope and pray. And I want my family to know how much they mean to me. And that I love them. Even if I don't get to show it to them as often as I would like. And that I've always wanted them to be proud of me. And not be a burden or a source of unhappiness to them. Ever. And even though there are times when I hurt them without realizing it, I would do anything to keep them safe and happy.

And I am grateful to them for making my life so complete.

Realizations and Celebrations

2006-05-12T11:07:00.000-04:00

I've always questioned the need for a special day to celebrate someone. Why do we need to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries? Why do we have days like Valentine's day and Mother's day and Father's day and the likes? I never thought that I should need a special day earmarked to celebrate any of the persons who make a difference in my life. Why should I be restricted to any one day in the year to say things like "I love you" or "You mean the world to me"? And I refrained from celebrating the so called celebration days simply to prove a point. Therefore I never wined and dined on Valentine's day, never sent a card to Mom on Mother's day or bought a gift for Dad on Father's day. (And the rest of the "days" haven't even registered in my subconscious yet. )

But this year I am having guilty pangs about being totally self-centered. I just look at things from my point of view. I don't do these things because I am only trying to prove a point. But what about the people on the receiving end? May be they have a different point of view and different expectations. May be my Mom keeps checking the mailbox for a card from her daughter who lives across the miles. May be she stays home so that she will not miss the delivery guy when he brings in some flowers. May be she sits by the phone hoping that I will call. May be my Dad checks his email every hour for an email wishing him on the special day. May be they feel sad when they they see others getting cards and gifts and wishes from their children while they sit and wait for something that never comes. May be.

And that makes me such a jerk. For not looking at things from their perspective. For only thinking about myself and how I see things. True, I do not need a special day to celebrate my parents or my husband and my love for them. But I don't go about being very effusive about the way I feel on any of the other days either. So having a day set aside when you can show them with very little effort that you care about them, love them and are grateful for their presence in your life, might not be such a bad thing. Because I for one find it very difficult to say the things that I feel inside of me. I find it easier to write. Yet I can never show them what I write. No one in my family has ever read one line from my blog. And I am glad. Because I'd be too embarassed to write the things I want to say to them if I know that they are going to read it.

My family loves me too much to ever tell me that they are disappointed by my indifferent attitude on a day that they expect to be special. And may be all they ever want is me to acknowledge their presence in my life and wish them. That is not asking for too much. And I ask myself why after all these years did this realization suddenly dawn on me? Why have I never thought about it before? I know how much the little gestures mean to my family. And it takes so little to bring a smile, spread some joy and make someone feel special.

So this year I aim to make the most of the situation. My parents will be with me on both Mother's day as well as Father's day. I will celebrate the days and what they are all about by making my parents feel loved and special on the days that have been earmarked for them. I will never let another special day go by with having my loved ones feeling disappointed and sad. And as for B, it is our anniversary this weekend. I promise to make it up to him too.

To Sir with love

2006-05-09T14:36:00.000-04:00

PGO, this one's for you!

Had thought of doing a post on some of my favorite teachers a while back. The ones that left the deepest mark on my life, the ones that shaped my future, walked me through troubled childhood and adolescence and made me who I am today. But that never got written. So this post is essentially an off-shoot of that imaginary post (which I still intend to write at some point). This is my tribute to PGO, the person who has been my guide and advisor, encouraging me to find my way in unchartered waters. And most importantly teaching me how to love and embrace a subject that I had been totally unfamiliar with until I met him.

I met PGO in the Spring of 2001. He was warm, charming, enthusiastic about my abilities and wanting to work with him, and willing to take a chance on me inspite of my doing miserably in course work the previous semester. Not only did he walk me through my project and how he envisioned things in the future, he approached each step with an explanation of what I was aiming to do, how to go about it and what I expect to get out of it. It was the best thing that could have happened to me. I was treading on absolute unfamiliar territory here. Never been taught the subject in school or college, everything was a constant source of the unknown, more questions and non-stop bewilderment. Yet, PGO was patient, never laughed at my lack of knowledge, always encouraging me to explore and learn and teaching me to face failure and be able to find the path to success.

Graduate school is never easy. And I have seen my share of frustrations and failed experiments. I've quit on my project and my career a million times in my head over the course of the next few years. But I've never seen PGO give up. On me or my project. He taught me to think for myself, to analyze problems and learn to get around obstacles. I don't think I would have made it without his support, encouragement and advise. And every step of the way he never failed to tell me how good I was doing, and how hard I worked and to hang in there and everything would work out. And even though I may have been skeptical, somewhere inside a little piece of me wanted to believe in him. And myself.

And to my surprise I survived. And when I was ready to defend my dissertation PGO introduced me in words that I'll never forget. He called my research "ground-breaking work" and the "best science to come out his lab". And he had tears in his eyes when he hugged me and wished me luck. That was last year.

This weekend PGO officially hooded me at the Graduation ceremony. I don't think there is anything more rewarding than being able to don the graduation robe and walk with the person who has shown you the path.

Thank you PGO for all your support and help! This one's for you..........

Breaking news

2006-05-04T14:13:00.000-04:00

I received an email yesterday from a family friend asking me to take a look at a sonography report of his sister and give my opinion on it. I agreed to do so not knowing how difficult it might become for me. This person's sister is in Calcutta. The sonography report was generated out of a lab in Calcutta. As I briefly read the report I suddenly realized that I was looking at a report of someone with possible kidney failure. I did not have any lab reports to validate my suspicion but the report seemed pretty unambiguous.

To my friend the report made no sense. All he had deciphered was the kidneys were smaller in size bilaterally and that some tests were being suggested to confirm parenchymal damage. Yet with my limited knowledge it seemed quite apparent to me that the patient had some major renal damage. Which brought me to the question about how I wanted to tell our friend that there was something really bad going on here. Like I said before and also being mentioned here, I know the right thing would be tell the family exactly what was going on, so that they could get the much needed treatment. Yet, I find myself in confusion, hesitating about how I should break such unpleasant news. And I realize how hard it is for doctors to be the bearer of bad tidings. No matter how hardened you are and how the years have seasoned you through watching endless sick and dying patients, it never changes. You always have a hard time breaking bad news to the family. You feel obligated not to crush the hope that the family has put in you. People think doctors are miracle workers. That they can always provide cure. But there is so much one can do.

I wish I could tell my friend that all was well. But I could not. I had to tell him the truth. Sometimes I hate having to do this.

Sugar and Spice and all things nice

2006-05-01T10:43:00.000-04:00

They say everything in this world is cyclical. What goes up must come down. And vice versa. Gloom, misery and depression cannot last forever either. And I'd be lying if I said that I was not happy. I apologize to everyone who's been here on my blog enquiring after me and how things were with me. I know I haven't been very communicative lately. And I never got around to answering any of the questions that were posed. Do forgive my silence and moodiness. Hopefully someday I may be able to come face to face with my emotions and be able to talk about it. Hopefully. Someday.

For those of you who expressed delight at my being "back": I was never away. Just spaced out. And trying to find some answers. And I appreciate all the good wishes since my last post, including this mention (thanks r.i.m.).

As far as whether my temporary hiatus had any effect: well, no. I did not achieve what I had hoped for. I never realized the dream that I was trying to reach out for. Am I disappointed? Of course I am. Am I giving up on my dream? Hell, no. I'm stubborn and I have faith. And I am going to keep on trying. And like I said before, I'll at the least end up landing in the stars. And I will know. I tried my hardest. And I'll learn to accept that. May be.

They say human beings have an uncanny ability of dealing with most every situation. All they need is to know what is happening. It is the uncertainty of a situation which is the hardest to deal with.

Right now, I am happy. Can't help it. My parents are here. I'm meeting my Dad after 4 years. Can you believe that? 4 really long years. And my Mom says you can actually see the effect this is having on him. Overnight he seems to have lost some ten years, discovered some secret source of youth and energy. He's happy. And content. Overjoyed at seeing me. And glad to be able to spend this time with us.

So now I can look forward to warm home cooked meals waiting on the table when I get home from work. Am I glad my Mom is here! I demand and expect. Without hesitation. Just pretending to be a child again. Knowing that this safe haven is not going to last when they go back home. When I will have to grow up and be responsible again. For decisions, for meals, for keeping house, for myself, for my family.

But until then.....I can take refuge and be ten years old.

And so it is

2006-04-26T12:00:00.000-04:00

And so it goes on.

The journey of the weary traveller. One step at a time. Dragging each leaden foot, the weight bearing down on the soul. Down the tunnel in the inky darkness into an unknowing future brimming with uncertainities. Drowning in a well of self-despair and worthlessness. Struggling to keep afloat. Battling the demons that threaten to stiffle out the last flicker of hope.

Trudging along, one step at a time.
Never giving up.
Never.

And so it is.

Note to people who still stop by:
Can't believe that you guys are still here! Cannot express how much that means to me. Thanks for all the kind words and support. May be someday I will be able to look back and reflect on these days and be able to write about it.

On a happier note:
Spring is here, the grass is absolutely green, the flowers are in bloom, the birds are chirping and building nests, the deer are starting to move back into the mountains, the days are longer. My lawn looks fantastic (although it is too early to say if the crabgrass will rear its ugly head in summer). My herbs are growing. The daffodils and tulips look beautiful in the front yard. The Japanese maple tree has never looked better. We have tons of cardinals, warblers, finches, woodpeckers, bluebirds, banana-birds, robins frequenting the bird houses. Got a new dining table and recessed lights in the living room and study. Met up with old school friends at a reunion that we organized and had a trip down nostalgia. Got my paper accepted in a journal that I wanted. And my parents will be visiting us for the next few weeks. It's been too long. Way too long. I can barely wait..........

Giving up

2006-03-16T09:37:00.000-05:00

I always thought that people should not start something that they cannot stand by. I believe in taking a decision and standing by it. No matter how hard it is. I also thought people who stopped blogging after a few months were weak and unable to stand by their decision. Blogging to me was more than just spending time on the internet. It was a window into people's lives and beliefs. It was a window that let the sun come into my life. And let me be myself.

Have you ever given up something that you really love because you think your sacrifice might make things right again?

Will be unavailable......indefinitely.

The Blank Noise Project

2006-03-07T09:19:00.000-05:00

Read about the Blank Noise project and wanted to support it by putting in my two cents. I know I am late, but they say "Better Late than Never". And after all it is never too late to do something good.

Street Harassment.
What can I say about street harassment that hasn't been said by hundreds and thousands of women all over the country? We've all been victims at some point in life and we've found our own ways of dealing with it. We've been jostled, prodded, groped....anytime the perpetrator felt the need to and was reassured of his getting away with it.....in a crowd.

I can't even remember any more when it first started. Or how I learnt defensive techniques of evading these men, by squirming or moving away at the last instant, or by holding my bag behind me so that it would form a barrier between my bottom and any unwanted visitors. I never gave it back to these creatures by calling out their bluff. Because I was embarrased that this was happening to me. Because I was nervous. Because I was the kind who hates drawing attention to herself. And yes, there are women like me. And year after year, these men get away with it. And women go on being victims.

The one incident I would like to share is something that happened on the streets of Calcutta. A city that has been touted as being safe for women. I was walking down the road to the bus stop near the Tollygunje Police Station. Now how much safer can you get, right? You have the P.S. bang in front of you. And it was around 4:30, so it wasn't even dark outside. There were people out on the street, taking a stroll, chatting with each other, children playing. You get the scene. And here I was walking down, trying to make it to the bus stop. I spot a group of young men coming towards me from the other side. Now my natural instinct put me on my guard. You adapt to these instincts if you are a girl growing up in a big city. Right when these guys came across me I could hear them passing comments and smiling at me. I kept on walking trying my best not to look at anyone and pretend like I didn't see them. And then one of the guys decided to get a little bolder. He reached out, touched me and grabbed my dupatta and bag. I tried jerking his grip off and fought to break free. Now there were atleast twenty people all around us on the street. Some even stopped what they were doing and stared. And while I was crying for help and fighting off this guy, not a single person intervened or came to my help. And all the while his friends just laughed and cheered him on. When I finally freed myself and got away I remember running the rest of the way with tears streaming down my face. When I reached home I wept. For myself for not being strong enough to hold my own. For every girl who has to face this kind of harassment. For the city that prides itself on being safe. For the myth that Calcutta is a city with a heart.

Eve-teasing has become a way of life in India. We live with it and grow up with it. And I truly believe none of the guys who read my blog have ever done anything so gross. Yet, there are hundreds and thousands of men who do harass and take advantage of women on the streets. The one time I saw anyone take a stand against eve-teasing was on a crowded bus where a man was trying to shove his hard-on into my backside and this young gentleman who saw what was happening started shouting at this man and made sure that he was forced to get off the bus. I salute men who stand up for the harassment women go through everyday on the streets. And I salute the people who are taking a stand against street harassment. And if getting on my computer and posting this prevents even a single incident of eve-teasing, then I will consider this my most significant post ever.

Choosing my day

2006-03-03T09:34:00.000-05:00

It started off as a really bad morning. Well, first I lost my ring. Then I spilt coffee all over the place. I ended up leaving the house late hoping to still make it to the train station on time (considering the traffic is always lighter on Fridays). Unfortunately there was a trailer that had an accident and was on fire on the interstate which meant traffic was backed up both ways for miles and people were taking shortcuts through the by-lanes. I not only missed my train but was beginning to doubt if I'd make it in time for the next one. I would have missed the next one too because there was this freight train stalled on the tracks that I needed to cross before I got to the station. I finally got through and made it to the station. It took me exactly one hour and ten minutes to get from my house to the train station. A distance of 2.5 miles. Ridiculous, wouldn't you agree? And that means I am in a really bad mood. Grrrr.....

It started off as a morning that could have been bad, but turned out pretty great after all. Well, I lost my ring. But I found it again hiding under the comforter. Then I spilt coffee all over the place. But I was lucky that I had a tray and all the coffee split on the tray, sparing the brand new carpet in the bedroom. I missed my train. It took over an hour to reach the train station when it should take less than ten minutes. Ridiculous, agreed. But I still made it to the next train and reached work before nine. I mean, it could've been so much worse. Right? I think it is going to be a beautiful day.

Strange isn't it how we look at things? React to them in different ways. Someone sent me a very nice email about a 90-10 principle in life. Things that we do not have control on, that happen to us out of the blue make up about 10 percent of the situation. How we react to them makes up the other 90 percent. We can choose to be angry, we can choose to be in a bad mood, we can choose to blame everything around us and have a bad day. Or we can choose to look on the brighter side and realize how lucky we were that it wasn't any worse. We can choose to have a beautiful day instead.

Because you let me

2006-02-27T13:20:00.000-05:00

You let me walk all over you. And you still love me.

I know I can say anything I want without fear of losing you, do anything I feel like and still have you understand, be anything I want to be and you'll still support me. Because you let me be myself.

When I'm down in the dumps and vent all my frustration on you.....you let me. Because you understand. You listen to all my rants, my crazy ideas, my impossible dreams, my unreachable goals, my endless aspirations. And you teach me to aim higher. You make me believe in myself. And you never give up hope. Never.

And through all my crazy changes, from changing names to careers to geographic locations, you've given me unwavering support. Without questioning me. Even once.

You keep on giving. Trust, love, understanding. Unconditionally.
And I keep on taking. Everything. For granted.
And I keep coming back for more.

I never thank you enough........ To my parents with gratitude, M

Down on my knees

2006-02-21T11:54:00.000-05:00

I am not a very religious person. That does not mean that I am an atheist. Or even agnostic. (Although sometimes I wish that we could get rid of religion altogether from this world to free ourselves of all the political unrest that is being caused by religious sentiments). It just means I am not a very religious person. I do not go to the temple on the first weekend every month. I do not quote shloks from the Gita to prove a point. I do not burst into enthusiastic Om Jai Jagadish Hare at social gatherings. I do not see the point of fighting and killing each other over religion. I do not see why we need to break down mosques to build a temple, or why we have to burn people because they are Christians, or why we have to set fire to a train because it is stashed with Hindus, or destroy entire populations because they practice a different faith.

Yet sometimes I just go down on my knees and pray like crazy.

Usually it is when I feel very helpless and scared. When I truly believe I need a miracle, some kind of divine intervention to make things right in my life.

I pray.

Yipee!

2006-02-14T15:48:00.000-05:00

I just realized that after a long time I am getting to see the sun come up when I leave my house in the morning. And if I'm lucky I may even catch the last rays of daylight when I get back home.

Three cheers for long summer days that are just around the corner!

Is Ignorance bliss?

2006-02-10T10:09:00.000-05:00

There's this strange thing with a lot of Indian families that I know. They refuse to talk about disease and illness.

I do not mean the everyday cough and cold and associated silly things. That they love to discuss. Anytime you ask someone how they're doing they will launch a huge monologue about how sick they've been and how weak they feel and how distressful everything around them is. You ask any Bengali "kemon achhen" (how are you) and you get an "aar bolben na....." (don't even begin to ask....). But this post is about a different kind of illness. You know something major. Like heart disease or cancer. Especially cancer. Somehow the thought of something really fatal afflicting them seems unpalatable and unacceptable to most Indian families. So they just block the thought. They refuse to find out more and they refuse to talk about it. Take the example of RD, a distant uncle of ours. He started losing weight and had this terrible pain in his tummy for sometime before he went to see the doctor. After a lot of investigations, labs and ultrasounds and CT scans he was diagnosed with cancer. Now everytime I'd enquire about what the specific diagnosis was, everyone in RD's family would just clamp up. It was like this real secret hush-hush thing that people refused to talk about. I understand that the family goes into denial and that it is hard to accept something like this. But guys, there are treatment options and the better informed you are, the better your chances of finding a way out. To cut a long story short, RD pased away last year with very little treatment done to alleviate his condition and us still not knowing what he had been diagnosed with. Was it his liver, pancreas, stomach, colon? And I try telling everyone that it is better to know because then you are better prepared for what may be in store. For example there are genes that predispose you to a certain kind of cancer. I know that recognizing that I am genetically predisposed for a particlar kind of cancer will not stop me from getting the disease, but it can save my life. I can have regular check ups to catch it sooner and get it out while it might not be too late to do anything.

I know people who refuse to go see a doctor for annual check ups for the fear of finding out some hidden disease. They tell me, they'd rather not know. Is this crazy or what? Why are people so scared of finding the truth about their bodies? Wouldn't you rather know early and be able to treat it than be diagnosed with something fatal much later when there is no going back? And why are people so secretive about their illness. Wouldn't you want your family to know that you have a particular disease so that they can get a genetic screen done to check out if they are at a higher risk of getting the same? I guess which is why there are still people in India suffering and dying from diseases that could have been diagnosed and treated early. I had an uncle in his forties who died from malignant malaria, a cousin who was in her teens who died from hepatitis B, an aunt in her fifties who had ovarian cancer and an uncle in his fifties who died of some mysterious cancer of the abdomen that we have no clue whatsoever. All people I knew and cared about. All of them died prematurely. And all these deaths could have been prevented, had they been diagnosed and treated a little early.

And yet, people still turn a blind eye to early diagnosis and prevention. They live their lives pretending that nothing bad could ever happen to them. And refusing to have an annual check up done for the fear of being diagnosed with some disease that they were unaware of. I find that frustrating.

Ignorance is bliss? Not always. Definitely not always.

You made my day

2006-02-07T09:19:00.000-05:00

To the kid who SO made my day...........

Sometime last evening on reaching home after a long day at work.

The front doorbell rings and I go to check who it is.

Boy (in his teens) selling charity tickets for wheelchair bound neighborhood kids: Could you get me either of your parents to talk to?

Me standing there a little taken aback, thinking....my parents?....O my God he thinks I'm underage and he needs to talk to an adult....O MY GOD he thinks I'm UNDERAGE......O MY GOD......I can still pull it off.....I still look young......My God I look like a teenager......O MY GOD!!!!!

Okay that entire piece of conversation was in my head and took a fraction of a second.

Me giving my bestest and friendliest smile: I don't have my parents here. You can talk to me. I live here.

Boy a little taken aback and totally embarrassed: I'm sorry. You look so young!

Me dancing around (in my head ofcourse) with joy: No problem. What can I do for you?

I still can't stop smiling.

I feel good.

Kid, you made my day!

National Wear Red Day

2006-02-03T09:26:00.000-05:00

Okay so I'm wearing my red sweater to work today to show my support for women's heart disease awareness.

February 3, 2006 is National Wear Red Day.

Granted I had no clue that such a day existed until yesterday. Also granted that I detest the countless made-up "days" that people come up with (you know "sweetest day" and the likes). But when I read about wearing red to promote awareness of risk factors for heart disease and taking action to lower it I decided to lend my support to the cause. Did you know that heart disease is the number one killer of women, far more than the number that die from breast cancer?

We CAN make a difference. I read that Americans can lower their risk of heart disease by as much as 82 percent by leading a healthy lifestyle, by controlling risk factors like high blood pressure, diabetes, high cholesterol, obesity, smoking and physical inactivity.

And in other news......today is Saraswati Pujo. Saraswati, the Goddess of knowledge. Still remember the early morning Pujo at home, putting all my school text books at the feet of the Goddess and praying Joyo Joyo Debi, the garlands of marigold, the proshad, eating kul, and most of all, not having to study the whole day.

That was then. This is now.

Ma.... bidye dao.....budhi dao....

Tagged.....(read only if you are really bored)

2006-02-02T13:00:00.000-05:00

Finally got around to responding to the tag by True Blue Guy. Although I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would be remotely interested in reading my list. Nevertheless..........

My perfect lover is male and 8 things that I like about him are:

1. Intelligent and smart
2. Adventurous with a passion for living
3. Witty with a sense of humor
4. Sensitive and thoughtful
5. Honest and straightforward
6. Romantic
7. Respect and value human beings
8. Love and care for all animals (esp. homeless and unwanted ones)

Rules

1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. Need to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there’s no need to post again.

Post script

Did my part but am refraining from tagging anyone else. If someone reads this and wishes to respond to the tag he/ she is most welcome. Would love to know about your dream man/ woman and what your heart so desires.

My Sudoku

2006-01-31T09:26:00.000-05:00

After putting off familiarizing myself with Sudoku for months I finally tried my hand at solving a few puzzles last weekend and just reconfirmed my initial suspicions regarding the puzzle that has taken over the civilized world lately. It's way too trivial to be worth my while. I tried a couple of the so called "hard" ones and went through the numbers like a flash. It just seemed too obvious and easy for me. If that is the best this puzzle can offer I dread to think what the easy ones must be like.

I've watched hundreds and thousands of men and women on the train pouring over the daily Sudoku in the newspaper having fun solving it. And Sudoku was everywhere. They had it in the newspaper, they had books dedicated entirely to these puzzles, you could download it on your laptop, you could print it out from the internet....people commute with sheafs of Sudoku in their bags, they go over it while they are waiting for their train, they go over it while they are in the train, even when they are standing. And I am convinced they do Sudoku even when they are in bed! And I've always wondered what is it about Sudoku that is so addictive, so gratifying, so unputdownable (my apologies to The Telegraph).

And now I know. It is the relative ease of the puzzle, the challenge that can be overcome that brings these poor souls to Sudoku. I mean how many people do you know who can solve crossword puzzles with ease? Not that many. Because you need to have some kind of knowledge base to be able to succeed in that. But not with Sudoku. It is the perfect ego-satisfying game. One where you think you are being challenged and one where you can meet the challenge and emerge victorious. And that makes people feel good. And it doesn't take that long to solve the puzzle either. It is a perfect time-pass for the short commute on the train. It keeps one busy, it gives one a challenge and it rewards with gratification.

And that is something that I do not find stimulating. If everyone on God's green earth can Sudoku then it is an insult to my intelligence to spend time doing something that trivial. Give me something else......give me the Mensa challenge. I know I sound like some egoistical bastard. But I have a problem boosting my ego solving a problem that can be done by anyone and everyone. That to me ceases to be a challenge. The only ego boost that I get is when I see myself doing something that most people fail to do, something different, something difficult, something that sets me apart. There was something that Rabindranath Tagore wrote in Shesher Kobita that echoes what I am trying to say here. I do not want to be someone in a crowd, I want to be the one, separate and different than the rest. That is my Sudoku.

My Cousin PR

2006-01-24T16:00:00.000-05:00

I just spoke to my aunt B this morning and she asked me to find a nice girl for my cousin PR because it seems he really wants to settle down in life and get married. What really amazes me is the fact that PR has so far been unsuccessful in finding a girl to marry him. He's reasonably good looking with the cutest dimples that I always envied when we were kids. He works out a lot and has a great physique. So he's not the tallest guy I've met, but what do you expect when most men in my family have an average height of 5' 6"! So he did not end up doing a lot of higher studies unlike most of my other cousins, but he graduated alright and is making a decent living for himself. He has a flat, a car, a job and I'm assuming some money (don't I sound really materialistic?) ......he has a nice personality from the little I remember of him from our growing up years. And yet, he still does not have a girlfriend? Am I missing something here? Come on, every Tom, Dick and Harry in Calcutta has a girlfriend even before they land up in college. Okay, so PR did not do his school or college in Calcutta, or India for that matter. But he has spent the last six or seven years in Calcutta finding himself a job, working hard at it, doing pretty well and interacting with a whole lot of people. And yet he did not find a girlfriend!

From what I remember of PR he was a really sweet guy. Girls adored his American drawl and his cute accented bangla. He was funny and he was very affectionate. He used to flirt around with Bubs, a very close friend of mine who unfortunately for PR had a boyfriend and and things never went any further. I kind of lost touch with PR over the years and have seen him only twice in the last ten years or so. And I honestly believe PR is the kind of person a lot of girls would like to be with, yet he would have a hard time getting someone to marry him. And it's probably because of my aunt B. Aunt B is the biggest influence in PR's life and he adores her. And as much as aunt B is a wonderful, passionate, determined, aggressive, intelligent and loving woman, her colorful and mystical lifestyle has made and broken PR's life in ways that cannot be fathomed.

Aunt B separated from her husband and got a divorce when PR was only 4 years old. As a mother she got custody and PR stayed on with her. She met someone a year later and remarried only to find out that this guy was a jerk, a sick man who was an alcoholic and physically abused both mother and son. Aunt B left her second husband and tried making a living for herself and PR for the next few years. When PR was in his early teens Aunt B returned to her home in India to re-build her life the way she saw fit. She married again. PR could not adjust to the life in India and went to live with his Dad in the States. He finished school and college and decided to move in with his mother who by that time was divorced and living by herself. PR struggled to adjust to the life in India and sheer determination and a fierce love for his mother saw him through everything. He found a job and worked hard to make a living for himself and his mother. He stood by his Mom inspite of every little pressure that our middle class Indian society thrusts upon a woman who's been divorced a number of times and yet strives to make her place in the world. He stood by her while she battled cancer and survived. He loved and protected her with all the passion he was capable of. And now at a time when he would like to settle down and live his own life society thinks twice before letting him find a bride. Probably because he carries the stigma of his mother's personal life. Probably because he is the fruit of a loveless marriage, a broken family, disruptive childhood, abuse and mental torture. Nobody will ever know what PR's childhood was like......how he felt, what he went through, and why he became the person he is today. I give him a lot of credit for turning out to be such a decent person, someone with so much love in his heart, someone who made something out of his broken up life. I would not have been surprised if given the circumstances that PR was growing up in, had he turned to drugs or anti-social activities. Yet he emerged a survivor. And I admire him for that.

And I would like to find PR a nice girl. Someone who would understand him and where he is coming from. Someone who would understand his love for his mother. Someone who would understand and accept aunt B for what she is. Someone who would love him and give him the love he so deserves.

I have no idea where to find her.

Random thoughts on a can't-wait-to-go-home friday afternoon

2006-01-20T15:39:00.000-05:00

Have you noticed how some people have this really peculiar and irritating way of saying "uh-huh" after everything you say? Sing-songy and nerve-rackingly bothersome. I hate it.

And where are all the blogs that I read disappearing to? Is this some kind of conspiracy to leave me out? I'm tired of seeing:

The requested URL was not found on this server. Please visit the Blogger homepage or the Blogger Knowledge Base for further assistance.

What the....!

Being human

2006-01-13T09:30:00.000-05:00

I gave up my seat to a blind man on the train this morning. You may be wondering what the big deal is about and I sincerely hope that you are wondering, because that would say that we are thinking along similar lines here.

You see I've been noticing a really strange trend in people these days. Most people on the street seem to have lost all sense of compassion and humanity, assuming there was some to start with in the first place. For example this morning on the train which was fairly crowded considering the morning rush hour, I see a blind person board the car that I was in. Now every car has these priority seats for seniors and persons with disabilities. The blind guy heads for the priority seat which of course was occupied by regular morning commuters. Meanwhile I am sitting a few seats away expecting one of the guys to jump up and offer this man his seat. And strangely neither one of them got up. One of them turned his face away and pretended to be unaware that this guy standing in front of him is disabled while the other one closed his eyes and continued listening to music on his iPod. And all the other people in around this person either look away or keep staring and do nothing. Now all of this happened in a few seconds but to me it seemed to stretch out for an eternity without anyone moving a muscle to help this poor guy. Now I jump up and go to this person and tell him that there's a seat for him at the back and guide him to where I had been sitting a few minutes back. This guy thanks me and I get a few stares from people around me and that was it.....life chugs on.

The whole incident was probably trivial and no one is going to remember it, yet it left such an impression on me. I've been taking the train during rush hour every morning and evening and have given up my seat countless times to seniors, pregnant ladies and once to a girl with a plaster on her feet and walking on a crutch. Yet, never did I see anyone else jumping up and offering his/ her seat. I don't even see the hesitation or a look of concern or something that says that this person is contemplating offering his seat to someone who may need it more. And I ask myself what is wrong with these people? Are they blind or without a heart or simply so selfish that all they care about is the warm seat that they are occupying and cannot think beyond their own needs? And then there are these people who are crowding near the door so that they can get off the train at their stop to rush up the escalator before the others. And they stand near the door many stations ahead of theirs, simply to make sure that they are the first ones to get off. They do not care if others have trouble getting in or out, they do not care that if they crowd the doorway other people have trouble getting into the center of the car which of course is relatively less crowded. They will push and trample over your feet and still be unapologetic in their urgency to get out before anyone else does. And agreed everyone is in a rush to get home and everyone has other things to do but that does not give one the reason to be selfish and so unconcerned about their fellow-passengers. It just amazes me that I see more and more of these people than the ones who show a little concern for others. And it makes me sick.

Are we really so caught up in our own world, so stressed out with life's challenges and so very preoccupied with our own needs that we fail to appreciate the niceties of human nature? That I see this attitude on a daily basis really breaks my heart, makes me lose faith in humanity.

And please when you read this don't say things like "you did a good thing this morning". Please don't. There was nothing "good" about it and I do not deserve applause for doing something that was the only right thing to do. I am not exceptional when I say I have compassion, I feel and I care. I am only human. And hopefully what a normal human should be like. And I only pray to God that may there never be a time and place when I am so blinded with my own needs that I forget to be what I am. Human. So next time you are on a train or a bus look around you and see if there is anyone else who may need the seat that you are in and please don't look away and pretend that you do not notice. Do something right. Live a little better.

To clean or not to

2006-01-06T09:22:00.000-05:00

I believe that I'm turning into a clean-freak. It is something that I've been noticing in myself lately. Everything around me has to be spotless, organized and clean. Last week with my house brimming with family I was constantly cleaning up after people......I ran the laundry every single day.....I cleaned and vacuumed and tidied up given half a chance. And trust me with little kids running around and throwing food everywhere it was not easy. You see lately we've have been keeping the house spotless and to see rice strewn across the dining room rug or spilled curry on the table cloth or coffee stains on the kitchen counter or toys laid out strategically at the bottom of the stairs is well....disturbing. My counter tops have to be gleaming, spotless......my floors clean and sparkling.....my rugs smelling fresh and clean.....everything needs to be in the right place or else we call it "clutter". You get my point, right? I know what you are thinking and trust me, I am thinking the exact same thing. This reaction is not normal. Some folks may call it OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) but honestly it's not that bad. Yet.

And I blame it all on B because he is the one who started it and considering the kind of influence he has on me this freaky cleanliness is creeping onto me quite steadily. You see, I was so unlike this. When I was living with my parents my room was the only eye-sore in the entire house. My parents are both neat and clean people. They believe in keeping the house spotless too. Both of them. Usually the women in the house are the ones who are tidying up and keeping things clean. But in our house even my Dad would do his share. He would clean up after he used the bathroom, wipe off all the water from the faucet after his morning shower to prevent water marks and stains. I used to complain that our house did not feel like a home because it was too clean, too nice, more like a model home. It did not have a lived-in look or feel to it. In contrast my room had books all over the place, clothes hanging across the back of my chair, stuff everywhere. That was me. And that is what made me comfortable.

And now, this is me. The very same person who enjoyed disorder and chaos to give a place the lived-in feel. Now she freaks out when things are not in order. I can't believe this is happening to me. OCD? Nooooooo. I don't wash my hands compulsively. I don't check the lock on the door a million times each night. I'm still normal, right?

O brother

2005-12-22T11:13:00.000-05:00

Okay so I'm going to be mostly gone for the next week or so. That does not mean I will not surface from time to time.....but for the most part it will be kind of irregular. So my kind reader, please bear with me.

After a good many years this is one Christmas that will be spent with a lot of family. My sis-in-law will be here with her family which is always nice. And then my cousin P will be here the whole week between Christmas and New Year. And my other cousin B who I mentioned in a previous post will be here for the New year's weekend with his family. People all dear to me. And it promises to be a fun week ahead.

Last time I wrote about my cousins I promised to write a sequel with snippets about the ones I left out in that post. And I never did. However with P coming over this weekend and me being totally excited about seeing him after all this time, just couldn't help but stir up my treasure chest of nostalgia. So do forgive me if I sound all soppy again.

P is my Kaku's son, six years younger to me and as close as it gets to being my own brother. I still remember the day when he was born in our nursing home in South Calcutta. I was really excited about having a kid brother and couldn't wait for him to get out of Kaki's tummy. I remember the first time I laid eyes on him. He was in the nursery with a bunch of other newborns, wrapped up in many, many layers, sleeping peacefully. Minu-di-pishi who was the nurse on duty took him out of the crib, ever so gently, and brought him over to the window so that I could get a better look at the tiny little thing. And I looked at him in total awe, wondering how on earth this tiny little specimen of humanity would ever be able to play with me. And then the next week Kaki brought him home and to me he did not look any bigger or stronger than what I remembered from my first visit. I distinctly remember everyone fussing over him. He was the first boy in the house in our generation and we had a constant stream of relatives and well-wishers pouring in to see the little one. I was allowed to hold him, play with his little fingers and shower my affection on him. To me he was like a living doll that I could play with. And I was so interested in all the new things that sprung up since P arrived......like gripe water (which I thought was a very nice thing to drink) and jars of baby food ( I so wanted to taste the Cerelac) and all the Johnson's baby products...the powder and soap and shampoo.

And slowly P started growing up. He learnt to roll over and smile....he learnt to sit up on his own....mouth garbled words that sounded like ba-ba-ba....he took his first steps.....he started to walk and run and play. And all of a sudden he appeared to be more interesting than I had given him credit when I had first laid eyes on him. He called me Didia. And he followed me everywhere and wanted to do everything that I ever did. He adored me. And I loved him like crazy. Here was one person who actually looked up to me and I could boss around if I felt like taking advantage of my six years of seniority.

I think one of the biggest scares P gave us was when he was barely two and had to undergo a hernia operation. I remember how tiny and frail he looked on the huge hospital bed. Kaki stayed with him the whole time. Daddy was in the O.T. during the surgery while the rest of us waited outside with bated breath. I still remember the gush of relief that swept over us when Daddy came out along with the surgeon who was smiling and reassured us that everything had gone well. P had a second hernia operation a couple of years later and then another one to remove his adenoids. To me who had never spent a day in the hospital it seemed like P was a very weak and sick kid who I had to protect. And I was ever so protective of him. I would defend him, spoil him silly and love him with all my heart. I gave up eating icecreams because P had a tonsil problem and was not allowed to have anything cold. I would accompany him to school, listen to all his tales about his friends, spend hours playing carrom, chess, badminton and tag, come up with new ideas to build things, do stuff, have fun.

And with the years we just grew closer. I still remember the last year that I spent at home right before I got married, P would spend every waking hour at home with me. I guess he had realized that I would be leaving soon and had started missing me in a way. He was busy at that time with school and tuitions and friends......yet, the moment he came back home, he would run up the stairs and come into my room, sit on my bed and give me a detailed account of his entire day's activities. He would tell me about all his troubles at school, keep me up to date on his numerous girlfriends and listen to any advise that I handed out regarding life. The last Christmas I spent at home, feeling sad and lonely because B was in the US and my parents were out, P bought me a Christmas tree so that I could cheer up and decorate it and not feel so blue.

And although it has been several years since then, to me P will still be my little kid brother and I love him exactly the same way I did back then. I asked him last night if he wanted to eat anything special when he would be here with us and he said in a sheepish voice, "luchi". So if you find me missing this following week, you'll know where I am....making luchi, alur dom and fish-fry for my kid brother. So you'll excuse me, won't you?

Gentlemen prefer.......

2005-12-16T11:08:00.000-05:00

Beauty is only skin deep. Right? Apparently not. Okay let me elaborate a little on what a funny realization I had over the past week.

I had a haircut last weekend. Okay........ what's the big deal, you ask me. Well you see this was my first proper "haircut" in say, ten years. I know you are wondering which end of the planet I just sprung from. Well you see I wear my hair kind of long. I mean it is really, really long. And all I've ever done to it in this last decade is just trimmed off the end to avoid getting split ends (I know I'm losing you guys....but the girls will know what I'm talking about). And since it reaches to beyond my waist I felt that leaving it open would not only be messy but would pose to be a dangerous thing with the potential of getting my tresses tangled in barbed wires and the like. Hence....for the last eight years or so I've been piling up my hair into a bun that sits a little above the nape of my neck. It was convenient, hassle free, low maintenence and best of all, nobody noticed the split ends!

Okay the downside to this whole hair-bun thingy was that B hated it and I wasn't particularly fond of the "look" myself. Yes, I would let my hair down occasionally, you know for a family photo or something, but I could never wear it down when I went out. And everytime B would mention doing something different with my hair I would start off a sob story about how ugly my hair-ends looked and how very inconvenient it was to leave it hanging down my back. Now, my patient reader (if you've lasted this long) you may ask, if I was having so much trouble with long hair, why did I not cut it off ? Well you see......that is where my false sense of vanity pops in. The fact is I love my hair. It is straight and sleek and very black. And it took me a long time to get it to grow this long. And the thought of chopping it off just made me shudder. And then, B just adores long hair. I think it is a guy thing. Most men I know seem to have a penchant for long hair. And he would probably just leave me if I did actually cut off my hair. So you see, the bun thingy persisted in tormenting our lives, everyday for the last few years.

Then last weekend I decided I had enough of this and wanted to get my hair in shape so that I could do something more pleasing with it. And so I went into a salon and told them that I wanted to cut my hair shorter but not too short (you see, B and I had already decided what the critical length was for him to be able to still live with me). And I let my hair down. You should have seen the look on this lady's face when she saw how long it was. She was almost sorry to have to cut it off. Anyway, we went through the whole routine....shampoo the hair, chop it off, decide if the length was acceptable, dry it, spray something to get rid of fly-aways and polish it off with a serum to give it gloss. And at the end of it she gave me this beautiful mane that boasted of layers, some framing my face, some a little longer, but the overall length reaching halfway down my back. Which was a beautiful length. Long, but not that long and definitely not short. I was pleased. In fact, very very pleased and couldn't stop preening in front of the mirror for the next hour or so (which if you know me is highly uncharacteristic of my normal no-nonsense self). And B was very pleased too.

After that I simply stopped tying up my hair. No more braiding the hair at night because it makes the hair look awfully wavy in the morning when you unbraid it....and no more piling it into a bun because that made the ends turn scraggly. So this whole week I have been going to work with my hair hanging down my back and getting used to these wisps hanging on either side of my face. What I am also getting used to is all the attention that I am getting all of a sudden. Which brings me to what this post was all about in the first place. I just realized that inspite of all these claims about appearances not being important and men actually look for substance in a female...... it is all a myth. When a man looks at you, he does just that....look and that's it. He doesn't care whether you are nice or beautiful inside....I mean, not right away. He just cares if what he is looking at is visually pleasing or not. With my puritan hairstyle out of the way, and with these shiny tresses crying out for attention I am suddenly swamped with people trying to be more friendly, making conversation on the train, getting stared at, being told that this hair looks good on me and even had someone wanting to touch it and feel how soft it is! How ridiculous is that? I mean, it's still plain old me under here and the fact that I get a sexy haircut makes me desirable and attention-worthy all of a sudden? And that is what I just realized.....men do prefer goodlooking women. Not because they believe they are going to get her but simply because they like something visually stimulating. And yes, appearances do get you places.

Overnight I've been transformed from a quiet, unassuming, nice girl to this desirable, hot female with the gorgeous hair. That is a little unsettling.

What say you?

Life and Death and what lies in between

2005-12-13T13:56:00.000-05:00

Amidst all the controversy and widespread media coverage Stanley "Tookie" Williams was administered lethal injection at 12:01 am at San Quentin State prison and declared dead 34 minutes later. It never fails to shock me that we as civilized human beings still believe that we can set one wrong by perpetrating another wrong. We still have the death penalty and we believe that the judicial system is unfallible and can be trusted to mete out decisions of life and death. I am not here to judge whether Tookey Williams was innocent or guilty. It does not matter. Especially now. But the Williams who died tonight was not the man he was 24 years back when he was convicted. People may argue that remorse and apparent change of heart may not erase the wrongs that he did years back. I agree. However doesn't the judicial system determine punishment depending on whether the person is a threat to society as of now? Tookey had shown remorse while in prison by writing children's books about the dangers of gang violence. He felt the need to educate young impressionable youths about the things he believed had led him astray. And yet when it came to showing him the dignity of human life we failed.

I am not here to argue whether Tookie Williams should have been punished for the crimes he was convicted for (although he maintained his innocence right till the end). What outrages me is our desire to play God in deciding whether a man is deemed fit to live or die. If Williams is convicted and punished because of his action in taking away life, then what does it make the people who are taking the very same decision in deciding whether he should be allowed to live? Giving something a cloak of justice does not actually ensure that justice is met. Capital punishment is not the answer to seeking revenge in punishing a crime and I am proud of the fact that the death penalty is illegal in the European Union. The fact that the present Governor of California Arnold Schwarzenegger who hails from Austria was the person responsible for refusing clemency to Williams, has hit the Europeans hard and there has been widespread outrage and criticism of his human values.

And whether the judicial system is unfallible or not please watch the movie, The Life of David Gale, a brilliantly made hard-hitting masterpiece.

I am shocked. And I am disappointed.

'Tis the season to be merry.......

2005-12-08T11:16:00.000-05:00

So it's December again. The snow is here, winter has set in, the stores are decked out in their holiday display, people are ice skating, houses are adorned in twinkling lights and lawns are a display of lighted reindeers and Santas, children are happy writing letters to Santa, parents are scratching their heads figuring out what to buy, the post office is overflowing with holiday mail, grocery stores are resplendant in red poinsettias, charities are collecting "Toys for Tots", and everyone has plans for spending time with the family or friends. Yes, it feels like December. The culmination of yet another year and the anticipation of starting out afresh in the new one. With hundreds of resolutions and countless aspirations and abundant hope.

Back in India December had always been special. Final exams would be over and schools would close for the year. That meant no studying, no holiday homework, and nothing to do but having a good time. December meant Christmas and although it had very little religious connotation in my life, I always looked forward to Christmas. I would sit down and laboriously make my own greeting cards which invariably had a theme of snow and Santa and Christmas trees. I would make one for my family, one for my maternal grandparents and one for Sister J, who was the principal of my school. And on Christmas morning I would go visit Sister J in school (the convent was adjacent to the school building) who would be thrilled to see us and would give us some cake that she had baked the night before. This was a tradition I maintained until I started going to college and heard Sister J had been transferred to some other school in South India.

Other memories of Christmas include going to a mid-morning wine and cheese party at the Woodlands Nursing home with my parents where I would stuff myself with brownies, except I did not know that they were called brownies and used to refer to them as tiny chocolate cakes. Then we would go for a sumptous lunch at the Calcutta club followed by the Christmas party at the Calcutta Rowing Club. There would always be a Santa who would arrive by boat to distribute toys and other goodies to the children who would be frantically waving and screaming from the lake shore. And of course there would be things like "Sit and Draw" and "Fancy Dress" and children's races which had a tremendous amount of participation. It always was a day spent with the family. And it always was fun.

Now years later, far removed from the Christmas scene in Calcutta I still cannot help feeling all happy and mushy just thinking about Christmas. I see the smile on people's face and it makes my day. I hear Christmas carols and it fills my heart with joy. I stand and admire the beautiful Christmas decorations and imbibe the happiness that seems all pervasive. For the first time this year I put up a Christmas tree in my living room and decked it all out with lights and sparkling balls. People have pointed out that I am overdoing it and the US is turning me into a Christian. And I tell them there is nothing religious about having a Christmas tree in your house. It is more cultural than religious. And yes, I grew up learning not to differentiate or discriminate between religion. I have been to temples and churches and mosques and gurdwaras.....I have a Gita, a Bible and a Quoran at home, I have a "Thakurer ashon" and do Lakhsmi Pujo on Thursdays, I have slept with a Bible under my pillow for years and I have partaken of the feast laid out after Id. So what does that make me? A human being, I hope.

And yes the US has changed me. I am careful to wish people "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas", I buy greeting cards that veer away from statements about Christmas but instead say things like "Best wishes for the New Year" and never ask people what they are doing for Christmas, but instead "what are your plans for the holidays". But to me it is still Christmas.....it is still time for the family and presents from Santa and huge dinners and fruit cake and eggnog. Here's wishing everyone a happy holiday and the very best for the year that is to come.

Of friends and complicated situations

2005-11-29T12:00:00.000-05:00

S and A broke up after four years of marriage. And even though I've always known that they were not right for each other and that they had made a mistake in tying the knot in the first place, the news still shocked me. I guess I am still the conservative kind. To me marriage is an institution that two people build over the years. And to see it fall apart just shakes up the very foundation of my beliefs. But the fact remains we had known all along that S and A had a very shaky relationship. They were two entirely different people who had very little in common. We've known S for a very long time and he is one of the most sensitive and affectionate individuals I've known. He is funny and he can make anyone smile and he is always a joy to have around. When S fell in love with A we were all a little taken aback because A was very different from any of us. I do not know whether it was because she was from a different background and culture, or it was the way she was brought up, but she was dominating, materialistic and demanding. We never thought S would end up marrying A but when he announced that he was getting married, none of us had the courage to dispel his cloud of happiness by telling him how wrong they were for each other. Right after they got married A told S that she did not like interacting with his friends and she was not happy when he chatted with them in Bengali because she was unable to follow the conversation. So S stopped calling his friends. We hoped with time A would feel more secure in her marriage and things would change. But they got worse. A hated the life as a graduate student. She was accustomed to a life of luxury in India and could not adjust to having to compromise and scrimp to make ends meet. They fought all the time. I guess it boils down to having two very different people who had very different expectations out of life, being thrown together in a relation that neither of them were prepared for. So after four years of bitterness and bickering and following the birth of their son, S and A decided to call it quits. I guess what has me most disturbed about the matter is that this could have been prevented if S had realized before he got married that A was not the right girl for him. But he was blinded with passion at that time and nobody helped him see through the haze. Now, they have not only messed up their own lives, they have brought a little child into the world who will grow up not knowing a proper family. I think it is tragic.

And now I see another close friend P going around with the wrong girl. Everytime I see P and A together (this is a different A), I see tragic consequences written all over. P is a nice guy, very friendly, outgoing and honest. And although A could be a very nice person in her own right, she just doesn't seem to be of the same framework as P. Granted that I have never seen P and A fight openly the way S and A did. But S and A's relation went downhill at breakneck speed only after they got married. I really care about my friends and I hate seeing them getting hurt. I spent sleepless nights after S and A broke off just feeling guilty about not having been there to prevent this from happening. And now once again I am at the same crossroad, pondering whether someone should talk to P, tell him that as a friend we are concerned about his relation with A. And then I hesitate. I think when people are in love they fail to see anything beyond what their heart is telling them. And may be P will hate me for saying these things. And may be things will never be the same for us again. And may be P and A will eventually get married and A will always resent me for not having wanted them to be together. And who knows....may be P and A will be happy together. I really hope so, because P deserves some happiness in his life. And I am confused. I don't want P to get hurt either way.

Why is it that we find it so difficult to tell the people we care about that we want the very best for them and that they would be better off not getting involved with the wrong person? Probably because it is none of my business or anyone else's for that matter. Perhaps it is the fear of hurting the person and losing the friendship. May be it is the apprehension that the truth will not be acceptable to my friend and he will reject it and hate me for telling him such "untruths". What does one do under these circumstances? I wish I knew............

Happy Birthday Daddy

2005-11-21T14:42:00.000-05:00

I’ve always been “Daddy’s little girl”. My earliest memories of my Dad are the ones of him teaching me nursery rhymes. He would come home from work and sit in the oversized armchair in the living room and I would climb up onto the arm of the chair with my book of Nursery rhymes and he would read them out loud to me. I still have those books and every time I turn the pages it is like opening up a floodgate of sweet memories.

All my childhood I grew up knowing Daddy was a very busy man and he was never around because he had to take care of all the sick patients. For me vacations never meant going out of town because I knew Daddy could not abandon his patients and he never took a day off. Even on Sundays. But we would go to New Market every Thursday. I did not have school on Thursday. So Daddy would pick my Mom and me after his morning outdoor and we would go shopping at New market. And then we would have lunch at Park Street. I loved Thursdays.

And every night Daddy would come to wish me goodnight. I used to go to bed around eight, and often Daddy would still be at his chamber, attending patients. I would lie in bed waiting for him to finish up and stop by my room. He always did. He’d sit on my bed and ask me how my day was. Then he’d hug me, and say, “Goodnight, sleep tight, see you in the morning…sweet dreams”. Only then would I be able to go to sleep.

Daddy was always impeccably dressed. He had a whole array of cologne and after shave in the bathroom and I would go in after him and spray some on myself because I loved the way he smelt all the time. He once told me that when he was growing up in a huge joint family, there were times when he wanted something but could not get it because there were too many kids and too little going around. He grew up knowing that he would make enough money so that he would be able to buy anything and everything he wanted to. So now that he could afford it he indulged himself in buying the latest and finest gadgets that one could buy. You need to realize this was India fifteen or twenty years back. There was no globalization, as we know it today. And imported things were not only expensive, they were a rarity. But Daddy had a stream of electronics supplied to our home every month. And he loved it. And he spoiled me silly too. He bought me perfumes and other things and he never needed a reason to bring home a gift.

I loved Daddy as well as feared him. I was always scared of disappointing him. I wanted him to be proud of me, to bring him all the happiness in the world. He always wanted me to have the very best of things, to be the very best I can be. He never scolded me, never hit me, but I knew he would be hurt if I disappointed him. He refused to let me cook or iron my clothes for fear of me getting burnt. He disapproved of my wearing a saree for fear of realizing that his little girl was becoming a woman. He pretended to ignore all the male friends I had for fear of losing me to someone else. And yet when I said that I had fallen in love and wanted to marry, he never stopped or questioned me. That he trusted and had faith in my judgment was visible in the way he welcomed B into the family. And he has reluctantly accepted the fact that I cook and clean and iron and yes, wear a saree. And as I have moved from one continent to another, from one career path to another and back again, he has supported and encouraged every decision, every move.

And today from across the miles I love and respect him and hope I can still make him proud. And although I wish I could be with him on this day I do not think I would be able to tell him in words how much his love has meant to me over the years.

Daddy, you’re the best. Happy Birthday!

Please let me be wrong

2005-11-17T15:35:00.000-05:00

They say something about a woman’s intuition…. sixth sense…. hunch. It is uncanny but true. This time I am hoping that I am wrong.

Remember Joe, the security guard that I was talking about the other day? The one that says nice things and tries to cheer everyone up? Well I am getting a really funny feel about this whole nice guy business. Okay so it starts out with Joe checking my bag every morning (security reasons) and saying things like “how are you doing this morning” and “have a wonderful day”. Which was great. A few weeks later he is saying things like “honey you have a million dollar smile” and “I like looking at that pretty face of yours”. The context you ask me? It’s just that I had found a different way of getting into our building without going through the security check at the front desk each morning. Which means I don’t run into Joe everyday. Then one day I go round the front because I took a bus that dropped me off right in front of the building and I run into Joe. He asks me where I have been and why he hasn’t seen me lately. So I tell him that I go round the back because it’s just easier. And he tells me that would mean he would never get to see me again and that I should come by and show him my “pretty face”.

Okay at this point I’m thinking that he is just being extra nice and mildly joking. So I say that I will and go my way. Of course I did not take it seriously and keep sneaking in through the back every morning. Then last week I was leaving the building in the evening to go home when I hear someone honking from the distance. I turned to look because the street we are on is very quiet otherwise. And there I see Joe waving at me from the distance trying to get my attention. So I wave back and keep on walking my way. Then I hear him run after me and I stop. A little curious I turn to see what he wanted. Apparently nothing. He just enquired how I was doing and why I don’t come round the front. And then he says, “promise you’ll come through the front and see me everyday”. Now I’m beginning to think this was a really weird conversation and say something to him and start walking off. Okay by that time I am rationalizing with myself that I am just screwed up to think that Joe was being anything but his friendly self. But somehow I was not getting good vibes from my inner self.

Then this morning I had to step outside my building to use my cell phone (the dratted thing refuses to work inside the building) and just as I was about to return to the warmth of my desk I meet Joe again. After last week’s encounter I had purposefully kept away from the front entrance and was a little taken aback to run into him again. He comes up to me smiling and says, “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where’ve you been?” and hands me a little folded sheet of paper. I asked him what it was, all the while pretending to be entirely at ease and like it was the most natural thing in the world to be handed a note by someone you barely know. He says, “It’s a surprise I’ve been carrying with me to give you”. I open the note and in neat handwriting is his full name and a telephone number. “It’s my cell phone number so that you can call me anytime you want.” I go, “Oh…” as in extreme surprise and after a pause say thank you and run off.

By this time I’m hearing alarm bells going off inside my head. Is Joe just being friendly or a little too friendly for comfort? Why on earth would I need his cell phone number and why in God’s green earth would I need to call him? All I’ve ever done is smile and said thank you every time he has said something nice to me. He could be my grandfather for crying out loud. Okay…may be not that old, but older than my own Dad. And it’s not even that I am the available kind, if you know what I mean. So what is going on here? I call B and tell him what just happened and he laughed it off saying I was wrong and reading too much into things. Well, may be I am. And I sure hope so that I am. Because in this case I would want to be mistaken. But there have been other incidents over the years….., like when I was sixteen and a friend of my Dad tried to take advantage by touching me and trying to kiss me (on the lips if you still have any doubts) and all along I had these intuitions about this guy being weird. Or when my best friends boy friend got fresh with me. Or when….and every time I’ve tried to rationalize that it was me who had the sick mind who reads too much into things. And every time my intuition has been right. So call me crazy for being paranoid. But this is one time I am praying that I am wrong.

Those moments in life

2005-11-10T12:44:00.000-05:00

Much has been said regarding life's precious moments.....the ones that transcend time, the ones that you cherish in your heart forever. here are some of my most cherished moments, inspired partly by this post and partly by the nostalgia evoked by my old friends.

Getting drenched in the first thunderstorm of the season on a hot summer afternoon.

Smelling the wet earth after the rain has seeped through the parched soil.

Catching up on life with a school friend you haven’t seen in years and find it still feels just as good.

Checking your email and finding it overflowing with mail from friends.

Making someone laugh in the midst of all life’s worries.

Finding a letter from home amidst all the bills and junk in your mailbox.

Wiping a tear when he leaves only to find the flowers he left behind for you on the dresser.

Coming home from work to find a warm dinner on the table.

Walking home after an exam knowing the finals are over.

Watching the look on your parents face when you walk up the podium to receive your degree.

Answering the phone to hear a romantic love song being played on the other end.

Calling up someone at midnight and talking through the night.

Vowing never to speak with him only to find him waiting outside your house all night to say that he was sorry.

Thinking that it would be a “blue Christmas” without him to having your brother buy you a Christmas tree out of his pocket money to make you smile.

Reading the opening line of your favorite book for the nth time.

Wearing a dress that you haven’t worn in years to find it still fits you.

Sipping your morning cup of coffee while watching the sun come up in a wondrous display of colors.

Stretching in front of the fireplace on a cold winter evening and sipping hot chocolate.

Waking up early on a weekend and being able to go back to sleep.

Smelling the fresh print off a morning newspaper and being able to read it from cover to cover.

Listening to Joshua Bell play the violin for the first time.

Looking into his eyes for the first time and knowing that you are in love.

Waking up each morning feeling loved and wanted.

Priceless!

Bhai Phonta

2005-11-03T11:12:00.000-05:00

“Bhai er kopaale dilam phonta

Jom duarey porlo kaata…”

Bhai phonta as I remember it always started out the same way. A crisp November morning when you wake up knowing that school would reopen the following day and the Final exams would be in less than a month and that the month long Pujo vacation was over. Bhai phonta marked the culmination of the seasonal festivities and celebrations.

Mamu-dadu would be the first one to arrive. He was my grandmother’s brother, elder to her by a few years. He was remarkably fit for his age and would take a longer than usual morning walk and travel the entire distance from his house in New Alipore to our place in Kalighat on foot. Didibhai (my grandmother) would be all ready for him, showered and dressed in a crisp white cotton saree with a bright red border. She would have the prodip lighted, the five essentials for phonta: ghee, doi, white chandan, red chandan and kajal, and a bunch of freshly plucked grass (durba) along with a few grains of rice (dhaan) for the ashirbad. Mamu-dadu would sit on an aashon that Didibhai had stitched herself and she would give him a phonta wishing him a long and healthy life. Then she would touch his feet and he would be given a plate full of sweets to enjoy.

By that time Mamu (my mother’s brother) would arrive. And it would be my Mom’s turn to give him phonta. And the whole routine was repeated. Mamu was always a little pressed for time because he would have to leave right away for work. So right after that there would be plates of luchi and alur dom and fish fry that would be served to the brothers which they ate before they left for their respective offices. By this time my Dad and uncle would have left for their phonta at my Pishi’s house. They would take the phonta, have breakfast and leave for work from there. The big feast for Bhai phonta would usually be a dinner at my Pishi’s place later that evening.

Meanwhile I would be getting ready for my share of phonta dewa. I always started with giving a phonta to Dadubhai (my grandfather). Next in line would be my Kaka’s son, P. P was younger than me and we’ve grown up together under the same roof very attached to each other. P would dress up for the occasion in one of his new Punjabi’s from Pujo and I remember how serious we would try to be and not burst out laughing while we sat there for a few minutes staring at each other’s face, with me reciting the lines praying for his health and long life while the rest of the family stood watching and blowing the conch shell when we were done. My Mashi would bring her two sons over, for the few years that they lived in India. So B and T were next in line, followed by two other cousins A and R. I happened to be the only sister available to give phonta which worked well for me because with every phonta came a little gift as a token of love, which for me more often than not turned out to be books, given that everyone knew that I was an avid reader. So every Bhai phonta would mean at least five or six new books that I would be craving to devour since I would not be allowed to read any once school reopened until the Final exams would be over.

Every Bhai phonta I would be introduced to a set of new books, a new series of unexplored delights. I went from strength to strength starting out with Enid Blytons, Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys to Agatha Christie and Alistair Maclean to John Grisham and Robin Cook. These would be interspersed with some bangla treats from Satyajit Ray: Feluda, Aro Baro, Professor Shanku. The hardest part was waiting the next month to start reading the books while studying for my finals.

And now years later I remember those days with nostalgia. Things are not the same. I live in a land far, far away. Dadubhai has passed away. Mamu-dadu is old and frail, just went home after spending the last month in the ICU and cannot leave his bed. P is in Indiana, B is in Minnesota, T is in Australia, A is in Chennai, R is in Pune. It would be a real stroke of fate if we ever got together, all of us, for Bhai phonta. May be we won’t. But I will always cherish the memories that I carry from those days and will wish them the best of health and a long life, no matter where they are:

Bhai er kopaale dilaam phonta......

Ghosts and Goblins and a little Boo

2005-10-27T12:09:00.000-04:00

I had a different thing that I wanted to write about, then something heartwarming happened last night and I just had to change gears. The other post has to wait in line till I am in the mood again.

It was almost 8:30 in the evening and we had just finished dinner and were clearing up the dishes when the doorbell rang. Twice. Who could it be at this hour, we asked each other silently and I gestured to B that I would not answer the door in my pj's and he'd better check who it was. While B went to answer the door I scooted upstairs ready to fling on clothes if it happened to be some crazy friends who decided to call on us unannounced. Then I heard B calling me saying that there was no one at the door and he thought it was some kid trick or treating a little early. A little relieved I went back downstairs and saw someone had left an orange plastic pumpkin on our front porch. Inside the pumpkin was a note. I brought the pumpkin and the note inside to read what it said:

"Happy Halloween!!!! You have been Booed!" it said.

And then it went on:

"Put the note that is stapled on the other side of this sheet on your front door to tell the neighborhood that you have been booed. Then pass on the "boo" to two other neighbors with a bag of treats and other Halloween goodies before Halloween.
Have fun!!!"

Then we looked inside the pumpkin and boy were we in for a treat! There were boxes of candies, yes marshmallow peeps and sour gummies and tootsie rolls, and scented candles, a box of herb tea and a packet of herbal bath crystals. I rushed outside to see if I could tell who the mysterious giftbearer was but there was no one in sight. I had a fair idea who it was because of the nature of the wonderful things inside the pumpkin but since the whole point of the game was to be mysterious and ghost-like I refrained from going next door and telling them how happy I was.

Everybody likes getting gifts. Especially when they are so unexpected. To continue on the same note as my last post, there are these wonderful people in the world who derive happiness by making other people happy. I had never encountered such a beautiful way of passing cheer and goodwill among the neighborhood. May be I had never been among nicer neighbors. So here's to D and K who live next door and all the other nice people who think beyond their own needs and go around the world spreading joy and happiness.

I have my "Boo" note all ready. It's my turn tonight to be the Halloween spirit and spread a little magic around.

The little things in life

2005-10-21T12:26:00.000-04:00

Have you ever wondered how the little things in one’s day can brighten it up and give it a whole new perspective? Today started out as a really bad day. It was dark and gloomy when I left home and by the time I reached work it was pouring cats and dogs. And by some strange twist of fate I could not find my umbrella in my bag (either lost it or left it at home). Which meant I arrived at work wet and angry and totally not wanting to work.

And then I ran into Joe. Joe is the security guard at the building that I work in. He is a tall, well-built African American guy somewhere in his 60s who is in charge of checking our Ids and our bags and making sure that everyone walks through the metal detector before entering the building. Now there are five or six other security guards who take turns at watching the main entrance. However Joe is the one that I hope will be there every morning because he is one of the nicest persons I have met. Joe always has a smile and a warm and friendly greeting for anyone who walks in. He has something nice to say to everyone and I have never seen him in a bad or sulky mood. With one smile that lit up the whole room he called out to me and said something comforting and nice that was enough to dispel all my gloom and bring a song into my heart again. And it made me wonder how some people were made to be nice and how having them in your life could bring joy and happiness and make life so beautiful.

Thank you Joe for making this very wet and dismal Friday morning special and meaningful.

For Rabi mama

2005-10-11T11:19:00.000-04:00

"Enechhile shathey kore mrityuheen pran
Morone tahai tumi kore gele daan."

Saptamir shokal, 1412

Of kaashphool and Pujor gondho

2005-10-07T11:50:00.000-04:00

‘Tis that time of the year. I can almost hear the “kashor-ghonta” (gongs and bells for the Bengali uninitiated folks), visualize the “Sarater aakash” (blue skies with wispy white clouds), and smell the happiness that is all pervasive. Yes, it is Pujo time and I would be amiss if I did not write something about my favorite time of the year to be in Calcutta.

So what is it about Durga Pujo that makes every Bengali nostalgic, happy and sad at the same time? Why do Bongs go crazy just thinking about Pujo? There’s a song that goes “Pujor gondho eshechhe….” That alone could sum up the kind of feeling that is associated with Pujo. And trust me, Pujor gondho is something that seems to be unheard of outside of Bengal. I mean we try to simulate the conditions, make do with every available resource and yet, there is always something missing. The core of Durga Pujo is the atmosphere, the throngs of people who make Durga Pujo so special.

The highly charged atmosphere that almost beckons you to be a part of it, live it, feel it and be one with the feeling. The countdown probably begins a month in advance when shops stay open till late at night to accommodate customers with their shopping after office hours. You have to get new clothes and shoes. And you buy for all your near and dear ones. That is Pujo. You share your happiness with your loved ones. And during those five days everyone is out on the streets wearing the latest in ethnic and western wear. And of course by evening there are hundreds of women limping along thanks to the blisters caused by the new sandal. It’s all an integral part of “Thakur dekha”. Starting from “Chakhu daan” on Shasthi to “Kola-bou snan” on Saptami, “Shondhi Pujo” on Astami to “raat jege Thakur dekha” on Nabami. And “Thakur baran” , “Shidur khela”, “mishti mukh” and “kolakuli” on Bijoya Dashami. And yes thinking of “kaash phool” and “Shiuli Phool” and “Dhaker awaj” and “Dhunuchi naach” brings a tear to my eye. And even as I thirstily search the internet for a glimpse of my favorite pandels and Thakur, it is not the same as walking the streets of Calcutta from Ekdalia Evergreen to Hindusthan park to Triangular park and Samaj Sebi, from 23 pally to Mudiali to Garia Naba Durga and spending hours at Maddox Square checking out the guys (and girls) and eating out every day and not having to work or study for those five days.

And for those who can read and understand Bengali it is all summed up in this verse that someone sent me. I would give credit if I knew who wrote it, but whoever did managed to say it all and more…..

pujo manei pujor kodin porasuno bandho
pujo manei satsakale seulifuler gandho
pujo manei sandhyebela thakur dekhar bhir
hoichoi r utsabete chardeek asthir.
pujo manei patsalate bajlo chutir ghonta
pujo elei chhelebelai paliye fere monta.
pujo manei ma duggar asur nidhon pala
anjali r prosad petam pujor dupurbela.
pujo manei notun jama notun notun saaj
alpona r thakurdalan daaker sajer kaaj
pujo manei pujosankhya didir sathe aari
didi akhon onek dure,didir swasurbari.
pujo manei mahalaya kashfule math sada
pujo mane aponjoner tane poruk badha.
pujo manei sagar pahar ekchhutetei pari
swapne kakhon pouche jetam meghbhasano bari
pujo mane dhaker baddi,pujor bisorjon
asche bachor abar eso monkharaper mon.
ajke pujo anyorokom annobhabe ase
bhorer bela sisir pore? seuli gandho bhase?
hoito ase!hoito sabai bodle gechi aaj
bohumulya samoy akhon sabar bhison kaaj.
bhalo theko bondhura sab bondhu thakuk mone
pujor dine chelebela abar poruk mone.

pujoi jodi thako tumi gharer theke dure
bare bare barir katha ase ghure phire
baje nako dhak ekhane bajenako shakh
suninako hajar loker basto hakdak
pujor dine aamar ar tomar mukh
buker moddhe gumre othe bhison kono dukh
jodi ami petam duto masto baro dana
ure jetam sunnopathe, thaktonako mana
kakhon je ma elo ar kakhon galo chole
hajar rakom kajer chape sabi gelam bhule
tobu tumi eso mago eso barbar
asbe tumi bhebei moder sab akakar.

The flesh and meat and the gory details

2005-09-28T16:19:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the most innocuous day to day incidents can bring the most monumental changes in ones life. Mine started with reading an article on the internet. It began with the story of a child who got sick after eating an undercooked burger at a fast food joint and ultimately died from HUS (hemolytic uremic syndrome) caused by a pathogenic strain of a bacteria called E. coli. The article went on to describe the horrors of how the meat industry works and the various schemes to cover up the most gruesome practices in the civilized world. As I read the article I could not believe the atrocities that were described and by the time I was through, the mere thought of eating meat made me nauseous.

Obviously I had to do some checking. I googled a bit and came up with the term "factory farming". Now as I said before I had no idea what this was leading me into. I read some more and with every article that I came up with, it only served to make me sick with the facts and shocked at the cruelty that was being practiced each minute as I sat there learning about it. Now for those of you who are in the same state as I was prior to this eye opening incident and have very little idea about what I am referring to, you may want to check out this and may be this. But be forewarned that what you are going to see, read and learn is gruesome to say the least. In fact some of the pictures and videos were so graphic that I could not bear to watch them. But what I did see was enough to convince me into giving up on meat.

I come from a country where a vast majority of the population is vegetarian and probably would not have any qualms understanding where I am coming from. I on the other hand have grown up knowing that we need animal protein in our diet (vitamin B12 folks) and that every meal should include either meat or fish to provide me with the appropriate nutrition. The staple food in any home in Bengal would comprise fish and rice. And after coming to the US our diet was largely governed by all the different kinds of meat that were so readily available and oh so inexpensive and yes so easily ready to eat. We lived on hot dogs and burgers.Pizzas always had to be smothered in sausage and lunch would be sandwich with any kind of lunch meat. So for a person like me to be faced with facts of this proportion was a staggering blow to my intellect, my humanity and my entire existence.

Overnight I gave up eating meat. The mere thought of eating meat was now repulsive to me. I had no trouble converting my husband either. B is one of the most compassionate human being I have ever met and he has taught me many a valuable lesson in humanity. When he read some of the things that I had unearthed he had a similar reaction. Folks back home in India who of course have not come face to face with these gory details were shocked and a little outraged at our sudden dietary restrictions. But nothing they said could make me change my mind. And we've survived this meatless existence quite well for the last 9 months. Changing the way my parents feel will take some time, but then, you can make the difference by moving one stone at a time.

The whole point of my writing this post is not because I am any kind of activist or that I am trying to convert any of my non-vegetarian readers into making a lifestyle change, but because I believe a lot of people just are not aware of things like this. There are organizations and there are people who spend their life fighting to prevent such cruelty. And even if I am not an active part of any such movement, I strongly believe that my support can go a very long way in making a difference. With every burger that I refuse to eat for the rest of my life I am probably going to save the life of one cow in my lifetime. With my husband we can make that two cows. And to that add all the goats and lambs and pigs....well, it does make a difference in the long run.

Got tag?

2005-09-20T10:05:00.000-04:00

Okay.... I got tagged by Rohan into the short story under 55 words thingy....so here's my two cents:

They were the perfect couple until that day in November when he went out to get some sweets and never came home.
She waited for him to come back. He never did.
He lived on in her memories. And in a place far away, as someone else’s husband and a father of two.

Now it is my turn to pay back and tag five more souls. I'm tagging Sines, Rimi, Grafxgurl, Biplab, Ratna.
The ball is in your court now....

At last

2005-09-15T10:12:00.000-04:00

"My heart wants to sing every song it hears
My heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds
That rise from the lake to the trees
My heart wants to sigh like the chimes
That flies from a church on a breeze
To laugh like a brook when it trips
And falls over stone on its way
To sing through the night
Like a lark who is learning to pray"

After weeks of nervous apprehension and trepidation I am happy (atleast I think I am). I wish I could share my feelings. Let's just say I believe I may have got a really shining star when I reached for the sky. Makes me happy. For now. Thank you!