Give the Spouse a Break

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).

Dear Mummy,

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!

Crazy little thing called love

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

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.

A Dedication

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"

Time and Distance

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

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.

For the ones

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 Madonna

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

Eating right

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.

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

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".

Do I make you proud?

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........

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!

The fears

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

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.

Because you let me

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

My Cousin PR

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.

O brother

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?

Happy Birthday Daddy

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!

Bhai Phonta

“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......