I have a lot to write about my experiences at home. But I don’t have the time anymore. I am leaving in an hour.
So if you happen to live in Rome, Frankfurt, Sicily, Dresden, Salzburg, Vienna, or Prague, I will see you there. If you travel by trains, there is a possibility you might spot me there too.
If not, I will see you in 2 weeks. In the US. Right here, at the sunshine blog.
sunshine
The other day while crossing the subway in one of the metro stations, I saw a man peeing 2 feet away from where people walked. Not a single person stopped to complain.
While traveling in a metro, I have found puke on the floor on 3 occasions now. Someone must have overeaten and felt unwell in the stuffed underground metro and have thrown the contents out. While I sympathize with the miscreant, I don’t understand how the person just got off the train and walked away without deeming it fit to inform the authorities to ensure it was cleaned up. People made a face, but no one really did anything about it.
But what happened today surpasses all these incidents of callousness by a large margin. I was waiting for the train to leave when I saw a bunch of women and children get into the train. One of the woman from the group took an empty seat beside me, a toddler in her arms. A few minutes before the train started, much to the horror of everyone, the woman pulled down the child’s pants, instructing the child to pee right inside the metro compartment. The child obliged. Within minutes, there was a pool of water on the floor. The woman looked unperturbed.
People, myself included, watched in horror as the whole episode happened within a minute or two. I felt the contents inside my stomach churn, ready to throw up out of disgust. Unable to control myself, I confronted the woman. To which she argued about “What was I supposed to do? Get off the train? The child would have peed anyway”. People watched some free entertainment for the next few minutes, some even smirked and made a face. Worse, a man joined the argument, supporting the woman and alleging how I could behave so insensitively with a child. Still, not another person had spoken up. Finding support in numbers, the woman and the man (a stranger to the woman I think) kept shouting, arguing, and asking for sympathy from other passengers, asking them “How could this woman behave this way with a little child. The child had already done what she had to do, what was my fault in this”.
I haven’t gotten myself into a confrontation with strangers for a while now, and I don’t know what I could have done otherwise. First, it was a deliberate attempt by the mother, not an “accident” like she kept claiming to get sympathy. And to see something happening and people watching silently, having some drama and fun out of my expense in their otherwise bland and boring life, I couldn’t imagine things have come down to this. Was I wrong in raising my voice? Could I be a silent spectator and watch as the woman instructed the child to pee right in the metro compartment? And a man, a rather creepy one indeed, telling others what an insensitive woman I was to misbehave with another woman and her child?
I wish I had taken a cab today. The reason I didn’t was because metro is fast, economic, and environmental friendly. But is it conducive for everyone to let in people who have no civic sense? And for a society that reacts at the slightest provocation with slogans of “cholbe na cholbe na” (won’t do, won’t do), a city that has seen three bandhs in the last 3 months, for a society that is vocal and opinionated about everything from politics to football, I wonder if the people had lost their voices when I was the only one confronting the callous woman.
I won’t really conclude by saying something like “India has gone down to the dogs”, or “No improvement can happen in Kolkata”, and I insist you don’t do it either. Perhaps the metro fares should go up so that no one can just walk into it (the woman belonged to rather unprivileged strata of the society). Maybe such actions should be reported and the woman heavily fined? Or maybe you could argue, “But what could the poor woman have done otherwise? She cannot afford diapers, and she could not afford to get off the train”.
I don’t really know. All I can say is, I am deeply disappointed and disturbed.
sunshine
I’m writing this post because I was tagged by Dewdrop. Tagged to write about all my dark secrets when I did things not really apt for a lady. How this would affect my respect-quotient as a woman in society, or in the blog world, I wonder. Ten things, I have been told.
1. I grew up as a tomboy. Till the age of 25 or so, I had an Army cut hair. I wore shorts and jeans. I could never carry a saree well (I still cannot). I used to wear my father’s tee shirts and running shoes to college. I used to wear men’s perfume. If that isn’t proof enough.
2. I once used to have well sculpted biceps. This was a result of using dumb bells for years. Now you would argue, saying women use dumb bells too. Yes, but not the 8 lbs ones.
3. I have used the men's restroom in a hostel. It was a matter of convenience. I went to visit a friend and the women’s restroom was too far. So I used the men’s restroom. Not a big deal for me, just that the fellow who entered as I was leaving freaked out, muttering an apology, “Sorry Sorry !!” Till date I don’t know why did he apologize, unless of course he thought he had entered the ladies restroom by mistake.
4. I have traveled alone. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be a guy thing. I mean if enough women have done it, it’s no longer a guy thing, right? I can boast more about it when I do that west coast to east coast road trip.
5. I am the official weight lifter in the family. We live on the 4th floor, without an elevator. For years whenever mother is back after her grocery shopping, I am summoned from upstairs to lug all the heavy weight stuff.
6. I am not dirty, but I am messy. I like to live in mess. Impeccable home decorations, with everything in its place, the walls the right color, the drapery matching the wall colors, the sofa complimenting the drapery colors, taking care of these little details annoy me. My brain cannot distinguish between green or blue if you ask me which one looks better for the wall colors. I like to live with clothes and books strewn all over. It makes what I consider a house home.
7. I hate shopping. I hate going to outlet malls and spending hours looking at things, deciding, and buying them, only to realize they might not be the best and hence returning them. In Kolkata, mother and sister literally drag me to shops to get stuff that I need. I couldn’t even imagine accompanying and advising other people for shopping. If possible, I am willing to outsource my own shopping needs.
8. I don’t mean to stir a heated debate here, but I think most feminists focus more on hating men than ensuring they do anything good for womankind. True, women have suffered for ages, especially on societal issues, but so have men. Men suffer, children suffer, Hindus suffer, Dalits suffer, obese people suffer (and are ridiculed too), unemployed people suffer. The world is in suffering. Just because I am a woman doesn’t make me more privileged, or can earn more sympathy. Getting rid of gender biases in professions and using the word “actor” for an “actress” doesn’t prove anything.
9. I can swear. And swear big time. So much that I’ve heard my men friends say (out of disgust), “Oh, sometimes you are just like one of us !!”
10. I don’t believing in the man paying and holding car doors. I can open my own car door, thank you. And on multiple occasions (including dates), I have paid for a man. It doesn’t matter to me.
I’ll not tag anyone, feel free to pick this up if you want. I really want to wear blue clothes pants, or whatever they are.
sunshine
At some point of my life, roughly 83 hours and 52 minutes ago, I got tired of hogging on all the Rasgulla, Gulab Jamuns, Rabri, and all those deep fried masses of sugars and calories. Nothing triggered it, it just happened. I guess it’s like giving up on smoking (or getting rid of that loser of a boyfriend you should have left 5 years ago). You have been thinking of doing it for a while, and every time you try, you just fail. Then one fine morning, you wake up and just do it. I think the same happened to me. I have been unhappy with the way I have put on weight for the last few years. From being a person who jumped at the center of the screen whenever I spotted a camera, now I started shying away from the camera, finding a comfort spot behind somebody so that my paunch was hiding. Paunch I could still hide wearing appropriate clothes, but where would I hide my face, a big round blob of fat now with chubby cheeks? It’s been years since I’ve seen my face oval, the original way God designed it. Anyway I will rant about my body and looks some other time (I promise I will). I will not spare you, I will even rant about my huge biceps, till you are bored to death. Anyway.
So one fine day I just decided to give up on the empty calories. This was the least I could do, since I wasn’t committed to gymming and working out big time. The mangoes looked at me from the fridge expectantly and I looked back at the mangoes with pain. The neighbor who makes awesome “Patisaptas” (sweet crepes stuffed with coconut and jaggery and sometimes condensed milk filling) was promptly asked not to make those for my goodbye dinner in 5 days. Convincing mother wasn’t a problem since she has always been after me to lose weight, but convincing neighbors and relatives who believe in increasing their good karma by stuffing another Rasgulla into your mouth became a big problem. I turned down two dinner invitations feigning a stomach ache because it is futile to argue and explain to these people why I will not hog on the coconut cream based prawns, the deep fried potato tikkis, and the four courses of dessert following a five course dinner. Not that I have slimmed down overnight, but I still intended to stick to my decision of not eating rubbish.
So I went to visit my ex-student’s place. I taught her Math for 4 years and though she sucked at Math, we became great friends. Ironically I was the one who told her that Math isn’t everything in life, but as long as she studies it, she should do it well. I go visit my student after 4 years, and aunty (her mom) gets me a huge brown chocolate pastry and a tall glass of chilled iced tea. Poor aunty is familiar with my eating habits four years ago when I used to religiously devour every sweet she put on my plate (I don’t just have A sweet tooth, my entire dentition is sweet !!). Today I had already reached the stage when I was having sugar withdrawal symptoms, a little dizziness in my head and a very irritable temper caused by it. Not that I was starving or dieting, I just decided not to hog on high-calorie, low-nutrient stuff.
My plea of neither touching the chocolate pastry nor the iced tea fell on deaf ears. I promised I was more than happy sipping on a glass of cold water, but she wouldn’t understand. I tried reasoning with her, feigning a stomach ache, but nothing worked. Poor aunty must have been worried what she would offer me instead; maybe she didn’t have too many options. When nothing worked out, I had the most innovative idea. The only problem with that was, well, I can plan a lie beforehand and deliver it well, but when I make up an instant lie, I usually get caught.
“Aunty, please don’t insist. I have been diagnosed with high cholesterol”.
I don’t know why I said it, but it was one of those things you say first and think later. It sounded odd to my ears, high cholesterol at 28?
“Oh dear, sorry about it”. Aunty promptly put back the goodies away.
So we sat in an uncomfortable silence the next few minutes, aunty too shocked to ask me to eat anything and me too scared to speak lest I am caught.
“So how did it happen?”, she asked. “Family history?”
Now something in me refused to malign my impeccable family history. I was already feeling guilty for making up illnesses I do not have.
“Uh, not really. Just a bad American lifestyle. Not eating well and all”.
So the conversation drifted to normal soon. We spoke about this and that.
“Where did you get your tests done?”
I must admit I was totally unprepared for the question that caught me off guard. I was about to say our family doctor’s name in Kolkata, but something in my head was screaming our family doctor is aunty’s brother-in-law too.
“Aa- aa- bbb- bbb….”
Aunty stared at me stammer.
“Bbb—bbb--- Bellevue clinic”
“Which one? In Kolkata?”, she asked.
“No no, the one in Seattle? Bellevue clinic in Seattle”
“Oh.. okay”
“My memory getting bad aunty. These days I forget names so often”, I explained lamely.
The chocolate pastry stared at me from the corner of the room for the next 30 minutes, untouched. I came back later that night and had healthy roti and subzee for dinner. I wonder if aunty ever realized I gave her some instantly concocted lie. Even if she did, I’m sure she would know it was an innocuous, fat fat-free lie.
sunshine
The sad part of visiting home once every few years is that while you are away, some people you thought you would meet when you are back are no more. Yesterday when I said my final goodbyes to my grandparents, I wondered if I will ever meet them again. Not that they are sick or ailing, but they are old. When I came back to Kolkata, one thing I couldn’t help noticing is how grown up the kids looked, and how old or aged the adults looked. I was seeing people after 4 years, and my mind could not keep pace with the changes time had carved out for everyone of us. Mother has more strands of grey hair than I could remember. Father has a couple of wrinkle lines that wasn’t there before. Grandfather is almost white and bent with age. Grandmother has slimmed down a lot (and ironically looks younger) after her gall bladder removal. My maternal uncle in his mid-40s died of a heart attack a few months ago. My grandfather’s elder brother died of cancer.
And then some people are married, some have divorced, and some have remarried. The so called kids have started going to college. Newly born babies have started going to school. The guy in the neighborhood whose leg was amputated after the train accident got an artificial leg.
Some people are missing black hair, while some have gone bald. Wrinkles. Missing gall bladders and kidneys. Depressing, moribund, and strangely funny conversations, ranging from who died under what circumstances, and what was the menu during the death rituals. I think we Bengalis are a strange lot, deriving stimulation from recounting gory details of someone’s last days of life, the menu of the death ceremony, and even who was wearing what.
In the broader scheme of things, there are more changes. Anu Malik has copied more songs. I've thankfully stopped listening to Himesh Reshammiya. There are more flyovers. More crowded trains and metros. Longer queues. Steeper prices. More KFC and Subway joints. Something in the city is dying. The innocence of the city is dying.
Next time I visit, there will be more changes. More people I grew up with gone. More wrinkles. More white hair. More baldness. When you see people once in a few years, the change is stark. It depresses me. It depresses me more to think that I am growing old too. I’m progressing and retrogressing at the same time, in the same time scale, with the same people.
And in this depressing scale of things, I have some comfort. I feel happy looking at old picture albums. Pictures where I was a baby. Parents looked so young. Grandmother took me to school and picked me up. We had more fun filled family trips. Roads looked less crowded. Amusement parks looked more exciting. School friends who vouched to always be with each other.
Things are changing. And for good or for bad, I have to accept it.
sunshine
I just spent 2 hours in a pediatrics clinic while getting my immunization reports updated. Our family doctor also happens to be a famous pediatrician, and since I had barged in without prior appointment, I was asked to wait or come back in 2 hours. I should have gone home and come back, but I decided to wait and observe the babies for a while. I did not have anything pressing to take care of at home anyway.
Babies are not little adults. They have a mind of their own. They communicate and negotiate even with their little and almost non-decipherable vocabulary.
The baby personality
There were real babies. Those who are a month or two old. Some looked so tiny that it seemed they hadn’t even hatched properly. Eyes closed, toothless smiles, little fists, they are a delight to watch. I observed one had a little finger even tinier than my nail. One had an entire hand the length of my palm. And to think I was of that size too someday.
The adult-baby personality
Some babies had accompanied their little siblings who were getting shots. These are the caring and curious kinds who touch their sleeping brothers a little on the cheek to see how the baby responds. A little fellow, a heavy chocolate addict as obvious from his missing dentition, derived great pleasure tickling the feet of the little one when the mother wasn’t looking. They were like adult-babies, still babies because of their age, but very adult-like in behavior.
The throwing-the-tantrum or the negotiator kind
These babies had negotiated with their parents, that a visit to the doctor is going to cost them perhaps the doctor’s fees and 2 chocolate bars, a coloring book, or a toy extra. The shopkeeper had strategically placed all the toys and chocolates and other goodies that attract attention near the counter where you paid, so that one could not avoid that particular place by choice. I actually saw a baby promptly wiping her tears after the visit to the doctor and negotiating with the parents, “Okay, now buy me toys and chocolates".
The drama-kind
These kids freaked out at the sight of the clinic even without being so much as touched by the doctor. They perhaps feared an injection, the smell of the clinic, or the way the doctor looked, for even before they were touched or examined, they started to howl out of fear. Of course taking them to the area where these chocolates and coloring goodies were located calmed them down temporarily and helped the clinic get back its sanity.
The friendly/gregarious kind.
These babies are great friends to make. They smile, run around, make friends with other babies, talk to random strangers as if they are family, refer to other babies as “little brother” and “little sister”, and ask questions instead of sulking in a corner and crying out of fear. One such cute little fatso, wearing a sleeveless shirt, went up to all the babies and touched them with fondness. This fellow came back to me, looked at me, and said, “Doctor will give you an injection”. Not knowing why a friendly chap would smile and try to tell me scary things, I replied, “But the doctor is already behind you with an injection”. The boy panicked for a bit, turning back, only to realize he was made a fool of. Regaining his composure and refusing to be verbally defeated by someone 4 times his size, he looks back at me with a very unperturbed and a suspense-filled expression, telling me, “Wait till the fishes in the oceans attack you and bite off your cheek”. As I feign fear, the boy chuckles at his verbal victory, bids all the other kids a goodbye and leaves the clinic, animatedly chatting with his mother.
After watching 20 babies or so, the doctor finally signed my immunization papers. In the meantime, I spent a fun-filled 2 hours watching these little ones, each having a completely different personality than the other.
sunshine
