Thappad in Philly

On the first day of the conference in Philadelphia, I saw my student lugging around two heavy suitcases. Curious, I tried lifting one, quickly regretting the possibility of a hernia. What are you carrying?-- I ask out of curiosity. He grins and says, ready-to-eat food/snacks. The voice in my head goes, "What a desi you are! Carrying your food all the way to Amrika!" As if reading my mind, he proudly says, "Professor, I am Gujarati. Even if Philadelphia runs out of food, I can survive for the next two weeks. And you can too!"

I pretended to ignore his generous offer. A few times after that, he asked me if I wanted upma or poha or bhakri or anything else. My snooty nose quickly declined. I was having sushi three meals a day, hoping that my sushi honeymoon would last forever. No, I did not want dhokla or papad. 

Papad, I didn't get, but I got a thappad (slap) from God quick enough. I woke up with a terrible headache one morning and could not immediately go outside to find food. My student rose up to the occasion and beamed confidently, do you want ginger or cardamom in your tea? Now I am not a morning tea drinker and I had no tea with me. I don't know if he was hallucinating. Who will get me ginger tea in the land of coffee?

In five minutes, he made me a cup of strong ginger tea and filled a plate with bhakri and other snacks. And like a hungry wolf, I gulped down my pride and all the food that came right off his suitcase, the one I had made fun of, including the ginger tea. It felt so good. My headache was gone in no time. I had only known him as a student so far, but now, I learnt what an industrious person he was too. He was visiting the US for the first time and as a vegetarian, he did not know what options he would have. Plus he is a student with not a lot of money, and has been very careful about what he eats for the last three years (he lost about 15 kilos and reversed all his health conditions). I know that he does not need my recommendation letter, he already has a job long before he finishes the PhD. But if he ever asks for one, I'd write him the strongest letter. Not too sure if he would write me a strong letter though.  

sunshine

Country Rap

Have you noticed how Bengali expats who congregate with other Bengali expats at the airport and bond while bitching about how India will never improve usually share certain common attributes?

One, they usually wear GAP or Nike clothing.

Two, the farther they get from the US (or the closer they get to India), the louder their rants get. They might not be as vocal in Houston or Seattle but will be very loud in Dubai. Perhaps the humid Dubai air makes them realize that shit is about to get real in a few hours.

Three, the rants are always, always in English. Ninde korar belaye accent diye Ingriji.

Based on what people say, it is easy to predict who is who.

"Ayi saala suorer bachcha plane ta deri koralo" -- A Bengali from India.

"Can't believe nothing runs on time. It's always sooo hard to get things done in India. This country will never improve" -- naak oonchoo expat whose patriotism is confined to missing and discussing aam jaam lichu tyangra lyangra on Facebook but dreads every moment of their trip to India. 

A curious spectator (sunshine).

Love is color blind

A grandma was fondly showing me pictures of her newborn grandson.

A professor grandma. A researcher grandma. A grandma who has spent many years working on feminism. Black history. Black feminism. 

I don't even know half the names of Black writers and activists she talks about. Excited, I scribble down the names. I am going to look them all up.

Between such conversations, grandma fondly shows me more pictures of her newborn grandson.

I am willing to overlook the fact that she just reiterated, rather unnecessarily, that her grandson is a US citizen. Others do it too, the ones who need constant validation that they fit in, but she is different. She is a professor grandma. She has somehow earned my respect. No human is without biases. I have mine too. 

And then, the unthinkable happens.

She says, "Look at my grandson. He has different colored hair than all of us. Since he was born in the US, he has brown hair. Isn't that amazing?"

My make-believe world of role modeling professor grandma comes crashing down. I look closer at the picture. Not a wisp of brown hair. I also happen to know the parents. Not a wisp of brown hair from there either. Is it my ageing eyesight? I wonder what other strange ideas brew in grandma's imagination. Grandma does not live in the US by the way. Grandma lives in Kolkata. Is love that "color blind"?

Genetics died a mocking death that day.

sunshine

Some food (and clothes) for thought

I have never been a more curious spectator of the sartorial idiosyncrasies of mommies of a certain demography living in the west, a self-appointed, judgmental vigilante in no way though. Now if you are a mommy whose dressing doesn't stand out when you go to drop your kids to school or the school bus, good for you! Please don't go protesting and shouting, "I don't! I don't! How could you write about me?" here. Really, you are not who I am thinking about. I am merely sharing my observations about mothers of the other kind. 

A month well-spent dropping and picking up the little ones to and from school every day, G's kids actually, and I consistently watched so many come to drop their kids off in their nightclothes. Mostly nightclothes of the desi kind, with a hint of innovation thrown around. Like, a nightie with a dupatta around the neck. Or a pajama I would never wear outside home. As if a dupatta makes the nightie and the pajama more official, almost as if it was never a nightie or a pajama in the first place, but something more formal like a business suit. 

At first, I discarded it as a figment of my imagination. I am sure that the nightie-wearers I see everyday are no lesser mortals; they are entrepreneurs and networkers. They are independent women who drive their Hondas and Toyotas to drop their kids. They might even be frequenting pubs and shaking a leg at night clubs. Yet early in the morning, in the freezing cold, the nightie or the pajama is omnipresent, peeking from the coats and jackets. With the dupatta of course.

Perhaps this is a strange form of liberation for the immigrant woman trying to fit in a western country, or a self-proclaimed liberation from the bondage of being forced to wear something in order to blend in. Perhaps the desire to be the 5% located around the two tails of that "Normal Distribution Curve". Perhaps a sartorial compromise between the past homeland and the current homeland, a thin thread of nostalgia connecting the two. I imagine a dozen floral-printed nighties bought from Calcutta or some place in Chennai (two randomly picked cities) making their way across the Pacific Ocean as a part of a wedding trousseau. As a curious spectator trying to read people's minds, I wonder if it is sheer nostalgia, old habits, laziness, or rebellion to stand out.

sunshine