Our homegrown celebrity

A few years ago, grandma fell very sick, taking to the bed. Diabetes led to the gradual failing of her kidneys, and she had to be hospitalized for a long time. It's a story from many years ago, she is perfectly fit now after working out, having lost 55 lbs and slimming down beyond recognition. But back then, my mom visits her one day at the hospital. She is hooked to a dozen different pipes and monitors. Her face is all swollen, eyes closed, breathing heavily. A number of instruments are constantly recording her vitals. The doctor is wondering if they should start dialysis. Grandma is sick beyond recognition.

When my mom sits by her bed, grandma slowly opens her eyes. With great effort, she tries to smile. Despite her condition, there is a twinkle in her eyes. She tells mom, "Do you know, Suchitra Sen's physician is now my physician?"

In her tryst with death, what excites her about life is that she now shares her physician with a celebrity. When her physician recently died, grandma expressed her sadness to my mom, "We lost our physician. Suchitra Sen and I."

Suchitra Sen was a renowned Bengali actor of the yesteryear from the 1950s. Someone like Meg Ryan of Hollywood or Madhuri Dixit of Bollywood.

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The real art of living

I often write about my grandma, because there is so much to write about her. At a time when all of us have been disappointed with life, she tells me that what keeps her going strong despite all the odds is the single minded desire to live.

Grandma fell very sick about 2 years ago. Her blood sugar and cholesterol shot up, kidneys went haywire, and there were many things that went wrong. From hospitalizations to passing out, she saw it all. Since then, she cannot drink more than one bottle of fluid a day. Which means that if she has a bowl of lentils or soup, she will have to subtract the same amount from a bottle of water. Imagine thriving in the Indian summer that way.

Eventually, grandma decided to fight her diseases. She completely changed her diet. For someone who has no access to the gym, she started brisk walking every day. She did this for a while, and lost 25 kilo (55 lbs). Imagine losing that much weight for someone less than 5 feet tall, and that old (Metabolism slows down with age). Eventually, all her diseases started disappearing, and her readings came back to normal. Now, she wakes up at 4 am everyday and sprints up to the terrace for her walks, goes up and down 5 flights of stairs every now and then (she lives on the fifth floor), takes all the washed clothes to the terrace to dry, takes care of grandpa, and is much fitter. I recently saw her picture, and she looks so thin, that I could not recognize her, despite knowing her all my life. I joked that she could easily join Hollywood. She has almost become grandma/2. 

My uncle one day got her a piece of fish fry, and she said that she was looking at outside food after 1.5 years. She was so worried about eating it that she nibbled on it, and took an entire hour to finish it little by little. And last we spoke, she told me the same thing. I do not care about good food anymore. I just want to live well.

sunshine

The traveler auntie

G’s mom us really cool. Smart, independent, vocal, no-nonsense. The kind who will love her family to death, but not be a doormat. 

We were once traveling in a crowded bus when a guy started to get naughty with me. She sensed it even without me telling her anything, and literally stared him down, coming and standing between us. She didn't say a word, just used her height to her advantage (she is a good few inches taller than I am), and scared that guy away with her overpowering presence. I have been calling her Chachi 420 ever since. When I had planned my first cross-country road trip from WA to VA, everyone asked me not to, alone woman and all that. She was the only one who said that she wants to come with me. She is as likely to go on a road trip with you as spend hours cooking up a storm for you, or even pick a stick and beat the crap out of people who might try to trouble you. 

When G and the kids (Baby Kalyani and Baby D) were visiting her in India, I was expecting that she might be slaving away all day, cooking their favorite things and giving them the same celebrity status my mom gives me. When I visit home, I literally do not move a finger. Things just keep coming to me. I know that it is not right, but I still do it. However, I was informed otherwise.

Looks like G is in charge of the household now, while aunt has gone on a trip. Not some family trip, or a visit to the family deity or a day trip. She has taken off to explore a part of India for a few days with her school buddies. 

I'd love to be like her when I am her age. 

sunshine

Breaking News!

In a bone-chilling and shocking incident that shook the entire G-household, the little one has been caught red-handed, causing havoc in the household once again. This is G's littler one, Baby D.

Baby D, the accused, is a 3-year old with doe eyes, the most innocent looks, and a shrill, Dolby Digital quality voice that makes her (in)famous in the crime circle as Baby D Bose. She is agile, nimble, and as light as a slightly overweight carry-on baggage. 

On Saturday early morning (7:30 am) that the whole world perceives as weekend and hence sleep in late, mommy and Aunt sunshine were chatting up in the kitchen, enjoying their early cuppa morning tea when the crime happened. Baby D was supposed to be happily sleeping in daddy's arms, but she quietly woke up, sneaked in a pillow under daddy's arms, and made her way to the master bathroom. Daddy happily continued to sleep and snore, mistaking the pillow to be Baby D. 

Heavily suspicious of the quiet and peace in the household, mommy went upstairs looking for Baby D at around 8 am. Daddy said, "Here she is sleeping", his eyes closed as he continue to believe that the pillow is Baby D. The entire bed cover and the floor were stained red. Mommy panicked. The trail of red stains continued to the master bathroom, where the accused was caught red-handed, like seriously, with hands painted red. Swabs of the red stain were quickly sent to the forensic lab and was reported to be a mixture of mommy's expensive collection of lipstick and nail polish. The crime area was quickly sealed, and Aunt sunshine assumed the role of a crime photographer and reporter. 

When interrogated about how daddy mistook the pillow for a baby, he refused to comment. The accused has been caught red-handed doing crime of similar magnitude many times, and has received multiple warnings from mommy, the chief law enforcing officer at home. The last warning was given to her exactly 30 hours ago, when the entire door was painted 50 Shades of Purple (ahem!). Mommy somehow managed to erase the stains, but is still mourning the loss of her expensive makeup. The accused refused to comment or plead guilty. When probed, she quickly went back to using the Dolby voice and gallons of tears as weapons. The jury has recommended installing a strong bathroom lock that is difficult to trample with. Last heard, everyone in the household was reported safe and recovering well from the incident. Aunt sunshine is still a little shaken though, and is seeking counseling. She seems to be repeating the same question in a loop- "Is this what it is like to have kids?" 

The accused has already attempted other crimes ever since, but of much lesser magnitude.

sunshine

Taking the plunge

         When I called home to talk to my mom this morning, she said that she had some “secret good news” to share (technically, I am sharing a “secret” here, and I am sure she will forgive me for it if she ever came to know). My Bolly-brain is programmed to associate “good news” with pregnancy, but she confirmed that no one in the family is pregnant at the moment. However, my mom told me that she has decided to take swimming lessons.

            As I was walking to the library later today, I kept thinking about what might have prompted my mom to make this decision one fine morning. She is clearly no aspiring deep sea diver or Mrs. India contestant. She is certainly not planning to join Bollywood. It’s not that she had some deep fascination for water sports. I tried getting inside her head and think like she would, but I failed. So I decided to call her back.

            It turns out that her reason was pretty simple. She wanted to learn something she has never learned before, so that her brain doesn’t rust or doesn’t forget what it is like learning a new skill.

Wow. That was deep and profound.

            I mean, she could have tried learning baking, that would be close to what she already knows. She could learn driving, but then we are one of the extinct middle class families in this burgeoning, capitalistic-transforming India who doesn’t own a car, out of choice. She could have done any number of things within her comfort zone. But I know this is not her comfort zone. You know why?

            Because she is already looking for costumes that would cover her limbs fully. She got rid of her hesitation and confided in a friend, whose daughter is a swimmer and knows where to buy costumes. This is no costume, tank top, or skirt wearing mom. With all those not toned muscles, unshed fat and birthmarks from two baby deliveries, I know she will have enough issues getting used to a swimming dress.

            Because she told me that she has decided not to go to the nearby club. It is full of gundaas, unemployed men who gather around the area and smoke cigarettes. She has chosen to go to a safer pool with evening shifts for women that will add an hour to her commute.

            Because she has a husband who is more paranoid than appreciative of his family members taking on challenges. I know that firsthand.

“I have figured out a way to deal with him. I told him that if I don’t like it or don’t learn in 2-3 weeks, I will stop going.”

“And will you really stop going?”, I asked.

“Of course not. I’ll make sure I learn it in 2-3 weeks, or at least tell him so.” She was radiating excitement and confidence.

            I still had a hard time taking it all in. I mean, she has always had a protected life, never went outside to earn, raised two kids as best as she could, rarely got into a fight with the neighbors, never boarded a plane (and still believes that it is theoretically possible to get on a wrong plane, for which, she has avoided coming to meet me), doesn’t know Washington state from Washington DC, and has enough to keep her busy all day. She is anything but bored. A woman in her late forties seldom develops a hobby one fine day. She could be perfectly happy watching movies and reading books if she wanted to. Why swimming?

            It struck me all the more because I am a big coward in certain ways. I am not at all fond of water. In fact, I dislike doing anything that is not on land. So I am fine with driving and running and dancing, but not with sky diving, bungee jumping, or swimming. I love the oceans, but only from a distance. I don’t like the feeling I get when I am in water. I could imagine myself learning a number of things, but never swimming. At 31, I feel like I am too old to be learning new things. I sleep on the same side of the bed every day, I use the same brand of fragrant candles, I have used the same phone (a flip phone, not a smart phone) for 6 plus years now, I have had the same haircut, I order the same coffee at Starbucks and the same chicken burrito bowl to go (no beans, only veggies, white rice, mild salsa, guac on the side, with just a hint of corn, sour cream, and cheese, but no lettuce) at Chipotle, and I do the same thing before going to sleep every night (play online scrabble, that is). I can feel that I am getting old, predictable and boring. The last thing I would imagine doing is getting rid of the hesitation about my body image (and I am neither approaching 50, nor have delivered babies), don a costume, and dive into the water.

            You know, I was always picking up a fight with my mom while growing up; dad was more the role model for me. My dad’s achievements were more visible to me then (his promotions, professional achievements, visit to China, etc.), but I always thought of my mom as a quiet person who would seldom take risks. Of course I was a ten year old who had no idea about what it takes to keep a family glued together. As I grew older, I learned to appreciate my mom much more. She is this really quiet person who would seldom contradict anyone and would cry watching Rajesh Khanna die in a movie, but every now and then, she would show streaks of fieriness, do something brave, something so not like her, and surprise me and make me respect her more and more. And as far as not contradicting dad when he is acting irrational, I once asked her why does she usually let dad rant and argue?

“I choose my battles, I choose what is worth my time and what is not.”

            Her reply had changed my world view all those years ago, and showed me how not be a passive victim of a situation, but to actively decide what is worth my time and what is not. So sharp, so to the point, and so empowering. No tears, no drama, absolutely no sign of helplessness or weakness.

            Mom, I hope you do take the plunge this time, and learn a new skill. You are already my hero.

sunshine

Teacups versus Travel Mugs

Katie Couric addressed the graduating class of UVA last month as a guest speaker. Prior to this, I had no idea who Katie Couric was, but now I do, and am reading her book “The bestadvice I ever got: Lessons from extraordinary lives”. Usually, these speeches are different variations of what I see as feel-good-get-working inspirational speeches. It is not necessarily bad, but it is one of its kinds. I quite liked listening to her speech on that hot sunny day, on the verge of dehydrating and dying. Then, I listened to the same speech on youtube a few more times. The one thing that I loved is her comparison of teacups and travel mugs, where she urges students to stop being teacups, and become travel mugs. Any word related to travel is bound to pique my interest, and honestly, I did not get her point initially. However, I figured out that she was urging people not to become decorative pieces of fine china people keep at home, and instead be strong, sturdy, and go see the world. I really liked the analogy and I had never heard it before. Perhaps that is who I have always wanted to be- a travel mug. There is a lot of value in seeing the world, traveling, and being sturdy. That part of the speech roughly starts at the 17 minute 25 second mark.

            True, being a teacup is boring. Who wants to be a prized possession, kept safe in a shelf? I really hope I continue to be a travel mug, and meet lot many travel mugs in my life.

sunshine

A PhD Post

Mentorship is a two-way process, where you shape your adviser as he shapes you. I am living proof of that. The last few weeks have been the turning point of my PhD. For those of you who do not know, I am at the fag end of my second year in the PhD program. This is when you are done with your coursework, and are beginning to think of some nice ideas, one of which could potentially turn into a dissertation. In my field of research, we usually do two kinds of studies- qualitative and quantitative. There is a third kind, the mixed-methods approach, where you mix both qualitative and quantitative data to validate each other. Quantitative studies heavily rely on data analyzed through statistics and number crunching, while qualitative studies rely on making meaning of the experiences of people through observations, interviews, focus group discussions, ethnography studies, et cetera. One approach is not necessarily better than the other, and you need to understand both methods in order to address a research question well.

            My research group is heavy on quantitative analysis. There are a couple of reasons for that. Your sample size can be way larger in a quantitative data set (tens of thousands sometimes), the sophistication of the statistical software can make you run analyses in less time, and overall, your rate of publication is higher when you do quantitative work. Clearly, the numbers speak for themselves, and that is why my group has always relied on quantitative dissertations.

            I was expected to do a quantitative dissertation from day one. My adviser is a hard taskmaster and makes you takes every possible course on methodology. It is hard, doing all that work, and I have seen myself screaming through semesters when I was taking four methods courses at a time. In graduate school, taking four courses per semester is a challenge; you can imagine what taking four methods courses would be like. I have taken the entire 3-series qualitative coursework, 5-series quantitative coursework, and various other courses related to item response theory, multilevel modeling, and so on. I have had to learn using Stata, SPSS, Genova, NVivo, and Atlas Ti from scratch. Anyway, I ended up taking a lot of these quant courses, and realized my heart was not really in there. I could run regression models and stuff, I could learn to live with that, but not love that. On the other hand, I took the qualitative courses and loved them.

            The first time my adviser learned about my newfound love for qualitative analysis, he asked me to change advisers. Clearly this is what none of his students had done before, and he was skeptical. I would be crazy to change advisers at this stage, I love this research group, so I assured him that I would do a quantitative dissertation. We were collecting a lot of qualitative data for an NIH funded study, and with my background in the biosciences and public health, I found myself attracted to that data. I would randomly do some preliminary analysis, while still looking for a quantitative research idea. This went on for a few more months. My adviser was supposed to go to an annual conference in California, a big one for sure, and I asked him if I could come. He said no, and then gave it a thought and asked me what I would do there. I said I had done some preliminary analysis and could present it to him, so that he could decide. I told him that it was qualitative data analysis. I just wanted to attend the conference and visit California, hoping to make some contacts there. I did not hope for anymore.

            The adviser gave me an evening, and asked me to present my data to him the next morning. I had an evening, which is nothing when you have to present your findings. People spend days preparing their presentations. He said that I could come with him if I could impress him. I spent that evening putting some more thought and rationale into my data analysis, and presented it to him next morning sharp at 10 am. He had some thoughts, he asked some questions, and told me to do some more. He was about to leave when I asked him if I could come to California. He told me I am on board.

            I was thrilled. I spent more time into this analysis, aware that I will have to soon go back to my quantitative dissertation idea. I kept working hard at this and showing him my analysis, knowing that I had a very limited amount of time with this dataset. I still did not have a dissertation idea.

            About 2 weeks ago, my adviser approved of me doing either a wholly qualitative dissertation, or a mixed-method dissertation. He told me that I have changed his opinion about what his graduate students’ dissertation profile should look like, replete with quantitative data analysis. He reminded me of the risks I am taking being the first one in his team to do qualitative work. This has been the single most pivotal moment in my PhD career. From the day when he asked me to change advisers because I liked qualitative work to this day when he said I will be the first one in his team to do something new, I have come a long way from where I was. I never really had any expectation of him changing his mind. However, I kept doing something I am good at, and things unfolded for me serendipitously.

            I have secured a place in the California conference. I have finally decided on my dissertation topic, after 6 months of banging my head against the wall. Most importantly, I have realized that although there is a prescribed route to success that everyone before me has followed, there is also value in determining my own way based on my interests without taking the road stalwarts have taken before me. I will carve out my own niche, doing something my group has never done before. It may or may not be kick ass, like Eric Cartman would say. However, that for me is the true essence of education- authenticity, uniqueness, and doing something different with all my love.

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Perspective

This semester, I am taking two advanced level statistics courses together. Usually the department spreads it out for students so that students take one statistics course at a time, but academic daddy wanted me to get the stats courses out of my way so that I can start analyzing data and publishing soon. I would have never thought of this idea, but when he asked me to, I cribbed, sulked, even tried to reason with him. Each course is demanding and challenging in its own way, replete with homework, assignments, projects, and exams. However, as you would have rightly guessed, it is futile to argue reason with the advisor. It takes less cognitive load to just do what he says.

Starting this year, my weekdays were inundated with stats. I call Thursday my “statistically significant” day, with classes from 9 am continuing right until 5 pm. It would get so tiring that I would cancel workouts later on, head home, and fall asleep out of sheer fatigue. Then there are assignments every week that involves hours of learning to use SPSS and getting work done. My life was suddenly full of big words like heteroscedasticity, multinomial regression, and linear modeling. It wasn’t terribly unbearable, but I wish I could have spread it over subsequent semesters instead of having an indigestion over a stat-enriched diet.

I was in class early morning, really early. At 7 am, I had reached for the 9 am class. I had a midterm later in the afternoon and I had spent a sleepless night cramming. To ensure I don’t fall asleep in the wee hours of dawn, I had showered, and reached the class 2 hours in advance to study some more. As far as I know, there is only one person in the same boat as I was in, taking both the statistics classes together. Everyone else just took one course. He soon joined me in class, and we started sharing woeful thoughts about the impending midterms later in the day. Staying awake at night made me so cranky that I started to crib about how miserable my life was, how I was missing out on a chunk of socializing and having fun because I was always under pressure to finish the assignments for both classes. It’s not that these were the only two classes I was taking, I was taking five courses in all and producing research as well. He asked me why I was taking it if I was so unhappy, and I told him how it was the brilliant idea of my advisor. The momentous time came then and I asked him why he was taking both of these courses together. I could at least blame my advisor, but what was his story?

Nothing could have prepared me for his story. His wife was working and hence he decided to start a PhD. A few months down the line, his wife lost her job and was unable to find one. And yes, they have three kids to take care of. So, it is in his best interests to take as many required courses as he can so that he can graduate early and does not have to spend an extra year taking courses. By the way, we both have been just six months into our programs.

He seemed very matter of fact when he said this, but my jaws dropped as I heard him say that. Nothing could have prepared me for his story. I felt so humbled, and so guilty. Here I was acting like a spoilt brat, cribbing because I couldn’t attend a few seemingly insignificant get-togethers, couldn’t socialize some evenings, and that’s there is to it. I neither had a family to feed, nor had a change of circumstances that would make me plan ahead and load myself with courses to finish my PhD sooner. A carefree, blessed, happy-go-lucky person who had absolutely no responsibilities other than the self-inflicted responsibility of doing well in academics, I was cribbing as if this was the end of the world. His story left me with such a sense of sadness that I am never going to complain about too many courses again. I see now that it is all a matter of perspective.

sunshine