Recapping the past decade

The one thing that Covid-19 has given many of us is a lot of time to stay at home and reflect. That is what I have been doing since March. I was thinking that if someday, my memory left me, I would not know who I am. My basic fabric, the blueprint of who I am will go amiss. I know that we are into the fifth month of the year, a year many want to wish away, but the start of this year also marked a fantastic end to a decade (2010-2019). Here are some of the things I will remember the last decade for:

I restarted my PhD for the second time and also earned it. This time, my PhD made me leave Seattle (the “best” coast) and head diametrically east. It brought new experiences, new friends, and new adventures. I miss those three years and keep wishing that one day, I could return. From the beaches of North Carolina and Virginia to the mountains of upstate New York, the ocean of Maine and the beaches of Florida, I drove everywhere. From Boston to Princeton to New York, Baltimore, Washington, DC, Richmond, and Orlando, I made new friends everywhere. 

The last decade also marked my transition from science to social science research. The transition brought its own challenges of learning an entire new field. Each field is a new way of looking at the world, and this new lens taught me to look at the world in a different way. 

I grew an inch taller.

2010 is when I first traveled Europe as a tourist. That was also when I got a taste of backpacking and traveling alone, and there was no looking back. 

Half-way into the decade, when I got a job in Germany, I was thrilled. Over the next few years, I lived, worked, and paid taxes in the USA, Germany, and India. Germany for two years was another nice experience. I lived right by the ocean and woke up looking at the sun rise by the water and the ships dock right outside home everyday. Germany is one of the prettiest places I have ever lived in. Again, this is another place I keep wishing I would go back to, maybe for a year or three. 

I got my first faculty job. And my second one too.

I traveled Cambodia with dad. And Thailand. And Nepal. I got to see Angkor Wat and the Annapurna range. The decade opened up Asia for me and made me realize there are so many places I haven’t traveled.

I discovered the joy of living in hostels. I discovered Airbnb. 

I got to work in one of the renowned schools in India. All these months later, I am still in awe of this place!

I became a home owner.

I traveled to 32 new countries. And I am not talking about airport layovers or watching television at a hotel in Dubai because my connecting flight leaves tomorrow.

I regret that I didn't learn a new skill or a new language.

Okay, I was kidding about my height!

sunshine

Happiness and health do not correlate

Nothing brings out intense punnery and sarcasm in me more than sitting at a doctor's office and listening to the breakdown of the bill that I have to pay out of my pocket even after insurance. I mean, I live in a country where you are sent a bill for holding your newborn (Google it if you don't believe me). Naturally, discussions around medical bills always make me edgy.

I listen to the detailed explanation at the dentist's and blurt, "Wow, that's a lot to chew on." The person is not amused and continues to explain what I would be paying. I see the final amount and cannot hold back anymore. I wonder if they also do kidney transplants on the side there. How does one even justify this kind of bill?

"Looks like I'll have to sell a kidney to pay for the teeth," I laugh out nervously.

I get very dirty looks, but it doesn't matter. Healthcare costs in this country make me wish I am dead before I get old or ill. If tooth implants cost this much, I don't know what other implants cost. I just started my job, and I don't have a bunch of sugar daddies waiting on me, not even one. I always walk out of the dentist's office in a state of shock and depression.

I look at the bus timings. At this rate, I will be using the bus for the next five years. There is still 20 minutes to kill, and it's freezing cold outside. So I aimlessly walk into the nearest store where I see light and humans. It turns out to be an overcrowded dollar store with people buying junk that they are better off not using. A minimalist here is a misfit, a pariah. I walk down the aisles, more for seeking heat than staring at mile-long aisles covered in colorful wrappers. It's amazing how the human civilization got eventually convinced that life is meaningless without material stuff (read Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind for some interesting perspectives). I walk up to the frozen aisle and see all kinds of junk food at dirt cheap prices proudly on display. A bunch of people are excitedly stocking up on such inexpensive, calorie-laden, nutrient-deprived food for the holiday season, talking and giggling. Who knew happiness comes so cheap when the price I'm paying to stay healthy is throwing me into perennial depression? Happiness and health do not necessarily correlate, and the irony of the situation is not lost on me. Thankfully, my bus arrives and I extricate myself from the womb of one dollar consumerism.

sunshine

A post in questions

Whatever you are doing right now, pause for a moment to sit back and think of this question.

“What would you do if the biggest problem plaguing your life right now is taken care of right away?”

The problem could be anything, but had to the biggest one in your life right now. What if you got the job you wanted in the city you wanted as well? What if your ailing child suffering from autism is miraculously cured? What if you found the person after waiting in loneliness for years? What if you got into Harvard Medical School? What if you got pregnant after years of trying? What if after being estranged for years, you and your partner got together? What if all your financial worries are taken care of?

In short, what if that one biggest thing worrying you right now is solved? How would your life look like from tomorrow? Would you go back to living a carefree, cheerful, fearless life just the way you wanted it? Would you start doing the things you promised you would when your worries are taken care of? Or like fluids, would the rest of the worries occupy the empty space in your life now?

I am not asking this question to the readers as much as I am asking it to myself. I wonder if I might temporarily start lacking a purpose, a direction in life if my biggest worry for the moment is taken care of.

sunshine

Life of a visitor

In this unbearable summer heat where people are falling sick, my grandma, who is in her seventies now, goes down five flights of stairs without an elevator, gets out of the house with a folding chair, a paper fan, and some water, stands in line, and casts her vote. Whereas I spend a freezing weekend at my home in Germany reflecting on my life choices. Where I live, I cannot vote and where I can vote, I do not live anymore. It seems like I have voluntarily chosen the life of a visitor. I travel to the US on a visitor visa, I live in Germany as a visitor, and every time I visit Calcutta, I feel like a visitor as well. Sure, I can wake up in the morning, hop on a train, and I will be in Switzerland by evening. But my way of living comes with the condition of never belonging anywhere. Jhumpa Lahiri might have even written a novel or two out of it and won prizes. I don't even know how to do that.

Everything in life comes at a price. Living the noisy, action-packed life in Calcutta where there is never a dull moment, where the smell of your neighbor's cooking suffuses the air when you wake up and there are always people visiting home unannounced, this huge social cushion comes at a price. Just like there is also a price I am paying for cleaner air, beautiful views, space, privacy, safety, and a whole lot of silence.

sunshine

Partition thoughts

I had a strange realization today. Whenever I think of partition, I think of Pakistan. West Pakistan specifically. But never Bangladesh (formerly East Pakistan). It is all the more strange, because I am much closer to Bangladesh ethnically, culturally, linguistically (we speak the same language), food-wise, etc. I have always wanted to visit Pakistan (the desire being borne out of separation stories from 1947 shown in movies), but never Bangladesh. When I think of Bangladesh, I think of the Sundarbans. I think of tourism, and increasing my country count. When I think of Pakistan, my heart melts with longing, wanting to visit every city and walk on its soil because we used to be one country (although much before I was born, so I haven't really experienced the consequences of partition first-hand).

I've been thinking why, and only one explanation makes sense to me. That we are more a product of what we consume compared to who we are born as. Although I am Bengali, I grew up (still growing) on a steady diet of mainstream Bollywood (that has many India-Pakistan movies, but none of India-Bangladesh that I know of) and Hindi literature. Just like whenever I wrote stories as a kid, all my characters had English names. John, Jane, Julia. Whenever I wrote formal and informal letters during English I exams, it was always to some Frank or Mr. Smith. Why was I, a Bengali girl living in a little town in eastern India, writing letters to John and Frank? I don't think I had ever met an Englishman//Westerner until I moved to the US. So when I heard a Ted talk by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie called "The danger of a single story", I exactly knew what she was talking about. I was thrilled, knowing that there is someone else who has faced the same confusion. The talk is highly recommended.

So that is my reflection for today, that we are merely a product of what we consume much more than who we are born as.

sunshine

The Food-Medicine Theory

I think for a living. Which means that I continue to think sometimes even when I am not making a living. In this complex web of thought processes, I came up with a gem of a theory one day that answered many unexplained questions I have had in the past about relationships. Not just intimate relationships or romantic relationships, but relationships. Friends, neighbors, colleagues, basically any human interaction I have had. I call this the “food-medicine theory”.

Relationships are based on need. The need to get, and sometimes, the need to give. Most relationships are either like food, or like medicine. Let’s see how.  

Some people are like food in your life. You need food everyday for sustenance. That’s a universal truth. Nutritive, life-giving food, hopefully in moderation. But routine is the key. Sure, you could fast for a day or two. But barring that, you need food. Every day.

Now once in a while, you eat bad food, and have food poisoning. You stay away from that food. What comes in handy is a medicine. Something strong, that has a more localized effect to cure you off the ill effects of food. You may continue to take it for a while. But eventually, when you are cured, you stop taking it, and go back to eating normally. 

Human relationships are just like that. Some people are food. They are just a part of your being. You do not question their need or their existence. You just need them to stay strong, healthy, and functioning. You can perform the most mundane of things as long as you have them around. And they are here, to stay in your life.

But then, other human relationships are like medicines. They have a role, and a very important and specific one to play. They come in handy only when there is a crisis. A medicine is not something you open your eyes and look forward to having on a normal day. It is effective for sure. But it is temporary. Evanescent.

Both food and medicine are important. Neither one nor the other is superior, and there is no judgment on the value one brings to the table. One can be food to some, and medicine to others. That is totally okay.

However, confusion and heartbreaks happen when you mistake one for the other. I have been medicine to many, and many have been medicine to me. Yet mistaking myself as food has caused heartbreaks so many times. In any given relationship, it is so important to know whether one is the food or the medicine, and own up to that. Whether one is serving a temporary need, or is here to stay. That helps you to step away at the right time. You do not want to be hanging around when you are no longer needed.

I know that you need me, and I am happy to be around. But you did not always need me. You started needing me to get over a bad past. A trauma. An accident. An illness. I know that the day you heal and recover, you will not need me anymore. I might still be around, like a vial tucked away in some corner of the medicine cabinet for future use. But I will not be needed all the time.

The day I realized this, so many inexplicable things started making sense to me. Why did someone get so close so soon? And why someone took off and never reported? Why was everyone being treated differently at work? I have seen people completely fall out of love, and the same has happened to me (I am not talking of just romantic love). Perhaps they were, or I was the medicine. I had an important, but only temporary role to play. Once things went back to being normal, the medicine was no longer needed.

Of course every theory has its flaws, no theory is perfect. Sure, you can refute it and find many loopholes in what I just said. But if you can look beyond the flaws, you might see some value in what I just said. I hope that you have read one of these famous quotes in statistics, “All models are wrong, but some are useful.” My theory might be wrong. But I hope that it is useful.

sunshine

Loneliness of a different kind

Recently, during a closer introspection of life, I realized how lonely things have become. Although Seattle was in a different country and I was living away from family for the first time, there was no dearth of like-minded friends or interesting activities to pursue. I took writing courses, did salsa, acted in plays (or watched them), danced, and made friends from diverse backgrounds (professors, writers, software engineers, social activists, etc.). My social life during my PhD in Virginia was quite active too. Having two roommates who spoke two different languages made a big difference, and they brought in their own set of friends, food, and fun. Then, I had friends from other groups- Bengali friends, gym friends, department friends, and east coast friends. Due to the proximity of several big cities on the east coast, my social life was not restricted to Virginia. I would be attending Durga Puja events in NY/NJ, Diwali events in Washington DC, driving to the national parks and the beaches on the Atlantic, and there was hardly a dull moment. My car made a big difference in my life too, now that I was quite comfortable driving longer distances (sometimes as far as Rochester, Cincinnati, and Connecticut).

My social life took a kamikaze turn in Nebraska. Suddenly, my real-time friends were reduced to a list of names on Skype. I realized that as students, it is much easier to make new friends. As a postdoc at a new university, I no longer felt comfortable with the student crowd (although they tried, and I tried too). I no longer identified with their life issues (not being able to drive, not passing the qualifiers, not graduating on time). On the other hand, most of the postdocs had families, and I did not fit into that group either. I remember someone trying to introduce me to a group that met for satsang and bhajans and vegetarian meals, although that was really not my idea of socializing. I never went, and they never talked to me again.

Married people came with their own stories (being a trailing spouse, the child never eating or sleeping enough, the mortgage being too high, the car insurance too steep, and the immigration policies too unforgiving, group politics among the Bengalis, etc.). I attended some social events, but did not feel engaged enough. The faces were different, but the problems were all the same. Being in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska never allowed me enough opportunities to escape somewhere. The weather was extreme, the Colorado mountains too far, the beaches nowhere to be seen, and there was only so much one could drive in the middle of the cornfields. That was the first time I actually began to realize what loneliness is. I sometimes went to the local Bengali association, attending the pujas and Diwali amid a group I clearly did not fit into. I kept myself busy by taking pictures at these events, my way of contributing socially. It was not that there was a dearth of people I knew. It’s just that the sample size of “people like me” had significantly decreased.  

This brought in a very important realization. We are perhaps subconsciously programmed to hang out with people “like us” unless we make a deliberate attempt not to do so. Bengalis hang out with the Bengalis, married couples hang out with other married couples, and people in academia hang out with other people in academia. This is perhaps because it gives us a lot of common topics to talk about. I mean, what would an Indian postdoc talk to a Russian chef? Ever seen how totally incompatible adults hang out with one another, and gladly do so because they have children who are playmates? Thankfully, my diversions and hobbies kept me engaged. I read, watched foreign language films, wrote, took pictures, made travel plans, and so on. However, the loneliness persisted.

Things in Germany are far worse. Language and culture are huge barriers, but what creates a greater divide is my failure to hang out with the Indians here, just because we share a common cultural background, and perhaps nothing more. I felt much more comfortable with the few Americans I met in Germany. On the other hand, I made some good Korean friends. I had more in common with them, because they are single, researchers, people who have traveled the world, and provided me a first-hand perspective of an interesting life. We were experiencing a shared struggle of learning the German language, and getting used to the culture. In a way, we were all the same: foreigners. Whenever I needed company for a walk, or wanted to visit a local café, they were usually there. However, some of them are leaving, without promises of returning anytime soon.  

Things are perhaps not as unhappy as I am portraying. Most days, I am really happy reading a book while watching the ships, and not have anyone interrupt my thoughts. However, the human connection is definitely missing from my life now. There are still enough people I see on a regular basis. However, I don’t have much common with them anymore.

Recently, when an old school friend contacted me after many years, I was surprised that I felt a mixture of happiness and dread. For I knew that somewhere during the conversation, she would either bring up things like her kid not eating and sleeping and pooping enough, or ask me why I am not joining the bandwagon of married people. She would not talk about learning new statistical tools, trying something new on Coursera, or finding some cool solution to a scientific problem. However, I am still expected to be enthusiastic about keeping in touch, just because we were once together in the ninth and tenth grade (a time when we had everything in common).

You see, these people are not bad people, but just different people. Not diverse, but different. I now realize why people procreate (other than the usual reasons about human instincts and the urge to spread your genes). It keeps people busy with regular, organized activities centered around care-giving duties (cooking, cleaning, playing, teaching, socializing); sometimes even chores, but engaging activities nevertheless. Being the caregiver for two children, my mom was really busy at my age. She was sending us to school, supervising our homework, managing the home, caring for the in-laws, adjusting with my dad’s erratic work schedules, and being in charge of the family single-handedly. I, on the other hand, have no such roles to play. My major responsibilities include feeding myself, taking care of my health, making sure that I show up at work on time, meet deadlines, keep the house clean, and that’s about it. Sometimes, my biggest dilemma for the day is no, not how to educate my children better, but whether to wear a red shirt or a grey shirt at work. No one will be hungry or waiting for me at home if I am late. In fact no one will even know that I am late.  

Naturally, I dread my weekends. Work gives me a serious engagement, a sense of accomplishment, and an avenue of socializing (precisely why I don’t like working from home). But the weekends are hard. Sometimes when I come back to work on Mondays, I realize that I am croaking, because my vocal cords have gathered cobwebs over the weekend with no one to talk to. While people look forward to the weekends, thanking God that it’s Friday and what not, I really wonder how I will kill time. Because engagement requires planning, and planning requires energy and enthusiasm. So I take the easier way out, either watching back-to-back movies until my back hurts, or working some more. Sometimes, I try the selfish way out, by Skyping with my family to relieve me of my loneliness. However, they are even busier, and nowhere to be seen in the weekends. They are often traveling, attending weddings, socializing, trying out the food at new restaurants, catching up with the latest movies in the theaters, and doing a gazillion things on the weekend. Precisely the kind of life I would like to live in Germany.

A couple of realizations before I end this reflective post that turned out to be more of a rant. With age, my acquaintances have increased (800 friends on FB, and counting), but my friends have decreased. In my twenties, I hung out in big groups, engaging in planned activities and small talk. Now, I want to spend more individual time with a smaller group of people (the smaller, the better). I don’t want to make small talk in big groups, but big talks in small groups. Also, the people I identified with at some point (because they were school buddies or college mates), I no longer have anything in common with them. They have been replaced by a newer set of friends, definitely smaller in number (and getting smaller every year). A handful of close friends have passed, making me realize that death is no longer something that happens to the older people, people my parents or grandparents knew. Even people my age can die (and why not? I think that I am almost done with half my life).  Most importantly, I am realizing that it is so important to have a critical mass of friends you can meet on a regular basis at any given point of time. Because that is what helps the extroverts get more extroverted, and the introverts like me to be sufficiently engaged. Instead, that critical mass of friends is almost going to hit single digit numbers for me, as a result of which, the introvert in me is getting more introverted, retreating into a shell. They even have a cool term for this. It is called the Matthew effect.

The other interesting thought is understanding whether your interests earn you friends, or whether your friends earn you interests. I have done both in the past. For example, I have made friends because of my interests (acting in plays, dancing, learning music). However, I have also pursued new interests (like watching Thai horror movies or learning Korean) because of friends. I guess one way out of this ordeal would be to keep doing the things I love doing (joining a dance group, doing Zumba, traveling, and so on), and hoping that new friendships develop organically this way. Or maybe I should just move to Seattle. That is one place where I will never have to worry about not having enough friends, or not having enough things to do in the weekends.

P.S.: I shudder to think how much more I will be ranting in my fifties.

sunshine