Car-Ma

I was recently invited to speak at Princeton University. The organizers there treated me really well. I have been invited at other places too, but Princeton clearly stands out as classy. They put me up at one of the best hotels, the food was excellent, and the invitation letter and all was once again, a class above the rest. But the icing on the cake was my mom's response to something they did. Yes, a mommy post again!

Princeton got me a chauffeur-driven limousine for the 50-mile, hour-long drive from the Newark Liberty International Airport to the university/hotel (I was planning to take the train/dinky). My jaws dropped open when I read the letter. I, for one, have never been in a limo before. Forget the limo, I am used to taking the public transport, and for a good part of my life, I have lived in hostels and crashed at people's living rooms to save money during travel. The world of upscale hotels is very new to me, but the limo ride was something I did not see coming.

I was very excited, and when I told my ma, she was excited too! I do not know how much she understands cars, but based on my response, she could sense that it is a big deal. Very sincerely, she said, "This is so exciting. Is a limo as comfortable as the Toyota Innova? Innova'r thekeo bhalo gaadi?"

It reminded me of my first year in the US. G drove a Honda Pilot then, so the Honda Pilot became my standard of excellence, "my" first car in the US. As our friendship grew, my emotional connection with the car grew too. A year or two later, I got onto a friend's SUV during a road trip to San Diego and sincerely told her husband, whom I was meeting for the first time, "Very nice car. Love the Honda Pilot!" To which, I got a very dirty look and a clipped response, "It is a Lexus!"

Oh, well!

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While you were sleeping

The advent of winter brings with it the early morning chills and my need to sleep in a little late, hugging the comforter a little tighter. It was one of those chilly mornings, plus I had worked late last night and I was also on vacation. All I had hoped was to sleep in a little late without waking up to the shrill cries of the alarm clock. 

However, my slumber was prematurely cut short by a sudden shriek, "Devammmm! Devadhi Devammmmm! Where are you?" 

It was the kind of shriek whose frequency could tear through any medium, shake the ground and cause tsunamis. The shriek that would wake Akbar from his grave, no matter how deeply buried (in the ground, not in sleep) he was. Buried I was too, under layers of winter bedding, comfortably sleeping. But that shriek got my eyes wide open. 

Where was I? In whose home? And why was someone shouting the name they had for me? My memory had gone out of focus for a few seconds. It must be a nightmare, I thought. I keep getting nightmares all the time, bad dreams where my teeth are falling off or I am losing my voice. I tried in vain to go back to sleep.

Within less than a minute, the shriek came again. "Devammmm!" Like contractions during labor increase both in their intensity and frequency with time, the shriek only kept getting louder, more intense and out of hand. Feebly, I tried croaking, "Yes, I am up!" However, my vocal cords, just like me, had been abruptly woken up and their power was no match for the voice that was calling out my name. I could dig my head deeper into the pillow and say, screw you! But the (radio)active power of her voice could penetrate any lead chamber. My feeble voice was no match for these vocal cords that have been practicing Carnatic music for many decades now. There was some latent power in its timbre, it could bring back the dead to life.

Maybe she slipped on the bathroom floor and needed help. Maybe she was hanging from the pillars and could not get down. Reluctantly, I extracted myself from the comfort of the bed, my joints creaking unceremoniously, the warm and tousled comforter still luring me to spend fifteen or more minutes napping. I wondered if this voice had a snooze button. I hurriedly groped for my glasses and put them on, unwillingly crossing the narrow corridor and making my way downstairs, to the source where this baritone voice was coming from. Maybe the owner of this voice swallowed a set of Bose speakers for breakfast by mistake that morning.

"Coming! Coming!" I tried to find my voice before the call "Devammmm! Devadhi Devammm!" traumatized me again. There I find her in the kitchen, all fresh and bathed, vibhuti smeared on her forehead, slathering dosa batter on a cast-iron skillet. 

"What happened?" I asked, groggy and irritated. "Why are you bringing the roof down?"

"Nothing much," Gundamma says in her most calm, casual and charming voice. "Just checking if you are awake or still sleeping. You can go back to bed."

So she screamed her vocal cords out just to see if I am awake or asleep? I will not be able to sleep without getting nightmares for several months now.

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Dispoo(p)ted territory

"Will she? Won't she? Will she? Won't she?"

.

.

.

.

"Back from work. Cooking kosha mangsho for dinner. What are you up to?" I excitedly texted Gundamma.

"Wait, Baby D is on the throne," she texted back.

Oh. Knowing how things work when Baby D is on the throne but not delivering, I know that this is not a good time to ping Gundamma with news of kosha mangsho or a rich and dry meat curry in the making. There is too much pressure for Baby D to deliver, pressure coming from the wrong end, of course.

I have often wondered questions like how many (wo)man-hours does someone spend in their lifetime trying to make their children poop? It's certainly a transferable skill (making someone deliver under pressure) that never gets mentioned in the vita. Couldn't someone develop an app called the poopometer or something that dings and notifies parents when their babies are about to poop? 

The pressure to perform, to deliver, every single day. And when you have, the endless questions about quality and quantity. It is only in a house with little children that I have seen so much pressure (excuse the pun) on potty, hagu, number two, call it what you may, every single day. Sometimes, the little one comes out of the restroom, forlorn and dejected and tells Gundamma, her mom, "Amma, no potty, looks like the bum is not working today." I laugh so hard, my stomach muscles ache so bad, my own delivery problems would have been solved.

Baby D continues to sit on the throne, stone-faced, unabashed, undefeated. It's literally a game of thrones. In between, when Gundamma is not looking, she tries to put anything within reach inside the pot: soaps, toys, dinner, wedding rings, cell phones, Nobel prizes. The mood of the entire household is determined by her performance every evening. Sometimes when I am around, I get to hear different levels of negotiation going on.

" Baby D, poop!" (Order)

" Baby D. Poooop." (Pleading)

" Baby D ... who wants a lollypop? Poop then." (Bribery)

"Poop!" (Anger and frustration)

" Baby D.... ammmaaa!" (Defeat)

"Baba Baby D, ektu hago dekhi!" I chime in Bangla. Baby D looks at me suspiciously.

Maybe Baby D doesn't want to deliver in the evenings. Maybe Baby D is asking for privacy and is sick of the boss constantly asking her to deliver (aren't we all?). 

I feel ignored. My kosha mangsho is getting cold. I wonder how I will handle it if I have children. It's easier to climb mountains than enter this dispoo(p)ted territory. 

Gundamma fondly calls Baby D a poopsicle sometimes. I'm more creative and indulgent in my names for her. I try to use my limited linguistic knowledge from various regions of India. Hagu ben (Gujarati). Hagomoni (Bengali). Kusumita Kumari (Tamil). Hagu Bai. Rani Hagumati. If Baby D grows up to read this post and kill me, I wouldn't blame her. 

As I get ready to attack my dinner, my phone dings with a smiley. I breathe a sigh of relief. Baby D has delivered, at least for today. Mission Impossible has finally become Mission Accomplished. A thousand queries just got saved from being posted on the online parents' forum about why their babies are not pooping.

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Sweet Therapy

I am having lunch with close friends, talking about a past traumatic experience when I get a text message from Gundamma (also known as G here).

Gundamma: "I got you shrink and ..."

Me: "What? How did you know...."

Gundamma: "No! Stupid auto correct. I got you shrikhand from the Indian store."

A therapeutic experience came only a few seconds from talking about trauma. That mango shrikhand was the last best thing I remember before leaving Seattle. 

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Meet The (G)Host.

Every time I talk to my dear old grandma back home, she says something that makes me smile at her naivete. For her, the US is nothing more than a country where the so called “bhalo chele meye” (good children) go to make a career and return once in two years with chocolates, wearing weird clothes. She, much to my amusement, thinks that women in the US are exceptionally modern, wearing denims and speaking in English, no matter how old they are.

The last time I called her up (that was when I told her for perhaps the millionth time that I can hear her fine, she doesn't have to scream her lungs out just because I was calling from across the other end of the globe), she instructed me, rightfully with her age and wisdom- I don't want to see you turn out to be an American when I see you next.

After I hung up, I wondered for quite some time what she meant. May be she was referring to something on the lines of short clothes and changed (or utter lack of) mannerisms that maligned our so called rich culture. Was I turning out to be American at all? I was shocked to hear my inner voice tell me-

No, but may be, you are turning to be a South Indian.

What ! What did you say? A South Indian?

I'll introduce you to someone very close to me, someone I befriended in Seattle, who is now like family. My only family in this new country. G, the lady who hosted me during my initial days.

And almost turned me into a quasi-South Indian.

G is amazing. I had only corresponded with her via emails before I came here. I would never know why I was expecting a buxom lady with traditional looks, waist-length hair weighed down by chameli flowers, wearing a bright yellow Kanjeevaram saree and tons of jewelery. My first surprise (rather, shock) came on meeting a cool chick with the most un-traditional ways. Coming from a family where we usually dress up for visitors, I was a little uncomfortable to see a woman wearing shorts, and be cool about it. Okay, now that was months ago. 

Soon, I was to find out so many other qualities that only increased her coefficient of “coolness” in my eyes. We soon became good friends. She called me names and teased me of my “dehatiness” (rustic nature), getting used to the ways of the country. Her husband, a decent, God-fearing man with fearful, angry looks and a thick mustache, dutifully informed me that if I hung around with G, my home would soon look like a garage, shopping for stuff I'll never really need. She has turned me into a shopaholic. I'll soon be sleeping on the streets, not only due to lack of money, but also due to lack of space in my room.

And thus I was introduced to the world of a South Indian couple in the US. Soon, I learned to chomp on the dosas, idlis, rasam, sambar, some preparation she calls the South Indian reduction, tamarind rice, and the coconut chutneys with relish. The weekends at her place would mean listening to the incessant melodrama of South Indian television on her TV (something she spends quite a bit of money on), with buxom women in gaudy sarees stealing babies and thick-mustached men wearing half lungis and speaking a language I was light years away from understanding. The characters in these soaps speak a lot of accented English, especially when they are fighting over paternity issues and property rights. Every time I heard that man screaming Surryyyaaaaaaaaaaa Suryyaaaaaaaaaaa (as if this is the last time he is singing), I would be reminded of the Surya bulbs and Surya tubes. Soon I started to recognize the latest South Indian tunes, thanks to the fact that G subjects me to the torture of listening to Tamil songs every time she is driving. I would never know what these words meant, but they seem to be words out of popular songs- Vaaji Vaaji Shivaji (I thought it was Bhaaji Bhaaji), Unnale Unnale, Aambal Aambal (God knows what they meant, and why every word is repeated twice). My name was soon abbreviated to a more South Indianized one. Though I understand little Tamil, I soon learned that one had to say “Serri” and shake the head before keeping down the phone, and there were other words like Adi Paawi, Vyanda Vyanda, Rhomba Rhomba, and Kunjam Kunjam (again, the repetitive words).

Perhaps the rudest shock came to me when I started to witness these guys screaming at each other. Nothing serious, they do that every day. They call each other names which when translated mean pigs and buffaloes. And G tells me that this is their way of lovey-dovey conversation. Imagine my plight being the helpless girl hiding under the dining table when these guys scream at each other in a language I couldn't understand. Later, when I asked her- What were you guys fighting about?, she would coolly reply- Fighting? We were just talking to each other. The most difficult tasks around her husband include getting him in a picture frame, taking him to a mall, or making him smile. He could talk about work and cricket for hours, without even realizing that the ladies at the back seat of the car were snoring. And G could shop for hours, never really getting tired of sales and discounts and outlet malls. She once told me to accompany her to the Burlington Coat Factory to which I made the mistake of asking her innocuously if we needed to buy something from there. The menacing look she gave me after that (which when translated into words meant, silly girl, do we go shopping only when we need something?) was enough to give me the message. And yes, the silliest thing according to her that I have ever told her is the fact that pati is parmeshwar (the husband is God), and it is wrong to call him names that belong to the four-legged bovines and canines.

My next shock came when I was informed that her mom too is an avid reader of my blogs, and she had thus passed the link to the other members of the family. I was stumped, not knowing what to say. Soon, the amount of appreciation I got from the blog-readers in her family compensated for everything.

And thus started my first ever association with a South Indian family, their ways, their cuisine, their language, even the foul language, and the way they fought and screamed at each other. It is strange how we live in different corners of the world without even knowing who will next become an essential part of our life. So much so that the last time I was on the phone with mom, she remarked that I have developed a mild South Indian accent, and before hanging up she told me something to which I replied- Serri. She couldn't understand if I was asking for a Sari or a glass of Sherry.

And thus started my South Indianization in the US. My introduction to the world of kootus and kozambus, half-lungis and veshtis, mustached men, and women on TV who could better be punching each other at the WWF.

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