Initial impressions of Mexico City

[Written last Christmas; I am reminded of Mexico City today after the earthquakes]

I think latitude determines cultural similarities more than longitude. Mexico City reminds me of a combination of Kolkata and Mumbai (and of India in general) in so many ways. There is a distinct smell of the city, a wintry smell of sunshine and fog and a little bit of smoke. I get the same smell every time I visit Kolkata. Although cities in the US are much colder, the interiors are warm. Here, it is just like the winters of Kolkata. You will be freezing inside the house but outside, the sunshine would be comforting. There are hundreds of cops, but no one pays heed to them. People jaywalk all the time. This is what gives me hope. There is something dysfunctional about a sanitized culture where there is no chaos, where people do not cross the streets on a red light or follow the rule book all the time. I have been told that I will need to bargain even at the currency exchange shops. Armed with my limited Spanish vocabulary spanning maybe 30-40 words, I am all set to explore this city. Although my German vocabulary is only marginally better, I never felt at ease culturally. But this seems like a place where I could use my skills from India. 

I landed at 7 am and by 10 am, I was already accosted by a guy barely out of college who speaks no English (I can only suspect that he wanted to sleep with me because when his insistence did not work and I feigned ignorance about both Spanish and English, he folded his hands gesturing me to sleep) and mistaken as a hooker by a cop whom I tried asking about money (currency exchange store) in English. None of them harmful encounters of course. But the most cruel thing happened to me when they chucked my goat biryani in the airport's trash can. I mean, I must have been out of my mind, trying to sneak in a goat inside Mexico. A lot of the dinner last night had gone uneaten, and I wanted to devour the goat from Seattle in Mexico City. They took out that box and another box of five besan laddoos and eyed both suspiciously while I kept praying that if they have to throw one of them, let them throw the sweet. But after gathering interesting biryani eating experiences from all over the world, this one was a failure. I felt that sharp stab of pain in my chest as I parted with my biryani. And since it is Sunday as well as Christmas, all currency exchange stores are closed, leaving me with no money and hence no food except those five besan laddoos. One of the ATMs asked a flat fee of $31.82 for using my credit card. I have a feeling that things will work out and I will not have to go hungry in this city. I later realized that it was a double-dollar sign, referring to 31.82 Mexican dollars.

Things got interesting last night when I was waiting for the flight at a California airport and they made all announcements in Spanish (we were still on the US soil) when I had to go ask them to kindly repeat things in English. It brought back many a memories from the German chapter. When asked to make a line to board the flight, the line looked exactly like it would do in India- a scatter plot. In between, an old man even winked at me and let me cut through the line. I already love this place.

Nothing perhaps stings more than being pesoless and then your goat biryani being thrown away. Merry Christmas, everyone.

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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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(Fun)eral

I am sick today. Nothing earth shattering, just a bad cold and fever. I realized that no matter how much fun living alone is, living alone when sick is not fun. It's good to have someone around, even if for purely selfish reasons like fetching food and water and hearing me whine in pain.

Sickness led to morbid thoughts as I lay in bed, too weak to get up. One thought led to another, and I thought, "Shit, what if I die and no one realizes it?" Then I thought, not my problem. I am dead anyway. Why do I care? And I started laughing hysterically. I started thinking more about death, and wondered why people mourn death? Tears. Funeral, followed by a two-week long mourning ceremony when no one eats meat. Why does death have to be so ....... morbid, for lack of a better word?

So I refurbished my funeral, in my head of course. I want all my friends to be there, but more for celebrating my life. No one is going to cry. My brightest picture from some backpacking trip would be up there, and not some sad and sorry looking picture with incense sticks suffocating me! I am a foodie, so there will be my favorite things, goat biryani and Chipotle on the "shraadhho menu" (Funeral ceremony menu). You can remove the meat if you are vegetarian. No weepy shehnai music in the background please, I want Bollywood music, the dancing-type, especially from the 90s. You can all organize a movie night too and watch my favorite movies too.

I used to avidly collect travel magnets until two years ago (when I had a philosophical shift and stopped amassing and getting attached to materials that I cannot eat or drink or smoke or wear or immediately consume). You all are welcome to share the magnets, especially if you were with me on that particular trip. That's probably my most prized possession. I don't own any jewelry, gold or otherwise. Also, be ready to do your homework and share your most hilarious memory of me. Humor is the best thing in the world, and I'd love to watch you cracking a joke or two. If you decide to mail in your memory of me, do take care of the grammar. Don't be lazy and don't use text language. I ha8 ppl wrtng u and urs. Be sure to dress up as if you are going to a colorful party, no white clothes please. You know how much I love wearing colorful sarees.

The one thing I'd have loved though is not for the fainthearted, and will not happen. Asking someone to take me on a cross-country road trip for the final journey.

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Kawta Jaama Holo?

I was shaken out of my reverie where I heard the loud ghonta and shaankh in the wee hours of dawn. It had drizzled the night before, and the cold and dampness in the air made me want to cocoon myself tighter. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, I tried to bring my world into focus again. Apparently, I was no longer in Calcutta, a city where I spent a significant amount of my youth. I was in the U.S. of A., a home away from home, where the heart of Ma Durga beats in a nostalgically similar, yet a painfully different rhythm.

My cousin texted me “Shubho Mahalaya” the other day. It is that time of the year when Ma Durga, her children, and Mahishasura are busy getting spruced up for Pujo. However, Pujo is a different story in this country. Ma Durga’s calendar has been modified for years to suit that of her devotees for the probashi (NRI) Bangali in the US. She visits home not per the tithis of the calendar, but during the weekends, and in the vicinity of community colleges and high school buildings instead of paara, goli, or raasta. Thakur dekha (also known as, pandal hopping) is no longer an activity I associate with hours of walking, standing in lines, brazening the sweltering heat or the torrential downpour that is so characteristic of the pujo-scape in Calcutta. It was refreshing to see such energy reflected everywhere during pujo. I saw it in the faces of people excitedly asking friends and neighbors, “Kawta jaama holo?” (How many sets of new clothes did you buy or were gifted this season?).The real reason of the question was not really to know how many sets of clothes you acquired, but to open up the discussion about all the great places to shop, not to mention announcing to the world of your own count of clothes. I saw it in the scaffolds of the still incomplete puja pandals. I saw it in those craftsmen working diligently to add the final touches of paint on Ma Durga. The otherwise ill-reputed as “dead” city pulsates with life. The smell of pujo permeates the air- a smell characterized not just by the dhup-dhuno, but by puppy love blossoming in every paara or goli, the enthusiasm of shoppers amidst the crazy stampeding, the smell of roadside phuchka and chicken roll, the heart beating to the rhythm of the dhaak, and by loudspeakers blaring anything from “Anjali Mantra” to “Bangla adhunik gaan”, “tu cheez badi hai mast mast” for the braver communities, or “twinkle twinkle little star” recited in monotony by a 4-year old rising star during those “kalcharal nights” organized by her father who also happens to be the secretary of the local pujo’r committee.

Things look somewhat similar here, albeit in a more controlled and otherwise monotonous fashion. You could identify a pujo-hosting high school after hours of being lost in the Amazon rainforests, if only you could find that telltale parking lot filled with the Hondas and the Toyotas mostly in shades of black, blue, or silver. As you shut off the car ignition and adjust your Baluchori sari and the kundan necklace after undoing the seatbelt, other telltale signs clue you in to the venue of the pujo. Mr. Software Sen, otherwise seen in his checkered shorts and Google tee shirt with a cuppa Starbucks coffee as he drives his blue Lexus to office every morning, is spruced up in his dhuti and tussar panjabi and neatly combed hair parted sideways, dutifully handing out lunch coupons and talking unsuspecting and stray pandal hoppers into buying their annual Bangali association membership. Mrs. Anima(ted) Sen, looking straight out of the sets of the movie Devdas in her cream and red sari and her vermilion headed, kohl-smeared eyes and Ma-Kali avatar, chats animatedly about their trip to Greece earlier in summer to spend their 10^th wedding anniversary, urging her bored audiences kitty party pals to check out her Facebook album now replete with “wow” comments and XOXOXOXOs. On a different note, it took years for a dehati-to-the-American-culture like me to figure out that those “showered with love” XOXOXOs found in abundance on Facebook are in no way related to the “kaata-kuti” criss-cross board games you played as a middle school student when the teacher did not make it to class. However, I digress here. The Khokon Shonas and Mamonis are running around in their Baby GAP sweatshirts or Dora pink frilly frocks and Stride Rite shoes. They are happily chomping on their pijjas and Mc Dee burgers especially ordered off the kids menu, because they have been universally stereotyped by their parents to lack the digestive system hardy enough to digest khichuri bhog. Important discussions are churning in the name of socializing and networking- I overhear a group of balding, middle-aged, and bespectacled dadas discussing Green Cards and citizenships, options for stock investment and mortgages, Xboxs andPSP3s, Kinects and Builds, or the awaited deals for the upcoming Thanksgiving Black Friday sales. The mashimas and boudis enthusiastically discuss clothing and jewelry, juicy Facebook gossip, impending annual visits of in-laws, the newest desi store selling Tyangra maach and frozen Lyangra aam, and the awesome videos of their Khokon shonas eating organic strawberries in their Bumbo seats. A bunch of young people form a visibly distinct sub-group – the “fresh off the boat” graduate students, enthusiastically discuss research agenda, upcoming conference deadlines, and demanding advisors, definitely lacking the visible traits and polish of the nouveau riches from the east now living over a decade in this country.

However, no matter how sardonically you choose to look at the Americanized version of Durga Pujo, this is the best you are going to get here. No wonder we convince ourselves over time that there is an undeniable magic, an aura even amidst talks of green cards and Tiffany’s jewelry, our mashima who is visiting her son and his family from Borishal proudly beaming, “amar naati you ass citigen” (My grandson is a US citizen). Our pujari moshai is an investment banker, dutifully chanting mantras, the sacred thread and dhoti a far cry from his menacing corporate look. The dhaaki starts to play the dhaak at some point, ushering people for the session of onjoli, picking up fistfuls of yellow lilies and carnations bought from Trader Joe’s. As usual, I experience the all familiar feeling of getting gooseflesh, tapping my feet to the beat of the dhaak. My blood rings and my soul sings to the beats of the drum. A strange magic suffused with nostalgia fills the air. Durga Pujo will remain a unique celebration for me, incomparable with the pumpkin carvings during Halloween, or the turkey roasting during Thanksgiving. I am shaken out of my reverie yet again when a GAP wearer less than half my height innocuously bumps into me, running around in excitement, followed by his hapless dad who reminds me of a pet trainer. It is the same man who was conversing in Bengali, and now, he is running after his son not with the typically what you would expect “jaashna, jaashna, orey khoka firey aaye” (Come back dear son, don’t scamper around), but with a trained and somewhat accented monosyllabic “Don’t run, come back, sit down, eat your pizza !!”, instructed in a fake accent perhaps for the benefit of the scampering kid who might not understand a word of Bangla spoken at home. I see that “Kaan mola khabi” has been aptly replaced by “You will be grounded!!”.

Somewhere in between my present and my past, in between the uloos (the sounds you make flicking your tongue) and the shaankh (conch shell), I am transported to a different era, awash with joyous anticipation. I am 6 years old and am wearing a bright blue frock my parents bought me from the neighborhood garment store. Then I am a 20 year old, wearing a bright green silk sari that belongs to my mother, that she has painstakingly wrapped around me, safety pins and all. I am with my friends pandal hopping in Madox Square, enlivened by the dazzling beauties exchanging hushed glances and sheepish smiles with the handsomely spruced up pajama-panjabi clad group of young men who have spent the last hour or so visually appraising the chicks (an act also known as jhaari maara). So many love relationships form and dissipate in the vicinity of the pandals by the grace of Goddess Durga every year. While most never make it to the altar, an innocuous glance exchanged or that racing of heart beats as you eyed a bunch of decked up people from the opposite gender works wonders in your otherwise drab life marred by academic pressures, social expectations, and what not. I flip between the past and my 30-year old present, casually glancing around me to look in vain for the now-extinct group of good looking and single men roughly my age. A corpulent mashima just stepped on my sari (and my toes), glaring unapologetically at me for intercepting her trajectory as she walks by. She is the same mashima, I recognize, who was animatedly boasting about her sonny boy studying electrical engineering at MIT. I sigh, zoning out of my surroundings for the moment and focusing on the beauty of Ma Durga’s face instead. Of all the things that have changed around me (for better or for worse) in the last few decades of my pujo experience, people, social dynamics, pompousness and all, Ma Durga is the only one who has not changed, still looking as young and stunning as she used to for as long as I can remember. So beautiful, so powerful, yet so very feminine. The only thing that brings in unalloyed joy for me is the visage of Ma Durga and her children. And the smell of pujo. Not to mention the music of the dhaak. Or sometimes the familiar feeling of excitement I used to have as a kid as I marveled at the six packs and brawns of the demon Mahishasura.

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“Mere Paas Ma Hai ... Aur Tumhare Pass?”

They are the reserve stores of love and affection (and adipose). Their pious feet (with sacred dust and all) mark the sanctuaries of the doors of Heaven (jannat) for their sons (not to mention the existential identity crisis of the Bengali men following it). They are mostly seen wearing ill-fitting, neutral colored traditional clothes, salwar kameez or sarees, either black or white (depending on the shades of badness or goodness of characters in movies). They are the storehouse of tears, and they cry for everything, be it when their sons come home wearing cool tattoos imprinted “Mera baap chor hai” (My father is a thief), or when their sons go on to become “Badaa aadmis” (great men) in life. They are endowed with superpowers, sometimes snatching away their kids from the jaws of danger and death, and sometimes banging on bells in the neighborhood Shankar Bhagwan ka mandir till Shankar bhagwan himself fulfils her wishes that usually center around bringing back her son into consciousness, who has been knocked out following an accident that either involves a vehicle, a girl, a communal riot, or a villain. Sometimes motherhood comes without an expiry date, surpassing reincarnation or amnesia/memory loss. It is an amazing feat to be a Bollywood mother, shouldering responsibility of everything, from organizing tea parties to the weddings of their children (be it Tina Munim dancing to shayad meri shaadi ka khayal, dil mein aaya hai, isi liye mummy ne meri, tumhe chai pe bulaya hai, or Kajol gyrating to the music of mummy daddy meri shaadi karwa rahe hain). Neither age, senility, or blindness deters them from fiercely protecting their children, especially sons. They are seen raiding Shivji ka mandir, berating God himself for being mean and unfair. Their faith can move mountains, and in case they have bad night vision, it can be cured by the strike of a lightning or serpents. They are the ones first kidnapped, roped, and harassed by the villain if they have a son who is the hero and has pissed off the bad guy in the movie (not mauled though, that is left for the unwed sister in the movie who no one would have married anyway). Occupationally, they are seen lugging bricks at constructional sites (that will be later owned by their sons as a mark of respect for the mom), ploughing fields, or sewing clothes for the entire community even with a straining eyesight to be able to raise enough money for the son’s education. They are usually called Mamta (not Banerjee), Lakshmi, Savitri, Tulsi, Koushalya, or better still, maatey, amma, or maaaaa!!! They are usually the ones who have the privilege of hugging the heroes, all in the good name of motherhood.

So while the whole world is gushing with a sudden developed love for their mother as Mothers’ Day is nearing, let us remember the mothers of Bollywood, for the way they have touched our lives, living as role models, smothering their children with love and affection, and always being the unselfish, struggling, usually poor but respectable denizens of the movie world who are the strength of pillar behind the success of their sons.

Aruna Irani in Beta (1995):Where mothers could be villains.

While Madhuri’s dhak-dhak shook the country, Aruna Irani shook the image of a good mother with her powerful, dhak-dhak-less performance in the movie. Rightly named Lakshmi, she had her eye on Lakshmi (wealth) and was the depiction of selfishness and greed for a change, where mothers were stereotyped to be these simple women whose love for their children would move mountains. She keeps her stepson from going to school or educating himself, not that it prevented him from getting Madhuri for a wife, many an educated and highly competitive students in best colleges would argue. Of course, things have to end on a happy note, giving the right social message, so she has to have a change of heart, but not without lots of drama, melodrama, tears, apologies, and dhishum dhishum at the end.

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Reema Lagoo: When mommies cause family breakups.

Perhaps best remembered for her role as Prem’s mom in Maine Pyar Kiya (1989), a decade later, she was also the Maiya Yashoda in the controversial movie Hum Saath Saath Hain (1999). Things are so right and everyone is so much in love with the concept of family here that you would feel like puking out of the picture of perfection and the excess of goodness. But then of course the seeds of doubts and jealousy are planted, causing separation in the family. But as always, things work out, a few heart attacks and galloons of tears later, and the movie ends on a happy note, until of course the incident of the poaching of the black buck is discovered. Reema Lagoo has been the model mommy in a number of other movies, including a movie named Mere do anmol ratan, that no one remembers.

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Rakhi: When motherhood surpasses the expiry date of life.

The woman always simmering with “Badle ki aag” (need for revenge), Karan Arjun (1995) and Ram Lakhan (1989) are two of her powerful mommy movies (there being many more), where she avenges the villains solely based on the conviction that her sons are going to set things right. With resolve of steel, you should see her challenging the villains Bishambar Nath or Durjan Singh (Amrish Puri in both cases). In one, she holds on to the blood-soiled clothes of her husband murdered on the train tracks, and the other, she is seen challenging in her usually husky voice, “Mere Karan Arjun aayenge, dharti ka seena cheer ke aayenge, blah blah blah karke aayenge”. A very black and white role, she is usually seen wearing either white or black in both movies, with no hint of either sindoor or smile in the movie. She is the perfect example of a mommy who shows us that the bonds of motherhood can surpass any barrier, even reincarnation.

Jaya Bachchan: The mommy jisne …. Bas keh diya !!

This mommy has revamped the entire image of Bollywood mommies. If I remember anything of her in this movie, it is the wealth, the pompousness, the grand clothing, the ornate mansion they lived in, the straightened hair with a hint of white, the pooja-paath and naach-gaana that ensues while her son lands in a helicopter, she getting on a stool to fix the tie of her one and a half foot taller husband, and of course her (only) powerful dialogue in the entire movie revolting against her husband, “Bas keh diya!!!”. She broke the image of the mommies of the 70’s movies who were poor, wore the same cotton sari throughout the movie, and washed utensils at other’s homes to bring up their children. This mommy wears zardosi sarees, lives in castles, and has a husband who dances with chicks at parties.

Farida Jalal: The cool and friendly mommy.

She will always be remembered for her role as Lajo in DDLJ (1995). Although a BBCD mommy, she is the epitome of tradition, dupatta clad and all. A dutiful wife and a mother who tries to be more of a friend that a mother, she is the model mommy for many girls who grew up in my generation, the mommy who wouldn’t rebel against daddy, but who would secretly support her daughter to love and marry the man of her dreams, even if it was an undekha, anjaana chehra from the mustard fields of Punjab. She is a contradiction of sorts, non-conventional with her ideas of “bhaag ja Simran, tu ghar se bhaag ja”, yet conventional, so much that she wouldn’t shoulder the responsibility of permitting her daughter for a summer Eurotrip (apne baoji se pooch le). From the sister of Amitabh (remember the song, dekh sakta hoon main kuch bhi hote huye?) to the mother of Simran, she is quite the person you would want to be your mom if you were the heroine with an angry, disciplinarian dad.

Nirupa Roy: The “baap” of all mommies.

Perhaps no other mommy has played such a powerful role as she did in the movie Deewar (1975), still best remembered for the dialogue “Mere paas ma hai”. Funnily enough, as a kid, I somehow got the idea that her name is Nirupay Roy, that fits her nirupay image perfectly. She doesn’t need to be named anything in this movie, bas “ma” hi kaafi hai. Maaaaaaa !!!! Poor, lachrymose, sullen and sad, oozing with self-respect, both her sons go on to choose different paths in life, despite being brought up with the same values. The suhagan who lived like a vidhwa, working at construction sites and fainting multiple times due to low levels of glucose in the blood, the ma with the hyper functional lachrymose glands, she should rightly get credit for starting the whole movement also known as mothers’ day.

Honestly, I never knew about mothers’ day as a kid, or thought that there is one particular day of the year when you are supposed to smother your mother with love (more on Facebook than in real life), but that might be because I wasn’t brought up in so cool or happening a family. I understand birthdays and anniversaries are celebrated once a year, but mothers’ day? Slowly I got the idea, that there is going to be this one day every year, hopefully coinciding with the break after the spring semester, when you should inundate your Facebook page with posts about how much your mother means to you, and how much you love her. You are supposed to bleat like a goat, myaa … myaa… post your mommy’s picture as your profile picture to confuse your friends, and inundate your wall with messages of matribhakti. If you are a mommy yourself, this is your chance of demanding anything from iPads to diamonds, not from your child who is 1 year old and barely knows to talk, but from your husband, all in the name of mothers’ day. Like I wrote earlier, that the love has to keep showing, for it isn’t love if it does not show. So on this occasion of mothers’ day, I am going to remember my mom, who lives halfway across the world, by remembering all the cool Bollywood mommies whose movies I grew up watching. Honestly, it wouldn’t make a difference if I lived with my mom. For thankfully she is one person who does not care about Mothers’ Day.

Happy Matri Diwas mummy log.

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The Zillionth Post on International Women’s Day

A random moment in my life came and went like a thought, a brief moment of pause that brought with it a million memories of rumination. From the warmth of the womb to the protection walls of this world. Memories of a soft pair of hands teaching me to hold a pencil and write my first alphabets without smudging on the edges of the lines. Memories of learning how to add, subtract, and learn my numbers for a life full of calculations and decision making to come. The feel of the blue inland with a confident writing that made me reminisce about a wrinkled, aged, yet deft and strong pair of hands. Memories of feeling protected, hiding my face in thy bosom and crying, knowing that you were my safety net, and everything in the world would be fine as long as I had the corner of your saree to hold on to. Then, there were a little pair of hands, six years littler than my already little hands were, that had the perfect nails, perfect fingers, and the perfect shape. The hands that held on to mine as we took the steps to school together. Such was the bonding of sisterhood.

As I grew, the soft hands, the wrinkled hands, and the little hands gave way to more hands, hands that built more beautiful memories together. The hands that made narkol nadu (coconut sweet) for me and gave me some coconut scrapings every time I stood greedily in front of her in the verandah. The hands that made alpona (rangoli) during the pujas. The hands that shared homemade food during school tiffin breaks. The hands that held the cane, strict and firm, yet caring and loving, that took me on beautiful journeys of learning, from the positives and negatives of algebra, to the alluvial soils and the red soils in geography. The hands that taught me to learn, to hold, to draw, and to dissect. The hands that shared. From the memories of the hands of childhood, to the hands of a teenager. A teenager excitedly putting red nail polish without smudging the edges. The hands that took copious notes on Wuthering Heights so that we could share it and study together. The hands that switched off the table lamp when I fell asleep at my study desk studying for exams. The hands that cooked fish curry and rice so that I never went hungry while studying. The hands that got me the glass of warm milk and Bournvita without even asking for it.

Those hands gave way to more hands of support. A pair of hands that taught me to cook my first shrimp curry, when I was lonely and friendless in Seattle. A pair of hands that touched my head with the flames of the puja fire (aarti) and gave me my share of Saraswati Puja prasad so that I do well in academics. A pair of hands that wiped my tears when I was crying over the betrayal of a friend turned foe. Hands that reassured me when I took the first steps toward my safety. Hands that pumped mine as they wheeled me to the doctor’s clinic. I held on to her as we spent the evening shopping in the streets of Kolkata. We shared a sinful helping of Shrikhand, our favorite afternoon indulgence from Mayuri Grocery. The tiniest pair of hands I have seen in years that held on to mine as we walked by the children’s play area of the Bellevue Square Mall, singing Sa-Re-Ga-Ma and Hattima Tim Tim together. The hands that held on to mine as I secured her in her car seat.

For years, you have loved me and cared for me in different forms. You were my mother, teaching me my alphabets. You were my grandmother, writing me letters from distant lands. You were my dida, making me narkol nadu. You were my friend, teaching me to solve those mathematical derivations. You were G, teaching me to take my baby steps in America. You were Baby Kalyani, playing with me as if I were your best friend, only 28 years elder. You were teaching me to cook to be able to sustain myself. You were comforting me when my heart was breaking. You were inspiring me to be a writer, and to publish my work. You were challenging me to go on stage and break my mental barriers, by acting, by public speaking, and by giving dance performances. You were playing the harmonium so that I could relearn my sa-re-ga-ma. You were giving me the keys to your house, because I was unemployed and homeless. You were traveling the world, from Banaras to Greece, all alone, and inspiring me to be like you. You were bemoaning the killing of your cousin, a victim of domestic violence, and my heart wept with you. You were a mother, a professor, an actor, a student of medicine, and as successful an economist as a humor writer.

You were traveling for hours in crowded local trains. From Naihati to New York, from Sealdah to Seattle, I saw you in the hustle and bustle, traveling to work. I saw you come home and fend for your family. I saw you take care of your babies, study, and work, and take exams, all at the same time. I saw you indulge in self-care, in those manicures and pedicures that made your beautiful hands and feet even more beautiful. I saw you bravely live through abortions, abuses, and subjugation. I proudly beamed when you went to space as a rocket scientist or won the Grand Slam. I proudly saw you get your well-deserved movie awards. You cooked, coded, and cured with equal deftness. Most importantly, you shaped me, helped me be who I am, and inspired me to define and redefine my boundaries, and to resurrect and break my boundaries, and not stop until I had reached for the sky.

This post is dedicated to my mother, my grandmothers, my sister, my friends in schools and colleges, my friends in U.S., my YKB sisters, my roommates, my colleagues, my students, my fellow bloggers and readers, the women who inspired me to write, to travel, to self-design my life, to be fearless, to strive for the best, the women who have struggled for what they believed in, be it their freedom or their rights, and all the other women in this world I have idolized. Happy International Women’s Day!

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Link to the article.

Another visa interview- 4 years later

The morning of the visa interview didn’t really start on a good note. Things screwed up, albeit in a harmless, comical way. I always prided myself for being a sound sleeper but sleep eluded me the night before. It must have been a combination of the thoughts of my visa being rejected, me having to hunt for a job and a local groom in Kolkata, and the elephantine mosquitoes feasting on my blood that put me through a state of trance, of half wakefulness and half sleep. I woke up long before the shrill, annoying cry of my alarm went off.

“I am going to look my smartest self”, I sang to myself as I poured a fistful of shampoo in the shower. 5 minutes of vigorous head massaging later, there was no lather. I wondered was this a new shampoo that promised healthy hair without lather. A very un-bespectacled me squinted at the sachet. Darn, it wasn’t the shampoo, it was the conditioner. The shampoo sachets were all missing. I had just poured a sachet full of conditioner on my oily hair sans any shampoo. First goof up of the day.

A number of other minor goof ups followed. One actually happened 4 days before the interview, but that will make another sensational blog post soon, I promise. While waiting at the traffic signal, I saw the name of the e-stalker painted colorfully behind a truck. Not a good sign. I was reminded of the person who during a frustrated moment of male chauvinism had told me that he wished I never get my visa approved and stay back. I didn’t know whether to be alarmed, it’s not nice to be cursed at or being ill-wished upon. So even though I asked the person to “Kat le”, I got a little superstitious about it. This of course saved my Facebook friends from the boring visa updates like, “5 days to go, biting my nails in anticipation”, and “2 days to go for the visa. Counting hours”.

I was about 90 minutes early for my 8:15 am interview and decided to kill time by talking to G and hear baby Kalyani babble on the phone. Strolling on the road since the consulate wouldn’t let me in, I was deeply engaged in conversation about the most trivial stuff like Seattle weather on a visa day when the crow decided to bless my freshly laundered clothes. 3^rd goof up of the day. I didn’t really know if it was a blessing sent from Heaven or a bad omen.

Anyway, before any more goof ups could happen, I was quickly summoned to the consulate where the lady on duty checked me at various ticklish places, wanting to ascertain if I would giggle and say, “Okay okay, I am here for my visa, mother promise”, or would giggle and say, “Okay okay, I am a wannabe terrorist. There are arms hidden up my armpits”. Soon I was summoned to the same open waiting area I had been to 4 years ago. I particularly noticed 2 people, one who looked exactly like my school senior who I had last seen 14 years ago, and another girl with excess facial hair, probably a first timer, who kept folding her hands, closing her eyes, moving back and forth and praying. I was half-tempted to hug her and assure her everything would be fine, but checked myself lest my sisterly intentions are misunderstood. I wondered what she was so nervous about.

Next I was called to the main lobby, which is nothing like what I remembered from the last time. The seating area had changed, the counters were all this way and that way, or maybe my brain had garbled up and was seeing mirror images. The plasma TV showed Aaj Tak on mute. Things had definitely changed in 4 years. Not to mention the fact that I was older, fatter, balder, but ironically still in the same boat, waiting for the same PhD visa interview that I had been to 4 years ago.

So I decided to wait for my turn and observe the world around me lest I fall asleep. There were students, working professionals, families, and parents visiting their children. Everyone had a story, a purpose of being there in the same room at the same time, and I wondered what each one’s story was. I saw a particular guy wearing an IIT Kanpur Techkriti tee shirt (showing off?) and arched my eyebrows when I quickly checked my sarcastic self remembering an anonymous commentator on my blog who had remarked, “But why do you hate IITians? I am from an IIT too”.

The counters where the actual interview happened were all covered, unlike the last time, so that whether you were granted or denied a visa, the world did not witness your own private moments with the visa officer where you struggled through the paperwork trying to find the document the officer asked for, or tried to convince him why you wanted to study in the US despite patriotism coursing through your veins and how you vowed to take the first flight back home the moment you were done with your course. I once again looked at the people around me, in various degrees of nervousness and expectations, all destined to fly to different parts of the US if everything went well for them today, and imagined them all scattered taking Patel shots at different places in a few months’ time, some grinning in front of the Statue of Liberty, some making a V in front of the Golden Gate Bridge in SF, some in skiing attires and snow shoes on their way to Mr. Rainier, and a group of desi men, all heavily ignored by the white girls despite their desperate attempts, rolling on their own in the beaches of Miami. Friends had strictly asked me to wear a salwar kameez to convince the officer of my patriotism, a desperate measure to tell him I was definitely getting back to India once I was done (if I hadn’t acquired a green card husband by then). I wondered if the visa officer was that stupid to not see through it. The usher droned mechanically to everyone every 5 minutes, “Please keep your documents ON your hands”. I was half tempted to correct him, but checked myself. Like he cares if the documents were on my hands or in my hands.

The room felt like a jail, where prisoners were ushered this way and that way, and spoken strictly to if they went up to the wrong counter or produced the wrong document out of nervousness. No, not a jail, maybe a school, and everyone was supposed to obey these people, follow a strict protocol, and conduct themselves well, because their dreams of visiting the US depended on these men who had the authority. The mangoes I had for breakfast irritated my throat, but I stifled a cough lest I am suspected of carrying cough germs and asked to come back later with another appointment on another day. Needless to say, I was nervous. The school senior look-alike girl had her name called in a while. She was indeed my senior from school. The name and the face was unmistakable. Another insignificant co-incidence and probabilistic game of meeting people you knew in the larger scheme of things.

The visa officers, who I could not see, called people one by one. One had a garbled voice with a thick American accent and I could barely understand the names he mumbled. The other one of course had a very clear and distinct voice, and there was something endearing about the voice. I secretly prayed the second person would call my name. Sometimes, little prayers are answered without God making much fuss. The guy soon called my name clearly and I trotted on my way. One look into his face and I received another tiny shock worth a few millivolts. For there was no white skinned American guy waiting for me. Our visa officer looked our very own Indian, in fact South Indian self. He must have been an American born of South Indian descent. I had barely entered the room when he said, “Promise me every information you have is true and you are not hiding anything”.

I looked confused.

“Just kidding”, he said after a meaningful pause.

So our visa officer had a filmy sense of humor too?, I thought.

The next 10 minutes passed with me answering a multitude of questions, thanks to my visa status changing from F1 to H1B and now back to F1. What program did I join back in 2006? Where was I working after that? What were my GRE scores? Why did I choose to come back to India for a few months and not join school directly? Was I ever out of status in the US? And so on…

Finally, “I will cancel your…… (as he said this, he scratched my last F1 visa. Did I just hear the word “cancel”? My heart sank) …….. last F1 visa and will approve your new visa. Congratulations”.

I has almost stopped breathing. I had made it. Yaay !! I was tempted to kiss his bald head, instead I jived and dived out of the interview room without so much as a thank you before he could change his mind. My day was made. I was especially skeptical about my visa this time for 2 reasons. First, I’ve had this status change from a student visa to a work visa, and am getting back to school again. Second, I am joining the PhD program in a totally different field, something I have never studied before, and it might have been difficult for me to justify my field transition.

I took the metro back home. While taking the auto in the final leg, I saw a picture of Sri Sri Ravi Shankar smiling back at me (his usual expression), as if telling me “All Iz Well”. All is well indeed.

I thought I will sleep peacefully tonight. It’s almost 4 am, and I am still too excited to sleep.

P.S. 1: If you have a visa interview scheduled, good luck. Feel free to ask me questions. And salwar kameez or no salwar kameez, wear your confidence with you. When the officer asked me for my official appointment letter, I realized to my dismay that I had forgotten to get it. One of the many goof ups of the day. Instead of apologizing, I confidently gave him my financial assistantship letter (which is different from the appointment letter). He didn’t even realize it.

P.S. 2: No, I was not asked for documents showing liquid financial assets, bank papers, or asked questions about funding. I wasn’t asked to convince them that I have ties in India and I will be back before they know.

sunshine

Zooming into the new year

Eventually, I got fed up of the Facebook updates of what people did for the new year, answering questions about what I was planning to do. I hate the pressure of having to do something on every occasion, and then to announce it publicly.

I spent my new year eve in a pub, much to my chagrin. It’s just that I figured out last moment most of my friends had ditched me and gone somewhere, the remaining did not pick up their phones, and I still had the option of joining a few friends in a pub or sitting home sad while I read more Facebook updates of what people did.

I was all the more pissed because 12/31 happened to be my last day of employment, and the last day of having a work permit thereof. I was going to be a jobless, penniless, illegal alien the next day.

I figured I could either whine and get upset, especially at my friend who ditched me last moment and fled to the east coast to meet his sister, or go out and enjoy myself.

I wish I had stayed at home.

My new year started with one of the most profound realizations. Pubs, clubs, and bars are not for me. Like my friend, although in a state of stupor, correctly pointed out that if in a pub, it is best to get drunk, else the noise, the people, the loud music, and the craziness gets too much to handle in a sane, sober, un-inebriated self. Alcohol mellows down the senses and makes the chaos more bearable. Point taken.

But then, it is a different experience sitting sober amidst a crowd of intoxicated people and watching them. Of my many observations, I discovered that most people in nightclubs here wear black. And they wear everything. Backless. Sideless. Almost topless. Usually bottomless. People wear funky hats and garlands for earrings. And with the strangest of clothes and accessories, men and women gyrate in the strangest ways to the tune of music and alcohol, in their “high on hormones” state. Hips gyrate, legs go up and down, the spine bends a good 180 degrees. Imagine these people doing funny dance moves in broad daylight, without the music, at their home. It would look hilarious.

I soon realized that most people here would wish for easy sex, but would be happy with anything less too. A non-casual hug that lingers a few seconds more, random people shaking my hands and using the loud music as an excuse to come close to my ears and speak, as if they had something interesting to say. While people laughed and smiled and tried to start conversation, I put on my most grumpy look, frowning eyebrows and not wanting to make any contact. For special “gloomy” effects, I had refused to wear my contact lenses and wore my black rimmed grandfather glasses instead. A guy, whom I later learnt was gay, went around kissing girls on the forehead, blessing them like some kind of sadhu baba. 

I squirmed and frowned, acting difficult and refusing every offer of a drink. How I wish I was in the warm confines of my cozy home, reading a book. I waited a little more and then went to the patio to watch the Space Needle fireworks. It was a cold and rainy night. The fireworks seemed the only incentive for me, the one right thing that happened during the evening of wrongs, so what if it lasted exactly 7 minutes? I hugged my friends, made my new year resolutions (which I usually do not follow beyond the second week of January), and prepared to go home. Finding a cab would be hard; we had walked quite a bit in the rain and cold earlier, unable to find parking. Wish more people would stay home eating turkey instead of venturing out.

We were prepared to leave when my drunk friends started a bout of Hindi movie songs on the streets, to our amusement and to the confusion of the non-desi crowd. I wish I was drunk and in oblivion as well instead of waiting for a cab outside in the cold. I was never happier to reach home and get inside my comforter.

Thus started my new year, in a crowded bar with drinks splashed all on the floor, in the middle of drunk people shaking booties, watching fireworks in the rain, and wishing I had put on my black backless party dress instead of wearing jeans. I don’t belong to this world of pub hoppers. I don’t think I am ever going to a pub anytime this year. And if I do, I am surely getting drunk.

Happy new year everyone.

sunshine

Happy Birth Day Baby

July 17th, my blog turned four. Back in 2005 when I started writing, I didn’t know how my blog would change my life, and stick with me through my changed life. People have come and gone, I’ve changed jobs and locations, but if there is one thing I’ve held dear, it is the collage of various memories I have documented through my blog. I’ve always believed it is great to pen down at least one post at the end of the day, something that changed your life, something that made you think. This is an ideal situation of course, writing 30 blog posts a month, given that the last few months, I haven’t crossed the single digit number of posts. But the desire to blog more frequently still remains. Wishing my blog a very happy birthday. We have grown up together over the last few years, and I hope the partnership and the bonding continues.

sunshine

Halloween Weekend

In here, people spend one day a year indulging themselves and their other like-minded friends fancy dressing on the streets, in office, at homes. You walk down the streets on Halloween and you would see people of all age and shape dressed up. I have seen people dressed as trash cans, fruits and vegetables, science fiction characters, and what not. The lady at the front door in office sat in her witch costume, mink coat, and the black magic wand the whole day. Ever imagined our parents going to offices dressed as Hanuman and Gadaadhaari Bhim? This country is crazy.

I have done two unique things this Halloween. Three in fact. One, much to the disappointment of my friends, I did not indulge my time and money picking up a Halloween costume. My friends reiterated again and again how un-cool and un-sporty I am, but I refused to give in to the temptation and spend $50 going to a party dressed up like a spider pig. Two, I carved a pumpkin for the first time. Again, I resisted and did not want to. But people around me sat on floors with pumpkins and dozen knives all around them, unleashing their creative self and carving out figures on pumpkins. It did feel weird at first, carving out the hard cover and then putting your hand inside to scoop out the gooey mass from within. But once the insides of the pumpkin was clean, I was free to carve designs the way I wanted to. Since it was Diwali weekend as well, I carved diyas all over the pumpkin before placing a lit candle inside. My hands smelled like pumpkins for days despite all the soaping, reminding me of this term in Bengali "kumro-potash" with God knows what meaning. During this time of the year when pumpkin is harvested, people use pumpkins in all kinds of food, even in desserts and in Starbucks coffee ! Been years since I have had 2 very tasty Bengali dishes made of pumpkins- kumror chokka (curry made with cubed pumpkin) and kumro fool bhaja (pumpkin flowers fried in besan).

Third, I spent an entire 12 hours with friends watching horror movies. I am not at all into horror movies. But my friends wanted to spend Halloween watching horror movies, and there it goes. The descent wasn’t liked much by my friends for all the blood and gore. However, I found it interesting that they should make a film about 5 women trapped inside a cave with no way to get out. I would seriously feel claustrophobic watching them crawl inside the caves. The concept was very interesting. I don’t care about the other two movies, but the last movie Shutter was just amazing. Every moment of it chilled me to the core. It’s about a photographer who takes pictures of his girlfriend during her graduation, only to find a pattern of shadow in every snapshot, and therein the story unfolds. I have been traumatized for days now, thinking of every scene of the movie. It’s worse when you don’t have another living soul in the house. Truth be told, my mind has been playing tricks, and I have been shit scared even going to the bathroom. Anyway, the movie Shutter is a must watch, really. The Thai version, and not the American version.

So there goes the story of my Halloween weekend.

sunshine

Missing Link.

Remembering a few random things about birthday celebrations:

1. We grew up seeing dad travel all over the country. There were times when he was gone for 2-3 weeks in a row. When my sis was little, she would sometimes not even recognize my dad and would scream her lungs out every time he came home. I myself have been so used to mom going solely to my parent teacher meets, the annual functions, and taking me anywhere my heart desired. In fact, I never cry when someone leaves. I didn’t even cry when I left home. Yet no matter where dad was or how busy he was, he always made it a point to come home on our birthdays. I don’t remember a single birthday of ours he has missed. On the day I turned 9, it had been impossible for dad to get the train tickets back home, and I had prepared myself for a birthday without him. Yet the calling bell rang at 11 pm, still an hour before my birthday ended, and there he was. He had miraculously managed to get the tickets paying a few times more. I was soon woken up from my sleepy self, was dressed up again and made to cut the cake that dad had brought for me. The pics of that particular birthday shows me all sleepy eyed and grumpy.

2. This is the second year that I have missed the birthday of everyone in the family. Everyone in the family celebrates their birthday in a span of 10 days. Isn’t it amazing that everyone except me should have birthdays a few days away from each other? We call it the birthday fortnight. One after the other, there is never a time during this fortnight when there isn’t cake or sweets or good food at home.

3. I have always managed to drag my sister out of sleep sharp at 12. Apart from the big general cake, I would always buy cake for the two of us, and she would groggily blow off the candles, give a big yawn with her eyes drooping, and mutter, “My gift?”. She would take the gift and go back to sleep without even having opened it. It had always been that way between us.

4. Mom always got gifts from us that we could use. A pair of fancy earrings that would totally be a mismatch with her face structure, some makeup things mom would never use, her gifts were always customized to be used by us.

5. I have always stayed awake on the birthday eves, too excited to sleep. Now I feel sad about having turned a year older. Seriously.

6. And yeah, I miss the birthdays of my family terribly. I miss the bonding we had, the link and the whole feeling of being there. I imagine them celebrating like it used to be when I was home, and take vicarious pleasure by getting updates from them over the phone. But it is not the same thing. I miss the link. The post had nothing to do with missing links.

Happy birth day. Whoever’s it is today.

sunshine

The Ten Things To Do This Pujas.

(Not necessarily in any order).
1. To unleash the Bengali in me and to learn to wear a sari the Bengali way.
2. To catch up on all the Bollywood movies I have missed out recently.
3. To finally start cleaning up the mess in my room.
4. To get loads of beauty naps.
5. To read all the books I have been collecting the last 5 years or so, with no time to read.
6. To gawk at all the good looking guys.
7. To promise not to say "no" to sweets for the 5 long days. Never mind if I have to diet for the rest of the year. Ma Durga would never want her children to diet during the pujas.
8. To go find myself that man who will give me those eight diamonds happily.
9. To go pandal hopping and watch lots of puja. I wasn't enthusiastic enough the last year. But this year will be different. So I will hop on to my bed, grab a bowl of pop corn, put on some good local channel like Star Anondo, and watch lots of pujas on the TV with grandma (Naah, you can't really convince me to go pandal hopping amidst all the crowd and commotion).
10. To finally cut down on chatting and blogging those 5 days of pujas.

sunshine.

Something Is In The Air....

I was shaken out of my slumber by the sounds of “ghanta” and “shankh” very early this morning. It was drizzling all night and the cold winds made me long to get back to my covers, cuddle the pillow close, and go back to sleep. As I tried to shake off the last remnants of sleep (I am a very early riser) and to bring my world into focus once again, I remember that Durga Puja is just a week away. Seems Ma Durga and her clan of Gods and Goddesses (and Mahisasura as well) are busy getting spruced up for the pujas.
The whole city seems to have suddenly come to life again. The scent of pujas is in the air. And I see it everywhere. I see it on the faces of people. I see it in the scaffolds of the still incomplete puja pandals. I see it in those craftsmen working diligently to add the final touches of paint on Ma Durga. For pujas is not just a 5 day event when you wear new clothes, gorge in kilos of sweets, and go pandal hopping. It’s emotional, and it's a celebration that starts weeks before and lingers like sweet nostalgia even when it is all over.

Kolkata is a city with a soul. I hardly liked it when I first came to live here 8 years back. But with time, the city grew on me. There is an undeniable magic, an aura that emanates, a feeling of being home that begins to grow on you with time. For a city is not merely impressive buildings and shopping malls and prospering industries. It is essentially the people.

And God knows I still get goosebumps at the sounds of the dhaak. It seems as if my blood rings and my soul sings to the drum beats. And you have to be a pretty insensitive pachyderm not to feel the magic suffusing the air when dhaakis play the dhaak (for the uninitiated, watch Parineeta).

Being a “Probashi Bangali” (one who is not born or brought up in Bengal), Durga Puja wasn’t any different to me than say Christmas, or Eid. I had seen Puja outside Bengal, and it meant all the same to me.... decorative pandals, people in new clothes, cultural functions, and loudspeakers honking with the recent hindi movie songs. So I could never comprehend why people said, “You have to be in Kolkata to get the real feel of the Pujas”.

But I got this real feel when I came to Kolkata. And from then on, I’ve waited each and every year for the pujas to come. Right now, the whole of me is awash with joyous anticipation. There is something in the air that drastically enlivens me. Though there are so many things I am equally scared of.

I am so scared of the Q factor. And these days, I find it everywhere. I see queues in metro station ticket counters, in front of shops, in restaurants, in pandals. I do not see the logic why people would like to stand in queues for hours to buy a pair of shoes or to get into a pandal. And the metro has never been more crowded. It is funny seeing people carrying half a dozen packets of clothes and sweets and what not. And even cranky children screaming out for attention or complaining husbands cannot deter the spirits of the Bengali woman on her shopping spree. I do not see people stinting and scrimping on their shopping budget. Every body seems to be basking in the imperial glory despite the financial strata they belong to.

I see the shops dazzling with lights and people, discount boards hung everywhere, food joints filled to capacity, thousands of people laughing and shopping and eating, the kids dancing and screaming around. I see the passion of the cheerful crowds, the warmth of being together, the joy of celebration, the pride in artistic expression. And I see the bacchanalia everyday, everywhere, on every face, be it a kid or a 70 year old. Every body seems to be thriving on buckets of Bournvita that gives them all the energy and enthusiasm for a celebration of this level. Even the bad weather during the last few years and the low pressure and the constant drizzling and water logged streets and traffic snarls has been unable to dampen the spirits of the Calcuttan.

And then you see love birds exchanging hushed glances and sheepish smiles. So many love relationships are made in the meeting grounds of Maddox Square by the grace of Goddess Durga every year. Never mind whether they make it to the altar or not. Sometimes, an innocuous fling is good enough a change from the dull, drab life, that leaves sweet memories for years to come.

On that note, happy puja.


sunshine.