Cab and Gab

The older I grow, the more I become like my parents.

Back in Calcutta, whenever we went out as a family and took a cab, my dad would always hop in the front and start chatting with the cab driver, totally ignoring the rest of us. The rest of us would sit back bored and clueless. This was routine. While mom and sister and I loved hanging out with each other, my dad loved hanging out with the driver. We always wondered how come he had so much to talk to with every cab driver he met. With those who migrated from Bihar, he would start talking in Bhojpuri, and the conversation between long lost friends would never end. My mother, usually feeling ignored, would try giving subtle, sarcastic hints about the newly found member of the family. Dad would cleverly ignore all the hints. 

And now, every time I take a cab (which I did a lot during my recent trip to the US since I do not drive anymore), I somehow found myself chatting up with every cab driver. Inconsequential conversations about what they like about their city, how long they have been doing this, why they do what they do, and what interesting things they see on the streets everyday. It's not that we exchange phone numbers and become Facebook friends, the conversation ends every time I get off the cab. Talking doesn't even come to me very naturally. But when you are in a vehicle with a stranger, it only makes sense to talk. The conversations are interesting all the more because these are short-lived, with someone whose life is poles apart compared to mine, someone I am never meeting again. I wonder what my dad would say to that, other than, don't talk to strangers when you are alone. 

If I had a job where I had to take the cab every day, I would write a little book about all my conversations with the cab drivers.

sunshine

The Art of Giving

With time, I have grown disillusioned about the gifts we often give people, and what it means to us or other people. When I was little, there was no trend of giving gifts every time we visited someone. Visiting somebody usually meant getting a box of mishti (sweets) from the local sweet shop, and getting a bar of chocolate if there were children at home. That was the standard norm. No one expected any more. Gifts like clothes were restricted to members of the family, once a year during Durga Puja. And then there were birthday gifts and wedding gifts. But that was it.

Yet now, I see people getting each other gifts all the time. I have done that myself. You visit someone, and you get them perfumes, jewelry, home decoration stuff, and what not. If you visit someone’s home, you get them gifts. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Fathers Day, Mothers Day, Friendship Day, Hug Day, Housewarming, Baby Showers, the list never ends. I have often thought about the value these gifts have in our life. Wrapped in nice and shiny paper and presented in colorful bags using ribbons, where do these commercial tokens of love eventually end up? Is it merely a formality, or did it really mean something? When my sister got married, I got to see up close how much of gift analysis and gift abuse went on- Who gave what? How many? Who did not give what? Everything needed to be remembered in precision, because the same quality of gift would be given to them when they invited you. That part I understand, but what amazed me was the huge number of gifts that were recycled. Clothes and jewelry and kitchenware that did not live up to our standards, or were duplicates. Since what we wear is so personal, it is only natural that what we did not like, we would not wear. But that gift was a token of love to begin with, so it felt wrong to recycle it at someone else’s wedding. But what if that gift was a recycled one to begin with?

It also made me think of another fundamental concept- the value (and not the price) of the gift. Gift exchanges usually happen based on their prices, but what about the value? To me, a handwritten letter from a friend, or a travel postcard from a travel buddy means a lot more than an expensive brand of lipstick. I have carefully preserved every letter and card I have received over the years, but commercial merchandise did not mean the same to me. If this is the case, why send gifts to people, especially people whose homes are already brimming with stuff? What value does it add to their life anyway?

So a few months ago, I made a decision. I decided, no more gifts. Only presents. What is the difference? I see a present as something that is valuable for the present, not necessarily a piece of stuff, but an attribute that one will enjoy. For example, taking the time out to spend an evening with someone and have dinner, instead of sending them a gift for something. Remembering someone’s birthday, and calling them, instead of sending them a message on Facebook. Sharing a list of favorite movies or favorite sings with someone. Remembering what is someone’s favorite dish, and cooking it for them. Taking someone’s children to the zoo or the park, instead of giving them an expensive toy. Doing something, teaching something, or helping someone with your skills to show that you care. I had my moments of doubts, when I feared that people might criticize me behind back, calling me a miser. But I remembered the famous saying, “Be the change you want to see.” And I think that it has worked out well so far.

Last week, I was visiting someone in Philadelphia who agreed to host me although there is a baby at home, and they don’t exactly live in a palace. I needed to be there for work, and was on a tight budget. So I didn’t want to spend money on hotels. Also, I saw it as an opportunity to bond with my friend, spend time with her, and hang out with her family, including the baby. But once again, fears crept up my mind as I was faced with the gift dilemma. I was visiting the baby for the first time, and tradition demanded that I got something for the baby. But here was my dilemma. I could not carry something big from my place, because I was taking a flight and had baggage restrictions. I have no idea about gifts for babies. Even if I did, I do not know what the baby might already have. America is the land of plenty, where most people suffer from excess and not scarcity. And knowing how picky everyone is about clothes these days, I did not know what clothes to buy for the baby. Knowing how unwanted gifts are recycled by many, I did not want to give something that would be a waste of time, money, and resources. So I went there empty-handed.

But I have one skill that I could use to give them a present. I am a photographer. So one evening, we all went outside, and I took hundreds of family pictures. And on another day, I did an indoor photo session for the family once again. I know that new parents (or even not so new parents) love having pictures of their baby. So I put in the time, and made the effort to make the baby smile, give ideas to the mom about how to dress the baby up, and took hundreds of pictures of the family that they have been proudly showing off to their friends on Facebook ever since. And that serves my purpose and makes me happy. If I gave them something from BabiesRUs, I would never know if the baby liked it, already had a duplicate, or was being put to good use. But the value of what I gave them was immediate, and palpable. I think my plan worked.

So this is what I plan to do from now on. Give a present, and not a gift. Spend one-on-one time. Have conversations in real time. Listen. Write a hand-written letter. Send a thank you note. Take pictures of people. Take the children to a park, or do hands-on fun activities with them. Teach a skill. Take time to call people on their birthdays and not just send a Facebook message. Make an effort to meet people. No more expensive toys or jewelry or clothes. The more materialistic we get, the more we miss out on the human touch. And people have enough money to buy what we gift them anyway. So what is the point?

sunshine

The joys of not knowing

            For the longest time recently, I have been stressed out about not being able to find a job. I am 4 months away from finishing my PhD, and most students from my cohort already have a job. I am an international student studying in the US, which means that I must additionally be in compliance with the rules and not stay unemployed in the country. Further, life as a single person (man or woman, doesn’t matter) is not easy. You are entirely responsible for taking care of you, and the love, understanding, and even the temporary financial cushion you need while you look for employment is missing. Come July, my apartment lease is going to expire, and I will not have a home to live anymore. It is battling with the uncertainties that have made my life so miserable.

            Needless to say, I have had multiple meltdowns over the last few months. I have stared at the ceilings wide-eyed at nights, clueless about where I am headed. When I started my job hunt 6 months ago, I conveniently omitted applying to places I did not see myself living in; the small towns in the middle of nowhere where I know I am going to be chronically depressed. I knew I have the time and the options, and I would always find something better. In retrospect, it was a mistake. US funding agencies are going through some significant sequestrations and budget cuts. Universities are having a hiring freeze, and labs are no longer hiring that many postdoctoral researchers. I almost got a job in one of the reputed schools in the South, and then they denied me the job because they decided not to hire anyone. Surely there is no way I could start counting my chickens.

            I started my job hunt with the mindset of exclusion. I don’t want to live in the Midwest. I don’t want to live where it snows. I don’t want to live in small towns. I would prefer a sizeable Indian community around. It would help to have an international airport and a Macys nearby. I want to do a post-doc in an elite school. Soon, I realized that I was doing myself a disservice with the high expectations I had set for myself. Finding a job is not just about my abilities and qualifications, it has a lot to do with who is hiring, who has the money, and who I am shaking hands with. So now, I am applying to every school, every interdisciplinary department, leaving no stone unturned, shamelessly proactively introducing myself to everyone. My adviser still thinks that I will have a job before I graduate, but that rejection from the southern school was an eye opener.

            Eventually, I have sensed a shift of energy, a detachment I have developed with this process. I am still proactively looking for jobs and applying. I am not ready to quit and move back to India for many reasons, but mostly because I don’t have a plan if I have to do so. However, I have realized that stressing myself out and comparing myself with those stellar personalities I rub shoulders with is not going to help. I have personally known people who have multiple job offers 6 months prior to finishing a PhD (or people who didn’t even need to finish their PhD), who have professors from Ivy League schools vying for them, wanting them to work in their labs, people who drive cross-country and make summer trips to Europe when they finish school because they have all the time, money, and a lucrative job waiting for them with a window office overlooking the sea. I’d have loved to visit Greece or Spain as a graduation gift to myself, but let’s be realistic here. We are talking about basic survival needs, the need to have a home and be able to feed oneself, fuel the car, and afford a gym membership without asking for help. So let’s not get ahead of ourselves and try to build some fancy vacation itineraries when it might not happen.

            Of late, I have realized that worrying about something unknown in future is counterproductive. And what’s so wrong with not knowing about the future. Why do I have to know what will happen to me months in advance? With some introspection and mental effort, I have started to enjoy this moment of not knowing where I am headed next. This way, I visualize my future whatever way I want to. At times, I think that I am going to be a postdoctoral researcher at Harvard University. Then I imagine myself as an educational adviser working for UNESCO in Paris. Sometimes, I visualize myself going back to Seattle and spending a few years scaling Mount Rainier and spending summery weekends by the beaches of Olympic National Park. Sometimes, I want to move to San Diego and enjoy the sun and the Pacific. Maybe I could work for the AAMC in Washington DC, since my dissertation topic is directly relevant to the medical workforce. Or I could start working on my DrPH degree on Global Health next year, and work in other continents like Africa and Latin America. And why education or public health? I could be a photographer working for Nat Geo, or better still, work for myself. I could be a writer visiting countries and writing about the lives of people. The opportunities are limitless when you have a vivid imagination.  In fact, the more I visualize my imaginary future, the more I realize that imaginations spring from the heart and not from the head.

            Imagination is a powerful tool to create and shape one’s future the way one wants to. We often think that external circumstances and other people shape our life events, but how often do we realize that what we become in life is a manifestation of who we imagine ourselves to be? I know I will eventually find a job, there is no denying that; if I don’t, I will probably be the only qualified person in this world who has been unable to find gainful employment, and I don’t see that happening. However, once I know where I am working, I will know, and will not be able to undo the knowing. But this moment of not knowing is beautiful too. The more I am fixated on the idea of finding a job in academia in the US, the more I see myself getting frustrated. Maybe I am not meant to be a professor in some US institution, and what is the big thing about being something or not being something anyway? Who am I to define who I should be or who I should not be? The more I imagine alternative possibilities, the more I find my fears allaying and my inhibitions dissolving. After all, the purpose of going through the graduate school journey, or of doing anything for that matter is to enjoy the ride, learn something new, meet someone unknown, learn a new skill, go to a new place, do something you have never done before, make a plan, fail, and do a better job at it, and most importantly, find happiness in what you do. I have done all this in graduate school, and to let the fag end of my journey be fraught with fears, insecurities, and frustrations would be defeating the whole purpose of educating myself in the first place.

            So I tell myself every day that it’s okay to not know everything that will happen to me in the next few months. I have 16 more weeks in graduate school, and I should just focus on being done. Things have a way of falling in place and working out eventually, they always have. The end of graduate school might be the beginning of a new chapter in life, a new journey to look forward to, something that will take me to a new place, and make my life meaningful in some way. I don’t, for a moment, underestimate the power of hope and imagination for that matter.

sunshine

28 and Unemployed - Part 1/3

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I was a month past 28. Barely a year out of graduate school. Recent owner of a car after 3 years of dreading and 1 month of learning to drive. Happy with a job that wasn’t necessarily THE job, but was something. It paid the bills, maintained my visa status, gave me something to talk about in typical Indian gatherings when people asked what I did, and bought me enough time to decide where I wanted to see myself headed. I was married to my job- a classic case of an arranged marriage. We met on campus, the recruiters hooked us up, and although I didn’t love it at first sight, I learnt to appreciate the perks that came with it- a name, a recognition, a box of business cards with my work designation boldly imprinted under my name, an unbeatable security, a boost to my self-confidence, a steady paycheck that took care of my passion for travel, and enough time and energy to pursue it. A double masters graduate (a PhD dropout actually), I told myself that I would never go back to school to finish my PhD. There was no pride living the life of an overworked and underpaid PhD student, and the smart way was to get a job and have a life. As I drove to work every morning, listening to the bleak updates of the recession on the National Public Radio, of people losing jobs and organizations downsizing, my heart reached out to these people I did not know. I told myself I was the luckiest person to hold on to my job, more so because I was single and did not have a “fallback option” for a husband. The security that came with my job was something worth every hour I spend doing mundane stuff in office, not knowing who would care about my work if I died working on it. Little did I know about the ill-fated layoff that was awaiting me.

When the clock struck twelve, I stood in the cold and rain, watching the fireworks explode over the Space Needle. Squished in a merrymaking crowd in a pub, I had welcomed the New Year with unemployment. No more playing office every morning. No more pay checks for an indefinite period of time. Unemployed, penniless, homeless, visa-less, and barely a year out of graduate school, I had cried broken-heartedly for all the catharsis in my life.

To be continued .....

28 and Unemployed: Part 2/3

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Do you know the one big thing that losing a job does to you? No, it does not drive you bankrupt instantly, it does not make you friendless, nor does it strip you off your visa status immediately. However, it strips you off your confidence big time, eating into your self-esteem, and leaving a dull void of self-doubt at the core. You know you are supposed to go out and meet people, network to ensure you find a job soon, but it seems you have ended up with legs made of lead. You do not want to meet or talk to people. The world symbolically gets on the train leaving the station and you stand there feeling deadweight, seeing the world leave you in slow motion. You hate meeting people, or even picking up the phone because they will either ask you how you lost your job, or will tell you not to worry at the time when you have lost your happiness, your sleep, and your old self beaming with confidence. You hide and sulk, stop taking calls, eat wrong, put on weight, end up looking even more pathetic, question your abilities, look at your degrees with doubt, and sift through your graduation album and cry. Suddenly your friends are nice to you, they take you out for dinner and do not let you pay, and there you are sitting and watching them suspiciously. As an outsider, it is a simple situation where you have lost a job, and you are supposed to move on and find a new job without making a big deal. However when you are in the situation, it is the biggest deal of your life. The voices in your head forever keep nagging, “Maybe I was not good enough”. Our upbringing trains us to deal with success, but does not train us to deal with failure. You tell yourself that you were the college topper, the best performing employee in your previous job, and it does not make sense that you don’t have a job anymore. Few realize that although it is sad to lose your job, you can sail through this phase of unemployment with style, so that the world around you would die to be in your shoes.

Did I sail through my unemployment with style? I do not know about that. I am a liar if I said I accepted reality and moved on. Oh, it affects me till date. It was one single, isolated event on a fine morning when I was told I was leaving. However, I have replayed that incident in my head a million times now, making me feel the pain a million times. I still have nightmares of being asked to leave my workplace. The face of my employers change, but there is someone I always see in my nightmares sitting behind a mahogany desk with an intimidating and overpowering expression, asking me to leave. I was scared, vulnerable, and somewhere in the subconscious, I learnt to believe that I will never be good enough to hold on to a job, friends, or relationships.

I tried for months to get another job, but nothing worked out. Tired of feeling sorry, I gazed out at the waterfront, and asked myself one sunny morning what I would do if I didn’t have to worry about money, success, or what people thought of me. Pen and paper in hand, I started to make a list of the things I would do if I got a break. I was single, unattached, healthy, enthusiastic, could live in whatever part of the world I chose to, didn’t have a child to look after or a mortgage to pay, no ties absolutely. I wondered how I had overlooked these blessings. As I kept writing, my “wish list” kept growing longer. There were so many things I had always wanted to do, waiting for the opportune moment that never came. My unemployment turned out to be that opportune moment in my life. I now had a plan for my life, and a fun plan indeed. My crazy list looked something like, “Going back to school. Traveling Europe. Visiting family. Learning a skill. Losing weight. Watching all the top movies on the IMDB list. Writing a book.” I knew I could not finish even half of them, but I was already excitedly planning my unemployment period. What a welcome break it was from the boredom and monotonousness of doing routine things that everyone around me did.

To be continued ........

28 and Unemployed: Part 3/3

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By January, I found myself sitting in music class, cleaning the cobwebs off my voice and relearning my Sa-Re-Ga-Ma. I used to sing with my grandfather as a kid. He took with him the culture of evening riyaaz when he died. 24 years later, I started my classical music lessons. Now that I was singing, I wanted to dance too. I felt self-conscious, I had gained a lot of weight in the last few years, but I had always wanted to dance with the local dance wing, and realized this could be my only chance. I auditioned with them for a show, and the weekdays saw me singing and dancing to the tunes of music for the upcoming show. My muscles screamed in pain, I no longer felt that nimble and flexible I used to feel years ago, and came so close to giving up at times but dragged on for that day I would be on stage feeling proud of myself. February saw me live that moment of pride, performing on stage.

I had a lot of time now but no money, so I started living with a close friend. I helped her take care of her baby, another unique experience for me. Baby and I became best friends, and I learnt skills like feeding a 1 year old, keeping her entertained, talking to her, making her learn new words, and singing to her. By the end of my one-month long stay with her, she was singing Sa-Re-Ga-Ma with full confidence. I had circulated the gift of music I had got from my music teacher, to baby. Taking care of the little one taught me love, patience, and the art of understanding little humans who do not talk to communicate or make themselves understood, not to mention bits and pieces of Tamil. Next, I moved to another friend’s place where I had another baby to take care of, not a little human, but a very understanding and communicative cat. Anyone who knows me would know how scared I am of animals, and I would not even go close to a harmless, innocent animal, let alone live with one. However, I saw this as another opportunity to get over my fears and take temporary responsibility of a living being. Kitty and I had the house to ourselves and we would often sit together in the evenings watching television, playing, or talking to each other. I told her stories and she responded by purring and mewing. We even watched a Bengali movie together once.

By the end of March, I had heard back that I was not granted an extension of my US visa. I was expected to leave the US, my home for the last 4 years. It was yet another calamity that came as an opportunity. I looked at Google maps and asked myself if the world was a playground lying invitingly in front of me, where would I like to play next. I had my answer. I sold most my stuff, packed the rest of my life in boxes at a friend’s garage, left my car in another friend’s driveway, and took off. I took a flight to New York, and another flight that didn’t stop till it reached India. I was in India after 4 years, meeting my family and friends. I rejuvenated myself, felt nurtured with unadulterated love and support that a family provides, and went back to work voluntarily at my old school where I used to teach 4 years ago. I saw this as a unique opportunity to re-establish my contacts, and to do something I was passionate about- teach. All it took me to be happy and feel useful was to discover something I loved to do, and start doing it again.

Before I knew, I had spent months with family, possibly more time than anyone living outside home could ever imagine. It was time to move on. The next 2 weeks saw me backpacking, living, and breathing in the places I had only read about and dreamt of, but had never thought I would visit in this life. I had always wanted to walk the streets of Vienna where my favorite movie “Before Sunrise” was shot, and I did it. I had always wanted to visit an active volcano, and here I was climbing Mount Etna in Sicily. I walked the streets of Dresden, had Gelato in Rome, got a first hand experience of marveling at awe inspiring work of Michelangelo in Rome, stood mesmerized by the beauty of Salzburg, visited the castles of Prague, walked inside the world’s largest ice caves in Werfen, hiked the Alps, even took a train that boarded a ferry while leaving mainland Italy towards Sicily. Map in hand and an indomitable wanderlust, my dream of backpacking Europe, traveling in trains, and living on a shoestring budget had come true.

The best things in life were spread out for me as a buffet, and in 8 months I got a taste of almost everything I had ever desired. Music, dance performance, babies and pets, meeting family, teaching, and walking the streets of Europe. But I still had to figure out my life and decide what I would do after this transitory honeymoon phase. This was my chance to start something new, and learn from scratch, since I had already made up my mind not to go back to doing bench science again. After 8 months of a journey that seemed more like a never ending fun vacation, I wanted to be a student again, but not in the same field studying cells and molecules and writing scientific documents. I wanted to learn more about how people learnt. I applied to a dozen schools, got around half a dozen admits, and went back to school. It was time to start working on that unfinished dream of a PhD. Life had given me another chance to do something I loved, and I grabbed that opportunity and converted my passion for teaching to the pursuit of research. These days, I work on how to make the process of learning more effective. By changing fields, I relearned my sciences from scratch.

My greatest lesson from this journey of unemployment was to see things I built over years, things valuable to me, crumble in front of me, and for me to learn to build from rubble and from the ashes of unfulfilled dreams again. It taught me how to be significantly detached from my dreams to be able to work on rebuilding newer dreams again. I have learnt that it’s okay to have nightmares about losing your job or not succeeding in life or see people leaving you, because your insecurities mirrored through these nightmares will only make you wake up and work harder towards your commitments to ensure that things don’t screw up in real life. I feel like a new person, free of baggage, unfettered from the thoughts of how the world perceives me, and secure in the knowledge that I have taken good care of myself through these months and haven’t failed myself.

My journey through these 8 months of unemployment changed the way I learned to count my blessings. The door that had marked the end of things was also the same door that marked the beginning of brand new, and a better life for me.

sunshine

A season of changes

The sad part of visiting home once every few years is that while you are away, some people you thought you would meet when you are back are no more. Yesterday when I said my final goodbyes to my grandparents, I wondered if I will ever meet them again. Not that they are sick or ailing, but they are old. When I came back to Kolkata, one thing I couldn’t help noticing is how grown up the kids looked, and how old or aged the adults looked. I was seeing people after 4 years, and my mind could not keep pace with the changes time had carved out for everyone of us. Mother has more strands of grey hair than I could remember. Father has a couple of wrinkle lines that wasn’t there before. Grandfather is almost white and bent with age. Grandmother has slimmed down a lot (and ironically looks younger) after her gall bladder removal. My maternal uncle in his mid-40s died of a heart attack a few months ago. My grandfather’s elder brother died of cancer.

And then some people are married, some have divorced, and some have remarried. The so called kids have started going to college. Newly born babies have started going to school. The guy in the neighborhood whose leg was amputated after the train accident got an artificial leg.

Some people are missing black hair, while some have gone bald. Wrinkles. Missing gall bladders and kidneys. Depressing, moribund, and strangely funny conversations, ranging from who died under what circumstances, and what was the menu during the death rituals. I think we Bengalis are a strange lot, deriving stimulation from recounting gory details of someone’s last days of life, the menu of the death ceremony, and even who was wearing what.

In the broader scheme of things, there are more changes. Anu Malik has copied more songs. I've thankfully stopped listening to Himesh Reshammiya. There are more flyovers. More crowded trains and metros. Longer queues. Steeper prices. More KFC and Subway joints. Something in the city is dying. The innocence of the city is dying.

Next time I visit, there will be more changes. More people I grew up with gone. More wrinkles. More white hair. More baldness. When you see people once in a few years, the change is stark. It depresses me. It depresses me more to think that I am growing old too. I’m progressing and retrogressing at the same time, in the same time scale, with the same people.

And in this depressing scale of things, I have some comfort. I feel happy looking at old picture albums. Pictures where I was a baby. Parents looked so young. Grandmother took me to school and picked me up. We had more fun filled family trips. Roads looked less crowded. Amusement parks looked more exciting. School friends who vouched to always be with each other.

Things are changing. And for good or for bad, I have to accept it.

sunshine

Are you Uttam Kumar?

(Just so that you know, people who haven’t been to Kolkata or haven’t taken the Kolkata metro or don’t know about the great men of Bengal might not get the subtle references)

I’ve always been a curious spectator of things that happen in and around the Kolkata Metro. Ever since I moved to Kolkata 13 years ago, metro had been a significant part of my daily commute to school, then university, and finally to my work. It protected me from the everyday friction and maara-maari of people who traveled in buses and ended up smelling like vinegar in the process. Once upon a time, metro boasted of being associated with somewhat sophisticated commuters, people who could afford a little extra money and didn’t mind spending it for comfort, time, and safety. So while an average journey from the two extremes of Dum Dum to Tollygunge would easily take you 2 hours by bus, metro would do it in 33 minutes.

However, taking the metro after 4 years is a different and disappointing experience. First, the so called distinction between bus commuters and metro commuters is gone. Anyone who can walk and climb the stairs rides a metro. Money is no longer the deciding factor. So metro doesn’t resemble a metro anymore, it resembles more of an underground and hence stuffy version of a Ge(n)de local (a local train that takes you to Ge(n)de which is rumored to be so crowded and filled with the so called unsophisticated class of people that one would choose to refuse an invitation to one’s sibling’s wedding in Ge(n)de rather than board the train). I don’t really mean to sound like a socio-economic snob, the ones who believe only privileged people (monetarily or otherwise) should be able to afford the worldly comforts, ride the metro, study in the best colleges, and lead an elite life distinctly and superior to their so called unblessed inferiors. However when you have a choice between standing under the sweaty armpits of people smelling like stale onions in vinegar and rubbing against you or sitting beside that corpulent woman wearing a sleeveless blouse, rubbing her arms with you in the process every now and then and smelling of uncooked Hilsa fish, you don’t really have a choice to make between the fire and the frying pan.

The rush in metro is so overwhelming that for days, I’ve stood in platforms, watching metro after metro leave me as I debated over taking the plunge and squish into the crowd, but have given up unable to do it. Earlier there were concepts like peak hours. If you were flexible enough not to travel when most people like office commuters and school commuters travel, you could easily be ensured a seat. I don’t think that happens anymore, for I’ve found myself standing in really long queues to get a ticket even during the most un-peak hours like at 3 pm or even at 9 pm. Regarding security, the lesser said, the better. For you will find those uniformed security guards who will stop every unsuspecting passenger carrying bags, but not to make an inspection, no. They look the most disinterested of the lot, casually sitting and most of the times letting you go, unless of course you were in a hurry and on the verge of missing your train. They will stop you then, ask you to open your bags and show them, and while you would think they were interested in inspecting the contents of your bags for bombs, they are least bothered about what is inside. They will casually glance through the contents, almost coming close to your ears and whispering, “I am doing it to show my superiors that I am working. I don’t really care what you carry in your bag”. People at the ticket counters will often refuse to give you back the exact change and make you wait and miss a few trains before they hand you the change of 8 rupees for the twenty rupees you paid. However, the crowd, the rush, the disinterested security personal, the sweaty commuters, or the uncooperative, un-“changed” people selling tickets are the least of my affliction. What surprises me most, as I will focus now, is the nomenclature of the confusing names of stations one commutes to.

I boarded the train the other day, lucky enough to find a seat, and looked for the station I was supposed to get down at. To my shock, I found no name called Tollygunge. I looked and looked hard, trying to see if I was missing something, or if the metro had started taking a different route. As a result of years of metro travel, I knew the names of the stations one after the other, so I skimmed through the stations to the south – Kalighat, Rabindra Sarobar, and then what? Mahanayak Uttam Kumar? Is that what Tollygunge is called these days? The great actor (mahanayak) Uttam Kumar? I scanned the other destinations and discovered a lot of interesting changes. Years ago when Bhowanipur was changed to Netaji Bhawan, I had quite some adjustment issues getting used to the new name. I wouldn’t say it was anything as serious as say getting used to answering the questions of the nosy neighbor, yet I wondered why places had their names changed to show tribute to a certain person. Anyway, so the next few names after Mahanayak Uttam Kumar were a blur, and I had no clue which way the metro was headed. Later a little bit of googling and wikiiing told me that the word “sutanuti” added after Sovabazar doesn’t mean some kind of green leafy vegetable in Hindi, it meant a group of villages. Now why would a place like Sovabazar situated in a prominent area of North Kolkata be referred to as a group of villages beats me.

After Mahanayak Uttam Kumar (Tollygunge), I was expecting a Khalnayak Kishore Kumar or something, but compounded my confusion on seeing a name Netaji. Just Netaji. No bhawan, nagar, or marg to go with it. It seems while Netaji Bhawan is Bhowanipur, Netaji is Kudghaat. I wondered if Bengal had fallen short of names of great people that the same person had 2 stations dedicated to him, one with a Bhawan and the other Bhawan-less. Then Masterda Surya Sen, the prominent Bengali freedom fighter introduced himself, his name substituting the area Bansdroni. Gitanjali is how they named Naktala, Garia was named Kavi Nazrul, and finally there is another station under construction that will be called Shaheed Khudiraam.

Now I have some basic issues with the nomenclature of places after eminent personalities from Bengal. We have grown up used to names of places like Garia and Kudghaat, so if my father told me he is getting off at Kavi Nazrul, I would be wondering if he is making sense. I overheard a standing commuter asking a sitting commuter, “Apni Uttam Kumar?” I was confused. While the translation is “Are you Uttam Kumar?”, I wondered why someone standing would ask someone sitting if he is Uttam Kumar. Realization struck that perhaps he meant, “Are you getting off at Uttam Kumar?” If someone asked me “Apni Uttam Kumar”, I’d be tempted to tell him why despite his conviction about my gender, I am neither a man, nor am I called Uttam Kumar. The best I could tell him was, “Na, ami Suchitra Sen” (No, I’m not Uttam Kumar, I am the actress Suchitra Sen). Which brings me to my next point.

Where are the women in these names? All of them are named after great men who are no longer alive. Don’t tell me Bengal hasn’t produced great women, or they haven’t died. It’s a patriarchal society and a chauvinistic world, I agree. But where are the women?

Don’t you think naming a station after someone as a mark of respect is somewhat juvenile and a sign of disrespect in itself? The whole idea of showing respect is defeated when you take the great person’s name multiple times in different, and most of the time hilarious contexts. Are you “Uttam Kumar”? I’m going to “Masterda Surya Sen” to eat some fish curry the mother in law has cooked for Jamai Shoshti. My boss lives in the heart of “Netaji” (middle of Kudghat). You see what I am saying? Perhaps there has been a little bit of saving grace that Maidan was not rechristened like they were planning to. What do you think of when you hear Maidan? I think of lush green fields that act like the lungs of Kolkata. I think of Eden Gardens, and Victoria Memorial. I think of joggers and bikers and lovers holding hands. I think of the movie Parineeta. Would you associate it with the same things if I told you they wanted to rechristen it “Gostho Pal” (the footballer)? Thank God they didn’t think of Taposh Pal.

Let’s say some metro official or rather some eminent personality with administrative power reads this and agrees with my point, especially on gender biasness. My greatest embarrassment say 30 years down the line would be when a commuter asks me, “Apni Uttam Kumar?”

To which I will squirm in my seat, avoiding his eyes, and mumble, “Na, Ami Mamta Banerjee”.

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The rupee-dollar-rupee economics

When you are about to make your first trip to the US, everything seems expensive, especially if you are about to embark on a journey of poverty as a graduate student. No wonder you and your mom spend days making a list of things to be taken to the US, and making trips to the local stores to buy it. Soon the 23 kg of your suitcase is filled with bottles of hair oil, tooth pastes and brushes, beauty products, gamchas (if you are a Bengali), cheap plastic mugs (though you’ve just heard from the senior there that everyone uses toilet paper, and there is no concept of “washing yourself” after doing the big job), sanitary napkins, packets of spices, dry sweets, chaanachur, corn flakes, and everything conceivable under the Indian sun.

The first time you leave for the US, everything gets multiplied roughly by 50 (dollar à rupee).

The senior who told you about the toilet also told you that you will be spending approximately $400-$500 for rent in a shared apartment. You do a quick calculation and realize you will be spending a software engineer’s starting salary on rent alone. And that too while you are sharing the apartment with 2-3 other people. Every can of gulab jamun you buy is going to cost you the price of 80 gulab jamuns in India. You keep stuffing your suitcases- Indian spices, rice, aata, puffed rice, poha, and clothes till you realize you can take no more. This is while you are still in India.

The calculations continue even when you have landed in the US. You and your family does some more math to figure which way of calling is cheaper- from India to US or vice versa. Your granny starts weeping over the phone when you tell her that you have just spent some $200 shopping at Walmart. With time, your brain numbs to the constant calculations and conversions of currency (though your family’s doesn’t, they still ask you to hang up after 5 minutes of conversation, assuming it must be costing you a fortune). In a year, you no longer calculate how much you’d pay if you enjoyed the same commodity in India. In 2 years, you don’t even hesitate booking for a vacation to Florida, renting a car, or even buying a car (if you have had a couple of internships under your belt by then).

And then you make that long awaited trip to India, and things change.

Now that you are in India, everything gets divided roughly by 50 (rupee à dollar).

You eye that expensive sequined saree in that upscale Park Street shop you always drooled over from outside a couple of years ago, but never dared to enter. Now you confidently walk into the shop and ask for the price.

5,000 rupees only madam (this constant subservience and referring to people you don’t know and have no business of knowing as “syar” and “madam” and nodding your head still drives me nuts. Using “only” with everything you say is another one).

You do a quick calculation. A hundred something dollars only.

Cool, I will take it (you mom eyes you as if she has seen a ghost).

You go out with friends to that upscale local restaurant, eat to your heart’s content and ask for the check. The waiter looks at you with confusion when you realize, “Oh, I mean bill please”.

One thousand rupees. $22. Even less than what you’d pay for an upscale restaurant in Seattle for a single meal.

You look at others. “I’ll take care of the bill”.

Everyone eyes you with admiration. The neighbor aunty just made it a point to talk to a distant relative with a nubile prospective looking for a groom.

You start taking a cab to everywhere because you realize the cab fare will be equivalent to your bus fare for a single ride in the US. This is while your mom fervently protests and begs you to take that bus and save some money.

You go to a bookstore asking for the latest bestseller. You do some math. $4 only? Okay, I’ll take it.

You go to Barista and end up paying Rs. 100 for some horribly sweet coffee. Your friend baulks. You are unperturbed because you know you are paying a lot less than what you’d be paying for a Starbucks latte (last I got one it was $3.90).

You go to your favorite sweet shop, buy a kilogram of ras malai, and happily pay $6. That’s what you’d pay for a plate of two sorry looking rasmalais squeezed out off their juices in the US anyway. Hail India.

And even before you know, your bank balance has dipped by a couple of thousand dollars and your waistline has expanded by a few extra inches. But that’s a different story.

Personally, I feel prices of things in India have gone up by at least 4-8 times. My baseline of course is prices of things back in 2006. Fish costs more, sweets cost more. A glass of lassi at Haldiram’s costs you Rs. 24, something unthinkable in 2006. The brief 4 hours I spent at the New Delhi airport, I was horrified to skim through the prices of eating places at the airport. I could actually afford to buy nothing as I returned to India with 100 rupees and my credit card. If Kolkata is this expensive, I can imagine how expensive New Delhi, Mumbai, and Bangalore are going to be. Yet I have spending power now, thanks to the dollar-rupee economics. So if you are a graduate student about to embark on a US trip, do not fret. Things might look very expensive now, but the next time you are here, everything is going to look dirt cheap.

Time to make another list now. This time, not the hair oil or the poha or Ganesh atta. This time, it’s sequined sarees and embroidered clothes and some jewelry.

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Downsizing

7 days ago, I couldn’t imagine in a thousand lives what my life would be 7 days from then. I was happily camping in Montana, never realizing that the next weekend I would be doing things different. For the first time this summer, I haven’t taken advantage of the good weather to do something outdoor. Instead, I’ve stayed home, finishing office work, looking for a job, and most importantly, packing. I am leaving home to relocate to a friends place closer to office, so I can spend lesser time and money on commute. G is out of town and let me stay at her place for as long as I need.

This is the first step I’ve taken towards downsizing and cost cutting. I have been packing clothes, food, and whatever I need. I don’t want to think about my apartment, because I miss it already. I have gone through the vicious cycle of being glum, feeling low, breaking down to tears, and then holding myself up and packing again. I don’t know what I will do with my apartment, maybe put it up for someone to take over the lease, sublet it, let it go, I don’t know. Ironically, packing has been fun during the numerous other occasions this summer, when I have gone hiking, camping, sightseeing, visiting other cities. Packing is definitely not fun this time. It is a sore, emotional issue for me.

I also cleaned the house and sorted out the clothes and shoes that I will donate to Goodwill. I have been meaning to do this for a while, but never really found enough time so far. I think I had acquired far more clothes and shoes than I am going to need. My apartment looks less cluttered now. My life has never looked more cluttered.

I thank everyone for your good wishes and your comments. Its been a difficult 4 days, but it feels good to know that there are people who feel your pain and pray for you though they personally don’t know you. I have cherished reading each and every comment.

Till next time.

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