Pune

I am reminded of the breakfast we had at Vohuman Café three weekends ago. Some of us had taken an early morning flight to Pune. We got really excited about the chicken sandwich they offered in Spice Jet, which is way better than the Chicken Junglee Sandwich in Indigo. Once we landed, we learnt that the hotel was full and could not accommodate an early check-in (wedding season and all). It was 8 am and we had about four hours to kill!

 

So my colleague and I went to Vohuman Café. The maska bun was laden with butter, the cheesy omelette was out of the world, and so was the Irani tea. After waking up at 3 am and catching a flight at 6 am, I needed this. I wish I had not been so impressed with my Spice Jet sandwich earlier.

After that, we walked the length and breadth and climbing the heights of Shaniwar Wada. We also went to Shreemant Dagdusheth Halwai Ganpati Mandir. The driver said that a first timer in Pune should not miss this, and it was not too far from my hotel in Koregaon Park either.

 

I did end up meeting a friend as well. I had last met her in 2006, at her wedding. Back in the day, getting parental permission to go to events post dusk used to be as difficult as getting a US visa. There would be thorough background checks, you had to answer hundreds of questions like kothaye jaabi? Keno jaabi? Na gele ki hobe? Koto bhalo bondhu? Kokhon firbi? Aar ke ke jaabe? Ki guarantee je timely firbi? There is no telling you what would happen if you were late. I think the curfew time for me was 10pm, which was more generous than what other friends had. Another friend and I had miraculously managed to get permission, so we slapped some makeup, borrowed a sari, took the afternoon metro with full makeup and people staring at us, and travelled all the way to Behala. We never got to meet the groom because we had strict parents who set stricter curfew times, and we were dependent on public transport which could take forever.

 

We never met after that. Fast forward life to 2022. Parental permissions are a thing of the past. I don’t even attend weddings anymore, all my friends who wanted to be married are married. I am in Pune and I am looking up the map for some odd-sounding place called Pimpri. I have no idea what it means, but I see that it will take a good hour to get there from my hotel. I must be there by 7:30 am. So, I message my friend, letting her know that I am in town and apologizing that I will not be able to meet. By some divine intervention, she tells me that she lives in Pimpri too, not too far from my work location.

 

So off I went there, literally gate crashing on a Sunday morning, finally meeting the groom from 2006 and the entire family. It was a gorgeous morning. I had my fill of adda, ginger tea, koraishuti'r kochuri aar alu'r dum, and we talked about good old times. We called up the other friend and gossiped some more! I even made her pack me some kochuri and alu’r dum for the rest of the day, so shameless I am. It turned out to be the best two hours I had spent in Pune!

 

And just like that, life continues to surprise. I love that my work takes me to different places, and I have reconnected with many school and college friends over the years. I loved Pune as a city too for many reasons and cannot wait for a re-reunion (or tri-union), hopefully with other friends as well!

 

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Sweet Therapy

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

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

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

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

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

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Fruits of labor

Imagine a life where the only responsibility you have, even if for a few weeks, is to buy seasonal fruits from the market while returning home. This started when I got my first job in 2005. Although earning, I was not expected to contribute anything at home. So I started buying fruits on my way back, as much as I desired for the entire family (although I always ate the lion's share). Kalojaam (blackberry), jaamrul (Java apple), lichu, safeda, you name it. I would happily come home, two large bags of fruits in hand. With my meager salary, I had never felt richer.

The trend continues. No matter whether I am in a bus or taxi, I always get off at the local market to buy fruits while returning home. I get on my haunches and hand-pick fruits. This time, I spotted a particular woman seller in between a bunch of men. Being appreciative of this, I started chatting up with her.

"Kalojaam koto kore?" How much? I asked.

"Ten rupees for 100 grams." she said.

Fruit sellers always quote prices for 100 grams here possibly because it tricks the buyer into believing that they do not have to spend much. Kaalojaam, or black berries are a close favorite after mangoes and litchis, and I have never found these in the US/Germany. So when I ask for 2 kilos, her jaws drop, and she gives me a 10% discount. I never haggle for prices, something that Ma and I always keep arguing about. Ma's point is, sellers always inflate the prices because people are going to haggle. My point is, if the price sounds reasonable enough (most things do now, since my euros give me even more buying power), I do not want to haggle with a poor man who is sitting in the sun and trying hard to make a living. If one does not haggle at Pantaloons and Westside, why haggle with fruit sellers? Those 10 rupees I save is not worth the kicks one gets.

So I continue to buy fruits from her whenever I go out, and we chat up. Now, she starts to watch out for me as well. One day, she gave me good quality plastic bags for things I had bought from another place because I was not carrying a grocery bag. The other day, she gave me a handful of kalojaams for free to chew on as we continued to chat. Every time I put a few in my mouth, she would choose a few good ones and place them in my hand. Who would have imagined making a new friend at the local market over buying kalojaams?

She was thrilled when I asked her name. She was even more thrilled and blushed profusely when I asked if I could take a picture of her. So she posed nicely and gave me her best smile.

Grandma and I have forgotten to eat other things, and have been happily overdosing on kalojaams ever since, our teeth and tongues perennially violet in color now. 

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A coast closer to the roomie

These days, I feel so overwhelmed with the amount of changes I have been going through, and will be going through in the next few months. I feel the same anxiety that I felt while leaving India four years ago. How would the place be? How would I go apartment hunting? Will I be able to make good friends? Who would I share my apartment with?

And with that, I now I have with that the pain of leaving Seattle. I never realized how I fell in love with Seattle until I had to leave it. Every street walked on, so many restaurants visited, so many things done, so many memories built. The few times I visited the east coast, I always told myself that this is not where I would ever want to live, that I am a west coast person. Someone up there was laughing at me.

However in all the chaotic thoughts that ensued, I sigh in relief, having a good reason to look forward to the move. Long back I used to have a virtual roomie. My only relief and reason for excitement comes from the fact that I will be moving closer to the roomie. Well, not exactly so close that I could smell the food he cooks and he could hear me when I sing in the shower. It took me almost 6 hours of flying time to meet him. Now it will be 6 hours of driving time. But even that in itself is great for me.

Of course I am aware of the practical constraints, and know that the meeting frequency will soon be on a declining curve. Even then, the mere thought that I can start early morning and meet him for lunch is excitement.

I had first met roomie in the US during a certain Thanksgiving [2007 I think], and it was a mad trip of east coast exploration, all mostly in trains and Greyhound. Neither of us knew how to drive then, yet nothing deterred us. New York City, Washington DC, Princeton, Baltimore, we had seen it all. The next trip happened during the next Thanksgiving in Philadelphia. Then roomie visited me in Seattle. What an amazing trip it was, we went to every place I had wanted to show him, and more. Two months later, we met again, in a big group, exploring Virginia. And two months later, we were on another long road trip to Yellowstone National Park.

The great west coast-east coast distance never really deterred us from meeting and doing something that both of us love – Traveling. Every trip we made had so many fun memories. I was fondly going through all those pictures, smiling, grinning, and smiling again. I know I will be leaving behind amazing friends in Seattle. But I am equally excited that I’ll be at a drivable distance from the roomie. Sure he will graduate in a few years and will move. But till then, I hope there would be many more fun meets, peals of laughter, movies watched together, restaurants explored together, singing, driving, planning, traveling, arguing, differing, books recommended, letters exchanged, and in all this, building beautiful memories together. It’s amazing how with some people, you don’t even know how to make conversation, there is so much difference (or indifference) between you two. And then there are some people with who you don’t even need to think while making conversation. You might as well be in the parking lot waiting to start your car and meet a friend when roomie calls, and the next thing you know is you have spent more than an hour in the parking lot just talking talking talking, the waiting friend long forgotten. Such is the bond I share with him.

Ever been in trouble, knowing someone who will help you is just a phone call away?

Ever missed a bus or lost directions to a place and called up someone living 3,000 miles away, knowing that you will be guided no matter what time it was?

Ever panicked when something didn’t work out, only to send an email and have things taken care of?

Ever felt lonely and then just dialed a number and talked for hours, forgetting every sadness in the meantime?

Ever giggled so much that your tummy hurt like crazy?

For more than multiple reasons, I feel thankful and blessed to have such an amazing friend in my life.

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Feeling thankful

I am feeling thankful towards all my readers today. It’s not an impulsive feeling that pops up every time I eat something, neither it is a periodic thing that happens every time the sun and the moon are making a certain angle in the sky. However, I was thinking of the way my life has changed the last few months, and the way my blog readers have stood by me.

There are some readers who now know me personally. They have taken me out for lunches, have patiently listened to all that I had to rant, have offered help, have called me during my times of intense depression to make sure I felt supported, and have done more. I soon forgot I know them through my blog. It felt I had always known them as my good friends.

And then there are people who don’t know me, who haven’t seen me, but the only connection they have with me is through my blog. They have sent me wonderful emails and encouraging comments. They have encouraged me to write. They have made suggestions about how to present things to make my blog look better. They have provided me with their email ids and phone numbers, asking me to get in touch if I ever needed anything. They have felt sad when I lost my job, and have rejoiced when I got PhD admits from multiple schools. They have made me feel as supported as my close friends from US and India have made me feel.

So without making it a long “thank you rant” and boring you to sleep, I want to thank each and everyone of you for being there. I don’t know most of you, but do drop me a line and say a hi whenever you want to. If you happen to live in Kolkata (or anywhere I live in future) and would like to say hi, please let me know. And please please send me an email if you want to remain in touch. The tech challenged person that I am, I have found it impossible to cruise through your webpage and find your email ids to send you a thank you reply (which is the least I can do). It’s a shortcoming I apologize for.

I look forward to knowing you all, and continue writing about things you will enjoy reading.

Thank you.

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Supper With Sunshine

Monday mornings are lazy mornings, with the weekend lethargy still suffused into you and the mind not being able to clear up despite consuming galloons of coffee. On a dreary such Monday morning, I switched on my office computer, not expecting a lot of fun during the week ahead. As I punched in my password, I looked far out of the window, hoping for a rainbow, a snowfall, or something remarkable to happen. Talking about remarkableness, the password clicked, and I told myself like I always do – “You’ve got mail”.

Skimming through the email subject lines brought my attention to a certain email that forms the basis of this post. A few lines of introduction about the person, and I was wondering does this guy need feedback about his GRE preparation, or is writing about the list of schools he has selected, and seeks my opinion even though his specialization is something totally different like robotics (I often get such emails)? A few more lines and I was wondering does this guy need a favor from someone big shot I know? An extremely respectful but lengthy email got me thinking while skimming through- “What does this guy want after all?”

Well, it seems that he is a regular reader of my blog, is visiting town for some official work, and wanted to meet up. Meet up fine, but to ensure credibility so that I do not misunderstand his honest efforts as that of someone wanting to make franship, he had the foresight to send me his resume, website, his research interests, picture galleries, and a couple more details. The only things missing were names of references I could call up and verify the existence of the reader. Phew ! So much for a meeting.

My readers know that I have never met a blog reader except that one time when we ended up becoming inseparable buddies, and we proudly continue to do so. Otherwise, I have never met any of my readers in person, not as a rule, but more because no one has asked me to. So influenced by Koffee with Karan, will there be supper with sunshine? Will sunshine agree to meet this reader who is visiting her city? Will the reader treat her as a blog writer, or will be able to see beyond her writings as a human in flesh and blood? Will he come with preconceived notions and half formed expectations, wanting to find such and such thing in the person whose writings he is familiar with? Or can they meet as two individuals, and not as a blogger and a reader?

Time will say.

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Be My Guest

The host becomes a ghost when you can hardly see her. At least that is what my friend preferred to think. A friend back from my days of India, we made it to the US together. So I was delighted when a few weeks back, she called me up to inform that she was visiting me for a week. I don’t usually get many visitors, certainly not someone taking an airplane and travelling all the way to see me. Needless to say, I created a table on a word document, put the dates on the left, and made a list of all the things I had planned for us.

Now there are certain phases you have in your academic life when things don’t go the way you want them to. It doesn’t happen all the time, in fact most of the times, a grad student’s life entails nothing a lot more than the optional chore of attending a few classes, spending a few hours in the lab, and then the compulsory chore of chilling out with friends. At least that was the way things were with me. But then my advisor came into the picture, we got a few demanding projects to work on, and the rest is history. To cut a long story short, the last few weeks have seen me spending early mornings till late nights in the lab. Monday through Sunday, 7 days a week. Christmas, New Year’s, and any other holiday you can think of. Of course I am not the only one, my advisor has been at work too, strategizing new means of kicking my ass, but yeah, that has pretty much been the picture. I don’t know for how many days straight I haven’t seen the sky getting dark. I come in as early as I can, and when I get back, it is dark and raining. I see everyone going home, but no one in the lab has seen me go home in the last few weeks. And it was very nice of my advisor to drive me home last night. That too at 1:30 am in the morning (oozing with sarcasm).

Sounds incredible, huh! Seems like I have been on the verge of making some path-breaking discovery, or the spirit of Einstein has possessed me? Naah, it is this stupid deadline, and the constant urge to make sure that funding did not run out.

However, for as long as my friend was staying with me, I tried my best to be a good host. Certainly not by the standards of how my family would host someone back at home, but certainly my own way. For a record, I actually started to rebel and take the 8 pm bus home. I would be home by 9, and then we would start to cook. I made sure that I cooked at home most of the days. It’s not that I am an exceptional cook, but most places would be closed and most friends would have made other plans by the time I reached home. Now I am not the cooking type, but that one only thing I did for her in the whole day gave me such satisfaction. We would chat incessantly while she chopped the onions and I heated the oil, and man, it was such fun.

Mornings would start with me waking her up, making some coffee, and that’s it. Soon, I would be running for my classes, and she would have plans for the day. And while she got ready and I got late, I would sneak out of the house with the note neatly tagged on the fridge. This note contained the bus routes for all the places she had planned to see that day. Yeah, you heard me right, barring Sunday, when I finally decided not to report to office (my advisor did come to work and as a protest, I refused to pick up my phone), my friend has been seeing the city on her own. And she darn well did a good job out of it. She didn’t whine or complain, she rather sympathized. And know what, she saw more of the city in a week than I have seen in a year. She went to these places that I have just heard of, but never been there.

After she left, I was reflecting on how good a host I have been. Certainly she had no problems with me working and she seeing the city on her own. She didn’t even have problems making tea for me while I worked or cleaning the dishes when I ws too tired to do them. But I thought of the way I had grown up seeing guests being welcomed at home, and I am sure ma would disown me if she saw what a ghostly host I have been.

Now many people have been guests at our place. But when it was a close friend, the person would have better places to sleep than on a mattress. I don’t even have a bed at home, not that I am too poor to afford one, but I have never had the need to. So my friend slept on the mattress. I did volunteer to cook every night we did not eat out, but it was nothing grand. Dinner rather consisted of something that I can quickly concoct without getting tired, and not the elaborate dishes mom spent making all day. So there was no home cooked biriyani and chicken kebabs, there was the simple bhindi masala and potato curry and stuffed veggie omelets and my customized raita with loads of bean sprouts topped with crushed potato chips. Dinner was served in disposable plates (my friend suggested that) so that not much time is spent doing the dishes. Certainly a far cry from the ornate sets of china we were used to having in whenever people visited us. While mom would spend the day showing people around, and dad too would take an occasional leave from work, I kept working half the weekend. The only thing I did was call my friend from office every day to make sure that she was not lost in the streets of the city and what time she was hoping to come home. And then I would usually come home much after she did (I gave her a set of my home keys), make coffee and some dinner cooked in 30 minutes, and eat in disposable plates. Even the day she was leaving, I had a deadline to submit in the morning. So I arranged for a cab, gave her a hug, and that’s about it. No seeing her off at the airport, no parting tears and no farewell gifts (mom usually made this farewell caramel pudding for everyone). What more, when she was leaving, I told her “Come again”, and though my “come again” was heartfelt, my insides laughed at me sarcastically at the “come again”.

It made me realize how different our lives become in a different country. My intentions of “atithi satkaar” were still with all my good faith effort, but circumstances did not permit me to take either a day off, or to show her around and cook well for her. What more, I got late on my way to pick her up the night she arrived at 10 pm, just because I was busy finishing off the grocery that I haven’t had the time to do before. I know she was totally fine with it, and perhaps I am feeling a little more than my deserved share of guilt. But mom and dad back in India failed to understand why it was so difficult for me to take time out of my schedule and show her around. I am so glad she came, as I did not have to go back to an empty house for a week. But all that I did was more out of my need for seeking company and reinstating my sociable instincts soon to become extinct.

Anyway, she reached fine and told me that she had one of the finest trips here. She loved the city, loved the places she went to, and loved the bhindi masala I cooked. She is hoping to be back in summer. Only I hope that I am more with the what you call “Aantorikota” (whatever that means in your language) and have more time for people in my life then. Sob!

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Jab They Met

They didn’t realize how much they wanted to see each other till they actually met each other. It is strange how you spend years without seeing someone, and then the last few minutes of wait become unbearable. So she settled with her bags and baggage in the airport lounge, neatly arranging her stuff, nervously combing her hair, and waiting in anticipation. She was a little nervous at the prospect of seeing him perhaps. It had been years after all.

She restlessly tapped her feet onto the ground in rhythm with the music playing in her ears. She wondered which gate he would enter from, if he will show up from the front of the lounge or from behind her. Thus she waited impatiently, looking here and there every few minutes and then looking at the watch.

And then he appeared. He simply stood there, smiling at her. For a moment, she thought that she was transfixed. Here she was looking at the person she has flown thousands of miles for. All her resolve of a courteous hi and a civil hand shake was soon shoved away. For the moment she saw him, she dropped her bags and baggage, running head on, like a weapon all set to hit her target. Seeing her and knowing her all these years, he opened his arms wide. When she was done running more than half the way, common sense prevailed and she started to realize some basic laws of physics she had learnt back in school. If she did not start to decelerate in time, she would soon hit her target head on, and so high would be the momentum (which is a product of mass and velocity by the way) that it could cause disastrous effects which were clumsy and far from elegant.

She slowed down just in time to hit right on to his chest, and the moment she did so, he engulfed her into his huge frame. They knew not how long they stood that way, hugging each other and breathing in each other’s scent while time stood still and nothing really mattered anymore. She stood on tiptoe to reach somewhat up to his height, and stood there with her eyes closed.

How have you been?

Good good.

I’ve missed you.

So have I.

How was the flight?

Tiring, as usual.

I’m glad you made it.

So am I.

So what are you listening to?

Some random music playing in my ears.

Silence…………..

So are you gonna release me or are we gonna stand this way all day?

It is then that they both realized what a scene they made……

And they thought such events happened only in movies and in romantic novels…..

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Pot-Lucky.

My mom is a superb cook. I am sure everyone claims that, but still, my mom is a superb cook. My lunch box in class right from my school days till finishing college was one of the most sought after things. Even if there was nothing more than bread and vegetables at home, my mom would concoct something, perhaps a bread pulao, and everyone would be licking their fingers. In college picnics, we were usually expected to take charge of one dish each. So while people grabbed for the options like chicken or other things that are usually in greater demand than the rest, I would rest easy and let people take their pick. For even if mom had to cook dal chawal (pulses and rice), she would make it taste better than chicken. On so many occasions in college when I was meeting a professor have I come back in class only to see my crazy classmates greedily chomping on my food. No guilt, no apology, all they would do is roll their eyes and tell me, “But you were away and how long could we wait?” 

And then, close friends would usually come home on my birthday. My mom was not very supportive of me treating my friends out for lunch. She wanted to take the pain of cooking for everyone, and that too a multi-course meal along with appetizers, desserts, and whatever your heart desired. Birthday parties at homes were a rage. And so were other parties.

And then I left home and came here. One year now and I have just learnt to cook for myself and not have to throw the contents into the trash can. I make a good job of simple things like noodles or salads, boiled eggs, or simple chicken recipes. But it is nothing I could call friends over and exult in the glory of my culinary exploits.

Here, you have a concept called the potluck. It means that you bring whatever you want to a party. Sometimes, there are lists you sign up for. It could be appetizers, main course, dessert, whatever. Some people come to potlucks empty handed while some people bring cutlery and plastic plates and cups. No one really takes offense. The host organizes the rest of the food, and that’s about it.

I always avoid potlucks because I just do not know what to cook for a huge gang of people. Even if I put some effort and made something decent, it would break my heart to see the chicken tikka and the kebabs made by someone else vanish like hot cakes while my dish stood on the table uneaten, and every now and then people would smile politely and tell you, “Very nice food. How did you make it?”. I know how exactly your food tastes given what people say about it.

“Very well made” (polite smiles)…. Flop show.

“Very well made, hey gimme the recipe. Can I take some home?”- recipe hit!!!

So when the desi people here organized a potluck, I just made some excuse of not being able to come. How I missed my mom then. I could almost visualize mom undecided about what to make since she had so many things to make, and then the people chomping greedily on her keema curry or kaju chicken, licking their fingers as well as the plate. 

But then, G amma took things in her hand (did I tell you about how someone introduced me to someone else in a party as the girl who came to the US last year and has been adopted by G?). She asked me to go ahead and tell them that I’ll bring a preparation of pulses. I was surprised. Why was she putting in her time and effort? She asked me how many people were expected while I hesitated, “Errr… maybe 10. You sure you wanna do it?”

And she said, "Naan oru dharavai sonna nooru dharavai sonna maadhiri" in Tamil. (If I say it once, it’s akin to having said it a hundred times-courtesy Rajanikanth). On the D-day, I and my friend went ahead and collected that big box of the pulse preparation from her place. It smelled so yummy that I had to keep it at my friends place so that I do not finish half of it before I reached the party.

At the party, everyone had got their share of appetizers and deviled eggs, bhaji, kadhi, raita, gajar ka halwa, and pulao. I waited with bated breath till people started to eat. And then there were comments flooding like-

“Err… who made the daal?” 

“I got it. Is it good?”

“Good? It is great. Give us the recipe”.

Well, I could have boasted all about it, but the next time my friends landed at my place for a surprise dinner of daal, I’d be in trouble. So I told them the truth.

“Err…. I brought it, but G made it”.

“What? Your G amma again? How we envy you!!!!”

By the end of the dinner, there was almost half the quantity left. She had made too much. After dinner every one had packed boxes of leftovers to carry with them. And while collecting my box, I suppressed an amused smile finding my box licked clean and dry. Not a single bit of food was in there.

It reminded me so much of those birth day parties and my empty lunch box afterwards. Thanks you G. You saved my day. You made my day. You got me pot-lucky.

sunshine.

Meet My Roomie..

I have this irresistible urge to rave and rant about my ex-roomie today. It might take me a couple of posts, but trust me, it’ll be worth the read.

And for all those who didn’t know I have a roomie- yes, I did have one.

I met him a couple of years back at home. His mom and my dad had been childhood buddies. There was this excitement one weekend that there’s a guy from IIT who has taken out his valuable time to come visit us with his parents, and so we were woken early on a weekend to dust and clean the house, clean ourselves up and be our best selves. Already cursing the anticipated nerdy guy who we imagined would be a chashmish with heavily oiled hair combed neatly with a front centered parting, sitting shyly in between mumma and papa and nodding his head to everything, my sister and I decided to bully him. Our initial shock came out of seeing this tall, good-looking man looking ravishing in a black tee shirt with the words “IIT” typed visibly who was a far cry from the initial idea we had of a chashmish working on the computer. But bullying was a custom for anyone overly praised for their virtues by my parents. Soon, he was flanked with me and my sis and while my sis kept bombarding him with questions, I looked straight into his eyes and kept smiling and nodding till he got so uncomfortable that he would start squirming in his seat.

That was the plan originally. However my sis soon got tired of asking him questions, and I was asked to dutifully show him around the house. It is a custom to take anyone new to the terrace and take pride in showing him the view from there. Soon, we were on the terrace talking, and God knows how barriers fell, walls were broken, and we were exchanging email ids.

That was some three years ago. He has been one of my closest buddies ever since. So what if he was doing computer engineering in one of the best places and was a nerdy niner and we were so often reminded back at home how to be a good kid like he is and do well in academics? He is one of the most versatile guys who could live up to his goody boy image coming from a missionary school for boys, and be an equally rowdy engineering student.

It started with weekly emailing, monthly talking over the phone when he would be home and occasional meetings. How can I forget the way the aunty beside us was crying buckets in Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna while we kept making inane jokes about the Khans and the Bachchans and the aunties and everyone else. Apart from roaming around in Esplanade and my visits to his place to eat goat meat curry his mom made, the thing that got us so close was the fact that we could discuss anything under the sun.

When he went to Germany for his summers, he would tell me in detail about the people and the new stuff he learnt. And then I came to the US and talking became an occasional event. However we soon devised a method to be in touch. I made him my virtual roomie. Gmail and Gtalk helped us through this. We would be logged on to Gtalk 24/7, and while he did his assignments and I did mine, we kept chatting as if we were living in the same place. I would always be greeted with a good morning email from him when I woke up. And then we would talk about trivial stuff like mess food, what classes did you have today, and anything and everything under the sunlight and the moonlight. While he gave me funda on computer engineering and programming, I told him about my experiences in the US and how things were different here. We would write occasional letters to each other. But most importantly, my morning would start talking to him before I freshened up.

It was like having a person in your own room, talking to him, sharing stuff, despite the fact that the person lived half way across the world. We talked about everything, from computers to programming to biochemistry to politics, sports, his institute, my school, crushes, heartbreaks, family matters, and everything else. He has helped me in so many of my assignments by reading and editing and giving his feedback. I remember a particular quiz when I had scored a 5/35 (there was no credit for partially correct answers) when he actually used probability to calculate that the chances of anyone getting an answer correct was (1/2) to the power 7, so difficult the exam was. This had worked wonders to boost me up that day.

We have spent hours playing KBC when I would ask him inane questions with weird choices. I remember once we played “who do you think my latest crush is” and kept giving him options. By Jove, this brilliant guy narrowed down the choices and almost got most of the answers right.

Having a virtual roomie was fun. I could have someone to talk to, yet I had my space and privacy. It felt sad coming back to an empty room with no one to talk to. At the same time, I could be in my shorts with my unkempt hair and my room in a mess, and not worry about my roomie seeing me that way (the firewalls didn’t let us use camera). In an age when most of my friends complain about how poorly they get along with their roomies while they argue on every little thing ranging from who will cook what and who will pay for what, I have been fortunate in having a roomie who was never really physically present to give me a hard time, yet was always there whenever I needed him. The guy who taught me how to make power point presentations, the guy who taught me that more than meeting a deadline, it is important to beat the deadline, the guy whom I started to respect for his disciplined life and the way he handled priorities, he is the best roomie anyone could have.

But like all good things end, he graduated and went home. Ever since he left, I have felt this void, this emptiness in my room (though he was never really there), these inexplicable feelings of missing someone and not having someone to rush to and tell every time I spotted a good looking guy on the campus, felt low, or needed help with my assignments. He will be in the US soon, and I hope that we will be able to resume our roomie-ship then, though he will still be a good many time zones away. Interacting with him has made me a far better person and a far better friend.

I miss you roomie. I miss telling you my exam marks and you analyzing where things went wrong. I miss listening to the insane stories of your friends who dressed up like the Pandavas while going for an exam. I miss you cheering me up every time I cried. I miss you explaining me the concept of God while I yawned and flipped websites without you knowing it. I miss falling asleep at nights talking to you.

I miss you.

sunshine

Meet The (G)Host.

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

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

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

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

What ! What did you say? A South Indian?

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

And almost turned me into a quasi-South Indian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sunshine

A Few Pieces Of Coloured Paper....

Last week, we were as usual engaged in animated conversation over lunch when someone pointed out….

“Think of it. A few years down the line, we will have good jobs with better salaries to enjoy the best in life, but we will just not have the time or the company to enjoy them.”

The person who said this was one of my closest friends from college. The conversation was taking place over tandoori roti and chicken bharta with dollops of ghee in a cramped one and a half storied Sardarji’s hotel on Camac Street. The fan was all noise and no breeze, it was terribly sultry sans air conditioning, and the ceiling was so low that I had to stoop while walking lest I bump my head. 

One of the best things about student life is the way you learn to glean the best of everything despite your thrifty existence. I have been earning right from college. My meager salary earned by giving science and math tuition might not have paid the telephone and electricity bills at home, but was enough to cover my personal expenses- cell phone, bus and metro fares, college fees, etc., and still save up a little bit at the end of the month. It is a lot of fun, being charge of one's pocket and not be answerable to questions like, "And where have you been squandering money and why are you broke and insolvent at the end of every month?”. For even a thrifty existence could not let us lose out on the best in life.

BEST????

Now “best” is a very relative and awfully deceptive word. If “best” for you means candle light dinners at Hyatt Regency, an evening rendezvous in Someplace Else, Sarkarr in Inox, and shopping at Pantaloons, then no. We never made it. Not with our money at least.

But we bunked classes and made it to the nearest cinema hall at least once a fortnight, even if the movie was horrible. We banked on rear stall seats more out of habit than unaffordability. And when people around us munched on pop corns and chips, we were more than happy sharing our tiffin boxes, the lunch mom made us, usually leather-stiff home made rotis, and potato curry. 

Then we constantly haggled over prices, even while buying a pair of ear rings. The only reason we frequented Pantaloons and Westside was to window shop and enjoy the air conditioning, gawking at those filthy rich guys whose dads worked in the World Bank and those super slim female models with colored hair, manicured hands, and pole-thin legs. There was something so artificial, so made up, yet so eye catching.

We never bothered to eat with spoons or forks. The sambar and the coconut chutney was more in demand than the masala dosa, just because it came free of cost. We would join 3-4 tables during those departmental treats. And before we would order anything, the bursar of the day would actually put his hand under the table and calculate the expense using his phone. Food needs to be treated with respect, and the misri, saunf, and tooth picks at the end of the treat as well. We would always have ice creams and cold drinks in some nearby pan wallah's shop so that we did not have to pay extra tax.

Unless it was a combined treat of 4-5 people, birth day treats would always be pizzas and pastries from Monginis. In fact, we discovered bliss when we discovered Khwaja's, a road side food joint near our college that served excellent biryani at the lowest price in that area. Even then, biryani was biryani, a dish fit for the moguls, and we would always go half plate with one piece of mutton and half a potato, all good enough to satisfy the need, if not the greed. And we loved the smell of it that would linger on our hands for hours ( that is why we never washed our hands with soap). All at a reasonable price of 20 rupees. And that extra pani puri was strangely tastier than the rest. Yet, we rarely suffered from stomach ailments. The only visible effects we ended up with were orange tongues hanging out after we had those orange sticks from Kwality, priced for the last 7 years at 5 rupees. 

We never hesitated travelling in crowded buses and local trains. We used the cab only when the total cab fare would atleast be 50p less than the individual bus fare. And this meant 5-6 friends huddled in a single cab.

We soon discovered a photocopy shop that gave us an additional 20% discount on the usual 50p/page rate for every 100 pages or more photocopied. Even then, we would not photocopy everything, but would wait all year for the exams and for the professors to divulge last minute suggestions. So the photocopying part always started a week prior to the exams.

Birthday gifts was always communal (the whole department chipping in for one gift) that was more practical and could be put to use. 

Everyone soon bought a cell phone for the simple reason that you could always greet friends anytime of the day with a missed call, something that came free of cost. A single missed call meant a "hi", a double meant "Call me up, I have important news to deliver".

And being the book lover that I am, it did not take me long to figure out places which rented books at the cheapest rates, and I did not mind travelling that extra bit to frequent those places. Somehow the torn, yellow pages and the derelict condition of the book had more appeal than the pristine books in Oxford Book Store in Park Street with 0% discount.

And then there was this thing about borrowing stuff from each other when one had an important function to attend. Somebody would have a precious set of Hyderabadi pearls while someone's brother had gifted her an expensive silk sari or a camera for Rakhi. No one hesitated to borrow or share ones valuables.... jewelery, sarees, watches, camera, anything. 

That is the kind of life we once had. We wouldn't hesitate attending seminars (and sleeping through them) just because the food was free. We tried not to develop enmity with each other, but even if we did, we made sure to gulp our ego during the exams. Prior to the exams, the entire syllabus would be distributed among friends. That meant whatever topic was assigned to me, I would not only make the best use of my resources to prepare notes, but would also make sure that the others had a photocopy of it as well.

We treated each other when we had a new born in the family or when our siblings passed the board exams or when someone acquired a boyfriend/girlfriend. And we stood with each other when there was a death in the family, a mishap, an illness, or even a break up.

Someday, we would be able to afford a movie at Inox with cheese pop corn. Someday, we would earn enough to afford diamonds and Gucci watches (original ones, not the fake that I bought from Delhi for 120 rupees), and branded clothes and shoes. Someday, we would not be able to decide on which brand of car to buy. But we will just not have the time to sit back with friends and relish endless hours of adda over cups of coffee. We might send each other expensive wedding gifts, but we will never have enough time to personally attend the weddings, even if we lived in the same city. Someday, we will have all the money, but not an ounce of time to sit and enjoy the goodies money could buy. Someday we will be able to afford expensive restaurants and party all night and drink the bar dry (without calculating the bill using a phone). But that will be to get rid of the loneliness and to face the travails of life sans the selfless shoulder of friends. The birthday treats, the first year excursion, the taste of Khwaja's biryani and homemade chocolate cake and the local train ride to Naihati, and everything else would be a blur, a series of nostalgic moments frozen in time. And the only remnants of these fond memories would be some 200-300 pictures I have amassed in an album over the last few years. Just a few pieces of colored paper, printed glossy and 3" X 5" 'coz that came the cheapest.

sunshine.