(Fun)eral

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

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

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

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

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

sunshine

Halloween Weekend

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

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

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

So there goes the story of my Halloween weekend.

sunshine

My New Found Love

I am glad I got to know him, though I wish I had met him earlier. He has become such an integral part of my life that I cannot function without spending some time with him every day. I would be preparing for an important exam, and then I would sneak out and spend some time with him before I resumed work. I cannot get through the day without chatting incessantly about him, laughing at every little thing he says, every funny gesture he makes, reciting verbatim his one-liners and the songs he sings. Ladies and gentleman, let me introduce you to my new found love, my addiction and obsession, the one and only, Eric Cartman !

I don’t know how a friend of mine got me introduced to him, and truth be told, I didn’t even like the first few episodes of what I saw. For here I was seeing a bunch of 8 year old kids swearing profusely and blurting profanities and farting with such enthusiasm and gusto. But once I got the hang of what was happening I was hooked. I was hooked to the extent that I cannot get through the day without my daily dose of 3-4 South Park episodes. And then we would spend hours ruminating on the new things we had just learned, talking to each other in what we call the “Cartmanish language”, singing all the songs we hear this fatso sing. When we are irritated, we try to clench our fists, close our eyes in that typical “X” and scream “Goddddammit”. I have never looked forward to watching the TV every Wednesdays before this ever since the days of Chitrahaar on Doordarshan when I myself was Cartman’s age. Within a few weeks, I had completed season 1, 2, and 3, and am looking forward to the other seasons. Frankly, it was an interesting discovery to know how I can relive my childhood again at this age. You can see the amount of the crazy-cartman-syndrome effect this thing has had on me.

For imagine the puzzled expression on people’s faces when I pick up a stick and scream “Respect my Authoritah”, or hum “Stinky bridges” all to myself. My roomie would go crazy if I told her something like, “Aye woman ! Why don’t you go to the kitchen and make me some pie, or go home and make babies?” See a cat crossing the road and scream, “No kitty, bad kitty !” The “big boned” guy thinks that independent films are all about gay cowboys eating pudding. Cartman and group, Mr.Hanky- The Christmas Poo, Chef, Butters and group are my new friends now. I have been looking for a restaurant in town called Casa Bonita. I look at a bunch of kids arguing and wonder “How do I reach these kids”. If you know what I am talking about and have experienced the same level of madness, then welcome to the club. If not, please join the club. For everyone is entitled to a little humor, a little laughter, and lots of craziness in life.

And here goes Cartman online, in its entirety.

“Sweet” !!!, like he would say.

sunshine

One-Two-Three-Start !!!

This weekend, I went to my FIRST dandiya night in life. Many of my friends did not believe that it was my first time. They were as surprised as they were when I went to watch Bourne Ultimatum with them and dozed off midway. 

"What’s the big deal?”, I asked. You guys aren’t from Gujarat, are you?

“Gujarat or not, dandiya dancing is the cool thing to do”, came the reply.

Which made sense. Thanks to the K-serials and the KJo genre of entertainment, being a Gujarati or a Punjabi was definitely the cool thing.

So I went to the dandiya, more out of curiosity than the desire to shake a leg. Given how and where I was brought up, asking permission for staying out late and shaking a leg to the dandiya was not eve an option. That dandiya stick would have broken on my back, given the perception of late-night dandiyas. 

But this isn't Kolkata, and I did not need permission anymore. So donning my best clothes, here I was on my first dandiya dance floor.

If you asked me to describe the scene in one word, the word would be COLORFUL ! In a huge room, men and women with colorful, ethnic clothes were dancing their way around. Little children looked even more cute in their mini ghagras and cholis, jumping to the beats of music. People were dancing in concentric circles, the two inner ones for garba and the two outer ones with the sticks. 

I grew up watching Chitrahaar, where occasionally, Amitabh Bachchan would dance to the tune of “Hey naam re, sabse badaa tera naam, o sherawali” donning a piece of cloth on his forehead. Bollywood glamorized dandiya even more with time. And I thought, it's easy. Just clap your hands or clap the sticks to the beat.

So the first time I saw these people on the dance floor, I was like, "Look, I'm on the sets of Hum dil de chuke sanam!" Picking those steps were harder than I thought.  So I stuck to the simpler 6 beat and 8 beat movements of the garba. Still, I injured fingers, stepped on toes, bumped into people behind me, and confused the rights from the lefts. It was fun, but it was chaotic! I even saw a few White people who had donned their ethnic clothes perfectly and danced away without a care in the world. Wonder what took me 25 years to get here.

We kept dancing in circles till by head spun and reeled and all the faces floated above me. The floor was wooden, and it hurt. The same steps, 1-2-3-1-2-3 and the same dance became monotonous. The DJ played some awfully slow number after heightening the mood. So we formed a group and the moment the beats picked up speed, we started to dance Bhangra amid a room full of dandiya people. It was so much fun! Sticks in hand and our legs alternatively floating mid air, we were jumping to the beats of hayo rabba.

Three hours of dancing and I was done for the day. Even after 3 days, I am still limping, thanks to the wooden floors. “Coming the next time?”- someone asked me. Sure. But this time, I’d like to sit and watch people dance, and revel in the festivity. Unless of course I pick up the steps of Dholi Taro in the meantime.

sunshine

Sweet Revenge

When I first arrived in the US, I used to be amused seeing everyone walking with their hands inside the hoodies (jacket pockets), two wires emerging out of their ears and vanishing somewhere in the pockets. I always wondered how did the walkmans or the CD players here looked, especially given the fact that I never really spotted something huge and rectangular peeping out. Soon, the dehati in me was to find out that there were no walkmans or CD players, these were ipods and mp3 players, slim rectangles about one index finger in length, 4 cm in breath, and perhaps half a match box high.

Soon, I found the Greek Gods and Goddesses in the gym using those stuff as they worked out. For a lazy person who could make up excuses ranging from karwa chauth to shivratri to not to go to the gym, I told myself that it was un-cool not to carry an ipod to the gym, so when I have enough money to afford one, I shall start working out. Soon, G was engaged in her favorite pastime, looking for deals on the net, and soon, I was the proud owner of an mp3 player. My first mp3 player. 

Buying something is easier than learning to use it. For a person who is as tech challenged as I am, I was too scared to open the packaging without G being around. So for the first few days, my mp3 player lay unopened and neatly packed beside the photo of Goddess Kali, the same photo dad had given me while leaving home and had asked me to keep on my study table and bow in front of at least once a day. Well, it was fun standing by the study table post shower and bowing first to Goddess Kali, and then to my new toy, something I was too scared to start handling on my own.

And then, the toy was taken to G in her office, and instead of explaining me how to use it, she started to make fun of me, asking me to go figure out things myself. Frankly, I did not even know how to charge it with this USB post on my laptop, until I was told to use the extension cord. G, I hope I got it right.

G must have taken pity on me, for she promised me that she would download some of the popular songs for me for a start. You see, I still do not know, despite her curt instructions, how to use Google and download songs for free.

So I was overjoyed that the devil had finally decided to meet me half way, stop laughing at me, and download some songs for me. Here, songs for you – was what she said sweetly, winking at me.

Uh-uh, so soon? Why thank you !!!!- I had exclaimed with all my innocence.

I did feel grateful, and all excited that I would finally get to use my toy. I wish I had broken a coconut on the floor and smeared some red vermilion on my mp3 player, just so that no “buri nazar” made it play song backwards or in an alien language. I made a mental note of getting it as a gift for someone on my next trip to India.

I would never know how I figured out the tiny buttons. I must have just guessed and pressed all of them, not knowing how to play, rewind, or fast forward songs. I was waiting for the bus on my way to the lab. I had hours of mundane lab work ahead. Alas, I’d finally get to hear some music while I performed the arduous task of running gels and buffering solutions.

I sat at my desk all excited, pressing every button on my toy, not really knowing which was the play button. Well, I must have hit it at some point, for suddenly there was loud, clear music. The best quality of music I have heard in a while. Silently in my head, I screamed- Sunshine goes Ammmmerrricannn.

It was some English rap music I was not familiar with. Well, since G told me these are the latest and the most happening songs, these must have been good. For a person who has no idea of non-hindi music, I did not even know if it was pop or hard rock I’d be listening to.

The first few seconds of heavenly music filled up my senses. Expecting some English song soon, I was surprised to hear a male voice singing words I had no clue about. Must be a really cool song. So I tapped my toe and rocked my head to the opening lines of the so called latest English music-

Macchham macchham macchhaam de…

Pucchhaam pucchhaamm puchcham de….

Sararara pararara

Manja sanja ganja linja tonja manja jaja jaja

Errr….. was this English rock? I rocked my head harder to understand the music.

Di di di, jaga jyoti jyoti jyoti.

Why did it remind me of jag ka jyoti (light of the universe)?

Sensing something is wrong, I got to the next song. And then…… Shit! G had downloaded all the Tamil songs for me. I quickly flipped through the other songs. These had to be songs in Tamil. The reason? Every song I listened to reminded me of mustached and half dhoti-clad men, and buxom women from the soap Suryaaaaaaaaaaaa Suryaaaaaaaaaaa. I did not need to know Tamil to identify the language G abused her pati parmeshwar (hubby dearest) in.

So all day in the lab, I have been listening to songs I wouldn’t know a word about. 

As a protest, I refused to turn the damn player off and listen to my type of songs from raaga.com or dishant.com. Every time someone passes by, I rock my head even more to show that I am thoroughly enjoying my music. And snippets of all I’ve been able to make out is-

Ada ada ada asa dada istyle

Dadada seri pada vistyle

Gada gada gada ada ada istyle

Kumpava Aambal aambal

Munnadayo Mavval mavval

Vaji vaji vaji in jeevan sivaji

Why did most sentences end with the word maadi? 

I know, this is a ploy of G to make me listen to Tamil songs all day. By the end of the day, I did pick up little bits of Tamil after all. I wanted to ask, 

Aadi paavi ari o kyun tuney mera peecha maadi?

And that needs no translation.

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