Connecting and communicating

"Ma'am, I have a doubt. How can I write this in the CV?"

There is language. And then, there is the culture of language. This line written in an email by someone seeking career advice from India opened floodgates of nostalgia. I used to speak the same English many years ago. "I have a doubt" in Indian English equates to "I have a question" in American English. Doubting something is a different thing altogether. I went back to my old documents, looking at the research statement I had written for graduate school in 2005. In my current age and wisdom, that can hardly qualify as a research statement, a page full of lofty ideas and goals of changing the world with no clear focus. If I was in the selection committee reading my essay from 11 years ago, I would have never admitted myself in the program. It's a miracle I made it. 

As I prepare to say goodbye to my host in Berlin, she tells me in a mix of broken English and German that she will miss having me around and will look forward to seeing me again. She was the one who hosted me last year as well, and although this is a pay-money-provide-service relationship (I was staying at her family-run place), she goes out of her way to touch my hand warmly and make me feel at home. I reciprocate, this time in my broken German and English, that her place is the only one I know as home in Berlin. I call her a day later to thank her and let her know I have reached home, and she is delighted. Language is not a barrier between us anymore.

And then, I receive an email from a close friend saying that she has been offered a faculty position at one of the top schools in her field. We have known each other for decades, and I am thrilled. But her words are filled with doubt and anxiety. In her email, she confesses that she is scared as hell and does not know how she will do well. Her self-doubt mirrors mine and her humility and honesty renews my soulful connection with her. That is the exact way I have been feeling as well. I have no idea how to be faculty. To see the same sentiments reflected in a person of high caliber with extensive training from several Ivy League schools only shows me how we are all human, sometimes terrified and vulnerable. I assure her that it will all be fine, that she is already a role model to many (including me) because of her achievements, and she will do great. I tell her that I have decided to frame those damn degrees on the wall facing me in office (as brilliantly suggested by a friend) so that whenever in self-doubt, those degrees will remind me of the immense amount of hard work and motivation it has taken to get to this point. In my friend's insecurities, I feel a renewed connection with her.

And just like that, in three different events with three different people on a random day, language connects my past, present, and future. A young and starry-eyed girl from India whose writing reminds me of who I used to be through our shared cultural nuances of language, a German lady who makes me feel at home in an unknown city despite her broken English and my broken German, and a childhood friend with a stellar career in whom I surprisingly see my insecurities mirrored because of the honest note she writes me.  

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Self-assembled machinery

In Kolkata, I do not need to look far for inspiration to write. Most things around the house are things I grew up with but never noticed as an insider. But now, I do. For example, we use a piece of self-assembled, unique machinery. A really long frayed rope is tied to a 500 ml plastic bottle at one end, and to a jute bag at the other. We live on the fifth floor and do not have an elevator (which thankfully keeps many unwanted people away). So we use this bag-rope-bottle thingy multiple times every day. When the domestic help arrives and needs the keys to the outside door, we lean from the balcony and get it to her. When the mailman arrives with the mail, we use this. Limited amounts of grocery, clothes, books, and other assorted paraphernalia get exchanged between the different floors using this. When I ordered two books online, this thing came to my rescue and prevented me from climbing up and down 160 steps in the summer heat. Of course it needs a little skill to not create knots in the rope while using it, something that I had forgotten. So now there were a couple of tight knots, and the bag would not go beyond the third floor no matter how much I leaned in and out. For me, running data requires less patience than untying these knots, especially when under time pressure. It's also a wonderful workout for the biceps, not to mention an interesting F=mg kind of school physics problem. The bottle cannot be too large, the bag cannot be too heavy, and the rope cannot be too thin, given the mass of the stuff we normally transport. Sometimes, the bag gets caught in a jutting television antenna or a lowly hanging clothes drying rope from another balcony on another floor. Barring that, it is quite a handy tool around the house. Who needs IKEA after this?

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Of food and dish cleaning liquids

Everything that happened to be today you need not have known about-

A new neighbor arrived from Korea today. He did not have much with him, so I gave him a few food items, including a packet of seaweed and a pair of chopsticks. He was thrilled. That's the most culturally sensitive thing I have done as a neighbor, offer a Korean Korean food and Korean cutlery. I also realized that anything in my kitchen that is not Bengali or Indian is Korean (not German). My first friend in Germany was Korean (she still is, just that she is not in Germany anymore). My firsthand exposure to the Korean culture started from there. I was already into watching Korean movies much before that, but now, I picked up basic Korean words too. For the first few months in Germany, my Korean friend was learning German while I was learning Korean.

My first night in Germany brings back depressing memories. I was dog-tired, did not have any money with me (my US bank cards refused to work), and I went to sleep with a growling stomach, eating just an apple and a few leftover crackers from the flight. Ever since, whenever a new neighbor arrives, I not only draw them a map to the nearby grocery store, but also unlock my fridge for them. We have locks in fridges here. I have developed some strange anxiety about going to bed hungry since that day. Whenever I return to Germany from Kolkata or Seattle, I make sure that I have plenty of food with me. A few weeks back, I got enough cooked food from Seattle to last me four days, thanks to G. My mom does the same.

On an unrelated note, the highlight of my happening life is that someone stole the dish cleaning liquid from the kitchen last night. We have a common kitchen, and the apartment manager provides cleaning stuff for our floor. The other floors have their own kitchen and buy their own stuff. Someone must have run out of dish cleaning liquid upstairs, and instead of using some of ours, stole the entire bottle. Now how harmful can stealing a bottle be, you'd think, right? Harmful enough that I could not do any of the dishes, and thus could not leave home until 9 am, when the apartment manager arrived and I informed her and she put a new bottle. Why would someone steal dish cleaning liquid and get me delayed in going to work by two hours, I kept wondering on my way back when I went to the grocery store to buy dish cleaning liquid for me. How expensive could it be, I thought? I don't know, since I have never had to buy one in Germany. Well, I discovered that the brand they provide us here is a mere 1.09 euros for a 500 ml bottle. Even better, I bought the store brand for much cheaper, all of 89 cents for a liter. And still, someone decided to steal dish cleaning liquid, of all the things.

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As I inched into July

I wondered what I did in the first half of the year.

I went to Dubai.

I got a speeding ticket.

I got my first paper accepted at a journal.

I defended my PhD.

I went to Puerto Rico. I traveled San Francisco.

I presented four times at conferences.

I learned 40 words in Spanish.

I found a job.

I met Baby Kalyani’s younger sister.

I met an inspiring traveler and book author whose work I have followed for a while.

I started graying my hair more than I have done before and learned to accept it.

I reviewed a book for a friend who will publish it soon.

I got my photography published at places.

I made a very good friend who at 6-2 is also now my tallest female friend.

I made another good friend I am yet to meet in person, who bakes the most creative cakes, re-establishing my faith that online friendships are not a myth.

Most importantly, I strove to follow the sun within me. Every day.

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Language no barrier

 As I spend yet another night in solitude, furiously analyzing data, I realize that I have roughly 5 more weeks to go before all this will be over. I have been sitting for so long that I am afraid my varicose vein problems or back problems might begin to resurface. I oscillate between bouts of feeling hungry, feeling thirsty, feeling like using the restroom, and feeling like stretching or taking a nap. Every night I go through this routine, I listen to a particular kind of music. Some nights, I listen to Bollywood of the 80s and 90s. Some nights, I listen to random English songs I have never heard. Tonight, I am listening to Spanish music through one of these Spanish radio channels on my iPad.

It feels strangely comforting, listening to a language I understand nothing of. Sometimes, they play a nice, slow romantic song that I love, but I have no way to find out what that song is, because I do not understand what they are saying. Then, I assume that it is a romantic song, but I have no way of knowing for sure. Remember, I do not understand a word they say. So as the music plays and I type furiously, I nod my head to the rhythms of the music, sometimes adding my own words to the tune in Hindi or Bengali. I sometimes do the same with other languages, listening to random songs in Tamil or Telugu, not understanding a word of what they say. It is good in a way, because then I get to concentrate on the music instead of losing sleep over what they are saying.

Random thoughts cross my mind as I hear more Spanish songs. What if I were to marry someone whose language I did not understand? Forget marriage, what if I were to live with someone for a short duration of time, maybe a roommate, a travel partner, someone I could not communicate with? Someone who barely understood English? It would be awesome, isn’t it? I would love to see how we both would overcome the language and communication barrier, and communicate with our limited vocabulary and mostly sign language. Sometimes, I think that words are overrated, and the more we use them, the more we create opportunities of misunderstanding. I would seriously like to try out living with someone temporarily, gender-independent, who speaks none of the languages I do.

Just some very random thoughts as I spend another sleepless night wading my way through piles of data.

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Nourishing the brain

This is more of a personal entry, so that years down the line I can read about it and feel happy.

I talked to a close friend after a long time today. I am not a fan of long phone conversations, but this one was long because this wasn’t a typical “Hey what’s up? How are you? Okay gotta go, bye” call. For a change, despite our 3 hour time difference and schedule difference (he works now, needs to be in office at a certain time I guess, and I am a student, enjoying my spring break), we ended up having one of those long discussions about anything and everything. By the time we were done (the phone got disconnected once), it was a little close to three hours. Like I said, it is a long time to be talking to someone on the phone who is not your boyfriend. My jaws are still hurting as I type this.

So what did we talk about?

Everything and nothing.

He told me about the work he is doing in his team now. The codes he writes, the programs he makes, the testing he does.

He told me the difference between research and development.

I asked him if given a chance, he would do another PhD, in a totally different field. He said yes.

We talked about self-identity. I asked him if he sees himself solely as what he does professionally. I asked him if he was told to leave what he is doing and start something completely new (for example, being a chef), would he give it a thought? He said yes.

We talked about game theory and the decision making of people.

We talked about stable marriage problem (Google Gale and Shapley), and its mathematical derivations.

We talked about secretary problems (an optimal stopping theory).

We talked about the game theory scene from the movie A Beautiful Mind.

I told him about my book. Even sent him a chapter to read and give me feedback on.

We talked about why criminals act the way they do, and what could be going on in their brains to justify their actions.

We talked about the pros and cons of giving up a secure life and traveling round the world for a year. How would one get a visa? How would one withdraw money? Does one go looking for an ATM every week? How does one live out of a backpack for a year? The two dilemmas I would face are, one, I cannot pack fancy clothes, not too many, and two, I cannot bring back a souvenir, because all I have is a backpack. I wondered where does one do basic stuff like laundry and ironing clothes? He wondered how does one get over the language barrier?

We talked about the potential association between time difference and the failure of long distance relationships. People feel and talk differently at different times of the day. It makes sense, because when I call my mom at night (daytime for her), she is all energetic and busy, while when I call her in the morning (night for her), I am the energetic one while she is ready to crash. Clearly the dynamics are different.

I proposed the importance of feedback. Every employer that rejects you should tell you what was wrong with the application. Every time you have a breakup, there should be an opportunity for amicable conversation where your ex gives you feedback about where you screwed up. He had some good points about why my theory will not work.

He gave me anecdotal examples from his work, for example, how it is not necessary to know the different parts of your car to be able to drive one. It is enough to know where the steering, the brakes and the accelerator are, one does not need to master the engineering of a car for that.

We talked about the importance of introducing humor while answering socially awkward questions (for example, the classic question of when will you come back to India? Will you settle down in America? He replies that God and economics will decide).

We talked about how the concept of “cold feet right before marriage” did not apply to our parents generation. It is a luxury our generation affords.

He told me the importance of listening to your parents, because they are on top of a mountain with a better vantage point in life, given their experiences. I argued that with my parents, they are standing on top of an Indian mountain and I am climbing an American mountain. They don’t get my perspective since they have never been here. For example, they always ask me to “drive slow” when I am about to go on a trip, the basic assumption on their part being that slow equals to safe. If I was to drive at 30 mph on a freeway, I would be anything but safe.

We talked about the importance of doing things in life despite the uncertainty (for example, getting married while you are still in grad school in case you have a girlfriend, although you know now when will you graduate or where you will go next). Things happen around you to define your life, and then your life defines the world around you. It is a two way process.

He told me why he thinks the N (neutral) gear in a car is placed strategically between R and D. I told him why I think his rationale doesn’t make sense.

We talked about today (pie day, March 14^th or 3.14), and why the Indian pie day should be on July 22^nd (22/7). March 14^th also happens to be Einstein’s birthday.

He told me about the short stories of Balai Chandra Mukhopadhyay and the novels of Amitav Ghosh. He loves both.

We talked about higher order thinking and lower order thinking, and how our strategies change in a board game when we practice more. I am a scrabble addict, I can and do play it for hours every day, and I kept rambling about why and how it challenges me to think in a more sophisticated way.

He told me that very few people know “baishey srabon” is the death anniversary of Tagore. I went off a tangent and said “baishey srabon” could be pie day too (22^nd of monsoon), which means two great men from the same generation were born and died on the same day. Totally illogical, I know.

I told him about the two good movies I recently watched, Amores Perros and Maria Full of Grace.

He told me about the resources to learn Spanish.

I told him about the consequences of the fact that we don’t choose our parents, but we also live with the security that our parents will never breakup with us, as opposed to the dynamics with a potential relationship with a spouse.

We talked about the conversation between two people 10 years of age apart, both being the same person (for example, one is 30 years old and the other is the same person who is 40 years old).

We talked about everything and nothing. And the conversation went on and on.

I have missed having these totally impromptu, random conversations that do not have a script. The beauty of it was the impulsiveness, the unpredictability of it. We could have hung up in 30 minutes. We could have hung up within 3 minutes. Instead, we fuelled the discussion for 3 hours. I miss having a friend like this, someone who talks about the things I can identify with. Intellectual malnourishment is a serious disease that afflicts most of us. There are so few people around to intellectually stimulate us.

For me, the greatest suffocation comes from being in a room full of people who talk, but seldom talk about anything of use to me. Hardly anything stimulates my intellect. What ought to be a signal ends up being noise.

And on that note, we said good night. It was past 3 am for me. It made me so hungry, I had to go hunting for food in the kitchen. Hunger is always a good sign.

It was a great conversation. A really long time since I had one.

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Cynicism

The only thing that pisses me off more than lazy people is lazy people using sms language.

Random email to me: hi... i am currently pursuing B.tech in civil enginring.. and i want to do my masters abroad but i hv very little knowledge about the scope and prospects and the procedure.. pls help..

My reply: I am already doing a PhD abroad and still have no knowledge about the scope and prospects and procedure. I am afraid only God can help you, and if God cannot, then Google might.

Getting on the treadmill again

Blogging, working out, doing a PhD, or anything else for that matter is an effort of regular, planned practice. The analogy I often use is that of running on an electronic treadmill. Electronic and not manual because you do not supply the power to the treadmill. Now when you step off the treadmill, the treadmill is still running. And that is what makes it hard to get back on it. You need to catch up, match up the velocity, and get going. This is what happens when you stop going to the gym abruptly. It takes so much effort to get back to routine. And that is what has happened to my blog recently. When I wrote regularly, I felt motivated to write regularly. Once the cycle was broken, it was hard to get back. Writing for me is not about a game of numbers, about how many posts I can spew monthly, and how many comments I can garner. For me, it was more of a spiritual exercise, something akin to meditating, an effort to make sense of the numerous things around me and document them. Clearly, I have moved on to different pastures. I have been busy with work, writing papers, traveling, partying, taking photographs, and doing numerous other things. It is not that I forgot about my blog. But every time I tried to write, I felt that inertia, that resistance, the same resistance you face when you try to get back on that treadmill that is already in motion. I have often come home too tired, and while earlier I would readily hop on to writing my journals, now I want to read a book or watch a movie. Anyway, this should not be a rant post. So hello everyone. Isn’t it ironic that I have to be welcomed back in my own writing space? I am back with lots of exciting stories about how wonderful life has been recently. And more than anything, I am excited to be able to start writing again.

P.S.: My lower spine has recovered well.

P.P.S.: Thank you for all those who wrote to me, and apologies to all those I did not reply back.

P.P.P.S.: I hate the new look of blogger. It takes too much effort to navigate my way around. Same thoughts when Gmail forced me to adopt the new look.

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A Magnetic Personality

I sometimes wonder what will happen to all those magnets stuck on the white door of my fridge when I am gone. Surely I don’t have any property to boast of, no land, no house, not even a piece of gold or diamond, but I have around 200 magnets collected over the years of traveling in different places around the world. I suspect I might have to buy a bigger fridge in a few years, but that is a different story. There is this blue lava spewing volcano magnet I collected from Sicily. There is this panoramic view of Philadelphia magnet I bought in 2008. They come in all shapes and sizes, from bears of Yosemite to the bison of Yellowstone National Park. There is a cow magnet from the cheese factory, a longhorn from Texas, a cable car from San Francisco, a dolphin from San Diego, and many more. I wonder what will happen to them when I am dead. I am probably wondering about this since I do not have an offspring to inherit them all, but even if I did, I wonder if anyone would be really interested in collecting a bunch of magnets from a travel addict. They mean a lot to me, having collected them personally over the years, but to others, these are just pieces of magnets. Perhaps I could donate it to the science laboratory to conduct experiments using magnets. Perhaps I could donate it to a travel endorsing club. I don’t know why I am worrying about the fate of my magnets of all things, but it is probably one of those days when useful ideas do not come, and the mind is trapped between the needless polarities of the north and the south, wondering about the unknown future and the even more unknown outcome of worldly possessions when the soul defies all directions and heads toward wonderland.

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From Royal Weddings to Royal Killings

From royal weddings to royal killings, too many interesting things have been happening around me to focus on work. I have always been sardonic about flashy wedding ceremonies, wondering with cynicism how long it would be before these doe-eyed, love-infested couples start to swear, blame, fight, and be unfair to each other. So, while my colleague woke up at 4 am and watched the royal wedding with renewed interest, I slept soundly on my sofa bed in Missouri. Once I returned from Missouri, I had the exciting news of the royal killing awaiting me. Random thoughts crossed my mind as I digested and processed the news. There were serious issues, like, is Obama going to be re-elected as the President again? Not that I find his policies very pro-immigrantion, and I am apathetic toward politics and current happenings, unless they directly affect me. Then I thought of more serious issues, like, now that the villain is dead, will they let me carry lotions, moisturizers, and beauty products with me in planes? Since I moved to the US many years after 9/11, I have always seen high security at the airports, have been frisked for some serious feeling up by people of the same gender in the name of security. Trust me, the last thing you want is some woman touching you here and there in the name of security. And then I have had expensive makeup bottles stolen from hotels (which were complimentary anyway) being mercilessly thrown away. The bottles of water were gone, and so were the bottles of juice and iced tea. For years, it was a challenge to have a clean security check up, or carry contact lenses and their solutions. The TSA forced me to wear glasses and look less glamorous. My friend suggested I visit Washington DC with an appeal, “The motion for lotion”. To cut a long and nagging story short, will there be lesser security hassles at the airport now, since the villain is dead? Will I be eyed with less suspicion, because I am brown and more importantly, considered a potential immigrant, since my mom and dad weren’t smart enough to think ahead of time and give me birth here? Will someone willingly let me extend my visa once it expired, because I am now an acclaimed professor very worthy of producing good quality research in this country? Or, will things be the same as ever, if not worse? No makeup lotions, being frisked, employers not willing to sponsor my visa or let me work in peace without losing sleep over a green card? The reason I am ranting about strict immigration laws is because I have had to go through a lot of hassles in the past because of this, and this has no connection with my post anymore. Honestly, I would never greedily eye that green card or the citizenship people kill each other (or worse, marry each other) over. I have never wanted to be a green card hungry immigrant. When I moved to this country, I did so because I wanted a life of freedom, a life where I was free to study in the best educational institutions, and move and see places and not be restricted to a single country. Given a chance, I would gladly work in Europe, or any other place for the matter. I came here because I thought I could live a life of freedom, without the person from the other backward caste next door competing with me, and outshining me for that coveted place in my dream institution. I wanted to be in a place where my worth would be the value of my work, and not the function of my caste (or the backwardness of it), the clout my father has (which he has none), or the amount of butt licking of the political parties in power I could do. That is why I left India. But in moving here, I got myself into different kind of chains. In order to break free of the shackles that held me back in India, I became a prisoner of different kind of social, political, and visa-related norms. How I wish I was hired for the quality of my work, at any government or private organization, without being rejected because I was not a citizen. No, I will never want to be a US citizen. It’s nothing got to do with patriotism and stuff. I was born an Indian by chance, I could be born in, say, Israel, or Italy. But I grew up in India for decades, and no matter where I live now, I like to be called an Indian by default. It is the kind of programming I grew up with. I would be very confused if I had to introduce myself as an American.

Anyway, all my thoughts about moving to the US because I wanted to break free, and then chained in the vicious visa cycle here was meant for a different post altogether. Now that I have talked about it, I wonder how the death of the most wanted terrorist affect the political, social, and visa-related ongoing of the world. But till those radical changes happen (hopefully for the betterment), I will hope they will let me carry my makeup kit, bottles and lotions and all, and will not mercilessly chuck them in the trash cans every time I board a flight.

(If I have inadvertently hurt your sentiments by bringing up the visa or backward caste issue, stop being a sissy and live up to the reality, like everyone is).

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Plane of Reality

I have a Chinese girl in my class I meet once every week. The first day we met at the orientation, she told me that she was worried about the English spoken and written test every incoming graduate student has to take before they start their research. She asked me if I had similar concerns. I didn’t know the “right” answer to tell her. Yes, I was concerned, but that was not because of the test. It was because I would have to wake up on a Sunday morning and drag myself to write the exam by 8 am. I was more annoyed that the school is not convinced about my English written and spoken abilities, and I could not sleep till late on that Sunday.

I passed the test. She didn’t. It meant that she would have to take an English class once every week for the rest of the semester. Bummer ! If the class load and the research and TA-ing wasn’t bad enough, the last thing you wanted was extra class load. I empathize. The next time we met in class, she came running to me asking to me which day I was assigned to for the English class. I observed that she had assumed I had not passed the test. It broke my heart to tell her that I had, and didn’t need extra English coaching. She didn’t do a good job to hide her disappointment. She looked confused that how could I be exempt from it when she was forced to take it.

Ever since every time I meet her for my research class, she asks me how are my English classes going. It seems her perceived reality has accepted that being an international student, I too had failed my English class. I felt sorry for her, but it unnerved me a little. Last week when I met her in class, I saw her talking to an American student. She was telling her how difficult this part of the semester is with midterms and then pointed to me asked me if I was having a hard time with the extra English class. It seems it had never registered in her mind that I was not taking any English classes. Amidst rectifying her yet once again (to which she looked a little startled), some strange realization dawned on me too. I realized that we all live in our own realities, and sometimes the plane of our realities might not match that of others. Does that mean there is no concept of absolute reality? What is unreal to me might very well be someone else’s reality. Often we hear people recounting stories when we think to ourselves, “This is not possible, is it true?” This is because the things we do not believe in are the things that are beyond the scope of “our” reality.

This girl was clearly upset, not just because she has to take extra classes, but because her reality might be that she thinks she has failed herself by failing the test. So at some point, her reality started to believe that as a non-native English speaker, I had failed the test too, maybe in order to make her pain or guilt less bearable. Whenever she asked me about my English classes, she was very empathetic, and it was clear that she was not making fun of me but genuinely believed that I had failed the test. What she thinks might not be the truth, but it is her reality that she has spun around herself to make it less painful for her.

I looked back at my life and realized I might have done this at some point too, though not to this drastic extent. I might have known things which might not have been true, and on being corrected, I must have asked, “Oh, why did I believe it otherwise then?” Which means while 2 plus 2 is always 4, it might not always be 4 in some of our realities. It is a scary thought, and an equally interesting one. I would love to read up more about psychology and realities if I can find some interesting books. Think about it, how fascinating it would be if each of us lived in our respective realities, and there was no concept of an absolute truth. So though in reality I am a poor, Indian graduate student, in my mind, I could be a princess, a Hollywood actor, or a heart surgeon. Is that what we call the beginning of incipient lunacy?

I am not talking about my classmate anymore, and don’t mean any offence to any non-native English speaker, but why is it that we think some people are crazy? Is it because their plane of reality doesn’t match with ours? How many times have you heard your friend complaining how her famous mathematician husband doesn’t hear what she says, forgets to do household chores when asked to, and lives in his own reality solving problems? Is this how ideas in fantasy movies are conceived, by thinking of ideas that might not align with the realities of most people? My grandmother still does not believe that it is possible for someone to travel around the world alone and not be lost. She also doesn’t believe that it is impossible to board a wrong flight. Like people sometimes get on the wrong train, my grandmother believes it is possible to get on the wrong plane; that you can actually get on a plane and realize after talking to the other passengers that the plane is going to Tokyo while you have a ticket to London. It is her reality. I don’t buy it, I don’t believe it, but it is her reality nevertheless.

Maybe we have our own realities because it makes coping with stressful situations easier. If so, then are dreams borne out of our subconscious realities? So many times I have seen dreams about things I would not admit to in my conscious state. I often dream of snakes when I am stressed. This might be because in real life, I am very scared of snakes, and will neither visit the reptile section of the zoo, nor will get into a discussion involving snakes. Then why do I see something in my dreams that I am scared of in reality? Is this because I push away those things I am scared of in my sub-conscious, and while dreaming when our mental guards are down, those issues come up? Who knows !

If you have read a good book about psychology, dreams, or realities, please let me know.

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What’s up?

It’s been a long time since I visited my own blog. Talk about priorities. So much has happened ever since the last time, I keep penning down snippets of thoughts till my mind wanders off to the next thing.

So what’s been happening? A lot actually.

I miss Kolkata. But not as much as I miss the home cooked food. The biryani ma made for my farewell lunch was awesome.

I miss watching Indian Idol 5 live. It was something to wait in anticipation for Mondays and Tuesdays. Now I just update myself watching it online.

Germany is a very efficient country. If there is a place I would like to work in, it could be Germany.

Europe is all about nice castles and palaces, trains and trams, cobbled streets and nice little shops. US doesn’t seem as visually appealing to me as it used to ever since I left Europe.

My obsession with my favorite movie “Before Sunrise” led me to plan a trip to Vienna where the movie was shot. I wasn’t disappointed. Vienna lived up to my expectations, and more.

My other obsession with Mills & Boon, and those tall, dark hunks led me to plan another trip to Italy. Italian men look as handsome as I always thought they would, and Italian women are the best dressed and good looking women I have seen. Italy seemed like the fashion capital.

Prague was beautiful, just wish it wasn’t that hot there.

I am sporting a nicely developed tan as a gift from my Eurotrip that will take me years to get rid of.

A little accident on the streets of Sicily, I tore my ligament and am in bandages and crutches. Not that it has stopped me from doing anything, but the bandage needs to be there for 6 more weeks.

Which is why I am not driving from the western coast of the US to the eastern coast anymore. My big plans of the 3,000 mile road trip I had planned for this summer goes down the drain. Sob sob !!

I am in the US now. I entered the US in a wheelchair. Which also meant minimum security questioning for me, and minimal waiting in queues. The services and assistance provided by Lufthansa impressed me.

I am slowly catching up on emails and posts, but am spending most of my time figuring out how to ship my car and stuff, preparing myself for school that starts in 3 weeks, and meeting friends in Seattle. I never thought I would make so many acquaintances here, but for the next few days, my lunch, dinner and evening schedules look full.

Lastly, I just turned a year older a few hours ago. As a kid, you wait in anticipation for your birthday, waking up and meeting all your friends in school, your friends wishing you, your teachers being nice to you. Your perspectives change as you get older. For me, the people who mattered to me and who I mattered to were all there, personally or in spirit.

It’s time to plan the move again, but will catch up soon.

sunshine

Free mein Gyaan

Some random gyaan on spreading news, free of cost for you :)

Information dissemination is a skill worth learning, what to say, how much to say, and more importantly, what not to say. Is it okay to confide to a best friend, where everyone is someone else's best friend? "But I had to tell my best friend about it, and she promised she won't tell anyone".

Don't confide anything to anyone you are not prepared to publish in a newspaper otherwise. Just my 2 cents :)

sunshine

I need a change

A few weeks ago, I went to the optician to get a pair of new glasses. Not that I needed one but you know you must do certain things when you are visiting home. Don’t even ask about the exorbitant costs of medical care in the US, I was strictly instructed to get a thorough dental and eye check up done while I was visiting home. So that fell in my priority list other than eating mangoes and paani puri, going shopping with mom, and watching Indian Idol religiously every week.

Today I went to get my ordered glasses. I removed my old ones, tried on the new one, and went, “What !!! Did I order these??? How could I !!! They look hideous”

Now I am usually not fussy about things, not out of goodness of heart, but because I am confused and would rather let someone do my homework for me rather than get into the depth of things. I am usually okay with your suggestions about clothes I should wear because it will save me a good 6 hours of going through clothes aisles wondering if the yellow frilly dress looks better on me or the green one with those geometric patterns. Most of the time if I am confused, I will buy both. You will not find me fussing over the menu in a restaurant because letting someone order for you makes life easier. Who cares whether you order a hariyali kabab or a boti kabab, both would taste awesome I am sure. I did the same while choosing schools a few months ago. I discarded the lower ranked schools and then sent the remaining list to a set of trusted friends. I am going to the school that was voted the most. That doesn’t mean I do what others choose for me. That means if others choose for me and I like the choice too, I will do it.

But I digress here. The moment I put on my glasses, I was thoroughly disappointed, and even a little repulsed by the looks of the glasses. I don’t know how I even opted for them in the first place. I must have been high on something. In fact if I remember, I was looking forward to my new glasses and my new looks. But now that I saw it, it just didn’t suit me right. I somewhat resembled a toad wearing those. I even suspected if the guy had changed them or replaced them by mistake (or by design, to make me resemble an amphibian). And I had just spent quite a bit on a pair of something I didn’t even like.

So I negotiated with myself and decided that the extra set of glasses would now become the main glasses, and I would discard these hideous looking expensive froggy glasses, or use them as the spare glasses. I felt guilty, since I usually never fuss over food, clothes, or even places to travel, with strong opinions like I HAVE TO do it or I ABSOLUTELY cannot do it. But that was the way it happened here. Which brought me to yet another useless, disconcerting realization. What if I look at the groom during my wedding and realize I probably don’t want to marry him? What if I am not sure about the guy anymore? Like I said, a very improbable thought, but a thought nevertheless. Glasses are better that way. At least I can temporarily discard them and use the spare ones instead.

sunshine

A feverish rant

It’s been a while since I’ve cried so much, and while I type this, I feel the pain in my head throb and transport into my heart, breaking into a zillion pieces. I don’t really know what triggered the tears all of a sudden, it could be hormones, it could be the fever, it could be PMS, it could be the fear of getting menopausal 20 years down the line. I was looking at the screen and the next thing I know is I am crying. Usually the way it works is that something goes wrong, I think of it, and I start to cry. But it didn’t happen that way. I am still crying, and as I do that, I think of all the things that have gone wrong in my life- a job life gone amuck, relationships gone haywire, friendships turned sour, the driving theory exam I failed last year, the traumatic memories of paying tax returns instead of getting a refund, and the flight I missed to San Antonio two years ago. I wonder if this is how I am trying to process the sorrows inside me- things unspoken, things I have never told anyone. I feel vulnerable, it could be the fever, the sore throat, the all day weakness and not having eaten enough. It could be the trauma of grading a few math answer scripts in school where children have solved sums defying all laws and theorem. It could be that person who told me that he wishes I never get a student visa approved and stay in India [If he read my blog, he’d surely read a hate post about him right now]. I think of the only cricketer I have had a crush on though I couldn’t care less about cricket, and cry some more that he is married. I try to think of happy thoughts- think of Seattle, think of baby Kalyani, think of my sunshine car and all the road trips I have made with her [It’s interesting how I miss my life in Seattle and everything associated with it while I am low]. But deep within, my heart feels lacerated. And like a broken record, I keep weeping, with low intensity first, getting higher and higher till I lose energy, and then the cycle starts all over.

I am sure I will wake up with a bad headache tomorrow morning, but knowing me, I know this that I would have also had my sense of humor back by then. By tomorrow, I would have resurrected the walls against my own vulnerability that keeps me sane, strong, and going in life. What a relief that it is Sunday tomorrow and I don’t have to rush to school first thing in the morning.

-

Pardon the non-sensical post. It's just hormones. Or fever.

sunshine

FREE Works

I was trying to get rid of my TV and entertainment center for months. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but with me having to move, there was no way I could carry a TV with me. It was a nice 24” flat screen TV, with blah blah blah features as if I understood the features), that sat on a nice, classy entertainment center. Not the random free stuff you find abandoned on streets near the university.

2 months ago, I put an ad on craigslist. A few responded and showed interest, but no one showed up. People wrote to me asking about this and that, the features, the color, the dimensions, and incomprehensible terms (for me) like it having RCA jacks for video game hooks up, etc. Not knowing what to do, I reduced the price drastically. Still nothing worked. I kept getting emails with people asking for the same stuff I had already mentioned in the ad. Yet no one bought it. I was giving away my TV and entertainment center for $35 now (which was nothing compared to the original price), yet nothing worked. Even posted it on the Microsoft site and my apartment’s notice board. An apartment-mate finally showed up, checked it out, made me play the TV to make sure it works, told me he will be back with the money, and never came back.

I looked at my TV in sadness, feeling attached every bit, not wanting to part with it, yet knowing I do not have the means to carry it with me. My TV felt like one of those dark skinned girls in the fair and lovely ads that failed to secure a husband and felt unwanted. I wondered what was wrong.

For 2 weeks, I further reduced the price to $20. Still nothing happened.

Then my friend gave me an idea to donate it to the salvation army. She told me to schedule an appointment on the phone so that they could come pick it up. Sounded great to me. I knew I will not get a price for my TV, but at least it would go for some good purpose. I called them to schedule an appointment. They gave me a waiting time so long I knew right away I did not have that much time. Here I was donating my TV for free, yet no one wanted to come take it. Even salvation army option didn’t work.

Then I put an ad on craigslist, but this time in the “free stuff” section. By now, I was pretty sure that my TV was staying with me. If people didn’t buy it for $20, if the salvation army didn’t pick it soon enough for free, why would things be any different now?

So I put an ad again during the evening. And something just changed.

By night, I had 25 emails responding to my “Free TV”. Everyone wanted to come grab it as soon as possible. Now they didn’t care about the dimensions or the features of the TV. One guy even emailed me in a language script (probably Chinese) I did not understand. Another one scribbled me an email is haste and did not check what he wrote, so that when I read it, it was “Hi I want to get you free…”. No one wanted me to deliver it, no one asked questions. I replied to everyone telling that I did not care who took it, whoever came first could get it.

I was in deep sleep when the phone rang. I picked it up with a groggy voiced “hello” when the person on the other side of the line told me he is all ready to get my TV. I squinted at the bedside clock. It was 6:30 am in the morning, and pitch dark outside. Who would wake up in this cold weather and be set to fetch a TV so early because it was for free?

Within minutes, a tall, thin, lanky, bespectacled guy (who looked like a cross between Sheldon’s body and Leonard’s face from the Big Bang Theory) was smiling at me at the doorstep. He didn’t even want to check if the TV worked. Seeing his frame, I wondered if he could carry it all by himself. Within minutes, my TV and entertainment center was out of the door. It seemed he worked in a hurry, lest I change my mind and decide not to give him the TV for free. He didn’t ask for help or assistance, didn’t ask to be escorted out of the door. I would be amazed at someone who could pick it up all on his own.

I closed the door and went back to complete my half-finished sleep. My TV is gone now. I’m glad it found a home, and now that I think about the last few months when I desperately tried to sell it and lost my sleep in the process, the protocol all seems so clear to me. All I had to do it was to give it away for free.

sunshine

Writing

Writing is so much like going to the gym or cooking. You do it enough number of times and you get better at it. You get better at it and you have sufficient incentive of being disciplined about pursuing it. We call it a positive feedback loop. And then sometimes you fly off the loop, something like getting off a treadmill still running, and it becomes so very difficult to get back to routine again.

There was a time when every little thing I found interesting ended up in my blog space. These days, I see things and make a mental note to write about it. And then I do not do it, immerse in guilt, and soon figure out that it is too late to do it. It is interesting how so many of my posts these days are these guilt laden rants about how horrible I feel not writing regularly.

But then, my laptop conked out a few weeks ago, and I figured out that blogging in office is not feasible. I waited for weekends to write something, but weekends would fly by and there I would be left feeling even more guilty. Nevertheless, an honest retry never hurts, right?

So here as I sit and type, cutting down on my sleep hours and running the risk of missing that 6:30 am bus to office the following morning, I want to make peace with myself, and not feel guilty about not dedicating enough time to that one hobby I have pursued the longest so far- writing. In the meantime, the car hunt still continues. Car hunting has put so many ideas in my head, I must document them somewhere. Sometime, I promise.

Anyway, time to shut that bedside lamp off- good night.

sunshine

On Distended Bladders

Nothing feels more painful than bearing the pressure of a distended bladder. All the wrong things happen then, the bus ride gets bumpy, people elbow you accidentally, and passing by the lake watching the water takes forever, further aggravating matters. It takes a lot of will power, muscle power, and clenching power.

Nothing feels more blissful than letting go of the distended bladder. It is like piercing a pin through a balloon and watching it deflate slowly. The relief, the ecstasy, the letting go of clenched muscles while listening to your heartbeat- I am convinced that the involuntary moan sounds more authentic than an orgasmic one.

Just my 2 cents on the pangs of distended bladders.

sunshine

And Today Is…..

08- 08- 08 And what is the big deal? Nothing really- just made this fascinating discovery while writing a check. 

And today is when I defended my master's thesis!

sunshine

Hey Baby !!!!

I was on the bus, as usual running short on time. As usual, tired after the days work. As usual, stressed and pissed off. As usual, frowning involuntarily, wondering how many work hours to put more before the people higher up in the hierarchy would be happy. I was holding a book, yet not really reading it.

And then I saw you. Not more than a feet tall, holding tight to your daddy’s chest, yet flailing your arms, fearless of the laws of gravitation. A mop of thick, curly hair over your face, huge almond eyes, pink lips, drooling happily.

And then you looked at me with those wide, innocent, almond eyes, as if the world never ceased to fascinate you. And then, you gave me your sweetest giggle. I don’t know if my frowning face seemed funny to you, but the moment I saw you, I smiled back. I spotted two tiny little teeth in the lower gum, the upper ones still without teeth. You giggled at me as if there was no sadness in the world, nothing to worry about, no one to bother you. You flailed your limbs happily, oblivious to anything else. That was the sweetest smile I had seen.

You made my day !

sunshine