Shoeless in Seattle

When growing up, I never aspired for dainty feet and pretty shoes. I aspired to be a tall and well-built astronaut. The astronaut part never happened. And the rest of the dream turned into a nightmare. 

Take something as simple as shoe buying. I have friends who could vouch for how therapeutic it is, and how they could do it 5 days a week. Not me. It is a nightmare, as always. 

All I needed to buy were shoes. A pair of boots. A pair of formal shoes for the upcoming conference. And maybe, just maybe, a pair of sexy red shoes. I have a thing for red, you know!

Let's talk about the boots first. 80% of choices were eliminated right away because of heels. And 90% of the remaining, because I never get shoes my size. My feet are somewhere between 9 and 10. 9 is a tad too tight, and 10 is a tad too big. They anyway stop making shoes after size 10. The only 9.5s I saw were those that did not have a box, a price tag, a discount, a flat sole, or a second matching pair. Some of the boxes even said 9.5, but someone with a sense of humor had stuffed 7s in them. Even my hands would not fit into size 7. And then, some of them had weird designs, weird zips, and weird ornamentation not befitting my age or taste. Some that clung too tight for comfort, and some that did not want to commit totally and hung too loosely. 

All I wanted were three pairs of shoes. How complicated could that be? 

The boots happened after two hours of sole-searching and soul searching about why I am structurally built the way I am, boiling down my feasible choices to exactly two pairs. I scanned an entire shop, and found only two pairs that even made the cut. 

I never found the formal shoes. Not with my requirements of no heels, comfortable soles, pleasing color, and decent looks. I needed no lace or ornamentation. I think I will just wear jeans and my running shoes for the conference. I have seen so many people wear jeans at the conferences, although I haven't mustered enough courage to do that. Not yet. 

And the sexy pair of red shoes? Well, I realized that I was perhaps asking for too much. Maybe that could wait a couple of Seattle trips.

sunshine

Shoe-cially Incorrect Behavior

Woman from Craigslist shows up. I specifically remove my flip flops outside the door to send her a message.

Woman does not get message and walks in. I specifically stare at her shoes. She still does not get the message.

Suddenly, I feel that I am too tired to tell her something so obvious. So I try to finish our transaction as soon as possible.

What I should have done: Asked her politely to remove her shoes.

What I am doing: Fuming and regretting not telling her, long after she is gone and I vacuumed everywhere she walked. And then, whining some more and writing about it.

Regrets don't always come from telling people what you should not have. Often, they also come from not telling people what you should have.

sunshine

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).

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

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

Cut Above The Rest

I am going to be very wary the next time a person who doesn’t understand my language holds a pair of scissors and points at me. All I had asked for was a little trimming of the locks that had grown so long that it fell all over my face. Just a little bit of shaping up without compromising with the length of it. Instead, it resulted in a massive 6 inches plus loss of my long hair. It took me two long years to grow it, two years of maintaining and combing and shampooing and oiling. And in a moment, it was gone.

I looked at the floor with all the hair that had recently been snipped and sighed sadly. It didn’t strike me that while I pointed at my face, I asked for the front of the hair, ONLY the front of it to have short hair. The rest of it could still be long and flowing and going way past my shoulders as usual. Now, I felt vulnerable, with my neck bare and exposed. That was the look I had way back in college a long lifetime ago.

“It’s just hair and it will grow”- I agree with what you say. But do I want to wait 2 more years to look the same? I can’t tie it, can’t make a ponytail, and wearing traditional Indian clothes is going to be a concern. All for some random unknown woman who had power in her hands and without thinking or asking me again, went snip snip.

You look cute. You look young. You look like Kajol in KKHH. You can wear more jeans and sweatshirts now. You may not look feminine, but you look smart. You look like a little puppy. I really like your new hair. You should straighten it.

People always have their own opinions. Not that it makes the transition any easier. I am still working on getting used to my new look. Every morning I walk in front of the mirror still sleepy, my eyes open wide awake at the unfamiliar person staring back at me. I look at the Dandiya and Durga puja pictures from last year and sigh.

I think it is going to take me a while to start liking myself in the mirror again.

sunshine

Cold Treatment

March 4, 2009

I find most people’s behavior in the US to be exaggerated and  melodramatic to the extent that it almost becomes obnoxiously comical. Talk about how your stupid kitty gulped down a bunch of carpet fur and got sick, or about how the man you were dating ditched you, and women will grab their chest and make a contorted facial expression, almost sinking to the floor saying “Oooo I am sooo sorry”. I mean, what is there to be sorry about a fat stupid glutton kitty eating fur or about a screwed up man who decided not to waste your time? 

People will get melodramatic for things as trivial as you getting on the wrong bus or your morning alarm not going off. It is nyakamo in its own way- ask any Bengali if you don’t know the word, I couldn’t come up with an apt translation, ooo I am soooo sorry (clenching my chest). 

You must be wondering what pissed me all of a sudden about the mannerisms of people. The move and the weather took a toll on me, not to mention my office colleague who was suspiciously sneezing for a while, and I caught one of the nastiest cold I can remember ever since I came here. It started with a choked voice and relapsed to get back to full-fledged chest congestion, sneezing, and a terrible migraine. While it was still benign last week, I was making myself some tea in the office kitchen while I coughed. This alerted my colleague, who asked me if I was doing fine. Showing her the bunch of Kleenex tissues I was holding, I told her how I thought I might be coming down with cold. 

This woman immediately flung her hand in the air with all her melodrama, made a funny face (only she thought it was funny), and exclaimed- oooo stay away from me, I don’t want to catch it. 

In India, this would be considered condescending. You don’t want to show that you put your interest and well-being before the person who is ill, even if you feel that way. What I am used to hearing when coming with a cold is- ahaare bechaari, kheyal rakhish (poor thing, take care of yourself) and not something to the effect of what she said. I understand that it is infectious, yet the first thing I would get a cold, I would derive great comfort holding my mom’s hand and going to sleep. Here, people would put you in an isolation room, especially if you have just travelled and arrived from India. 

People think India is infested with lice and rats and mosquitoes and viruses. Some believe that there is an Asian version of every disease, which you get when you travel to or from Asia. Ever heard of Asian chicken pox or Asian dermatitis? It is ridiculous people should believe such diseases even exist. So I decided to stay home on sick leave and went back to office only when I was done with most part of the flu. I still made it a point to carry disposable Kleenex tissues and not the Indian-style handkerchief to blow my nose. I was weak, had a terrible headache, and didn’t look that good. Instead of applauding me for not staying home for something as trivial as a flu, the girls in office again started moving their limbs and contorting their faces in a way that it would seem they have been electrocuted. It’s not that I was rubbing shoulders with anyone. I quietly stayed in my room, occasionally going to the kitchen to grab some tea. People dropped by to see how I was doing, and when they saw me sniffle as if a toad was stuck in my nose, acted a false run as if a mad dog was released to bite them in their you-know-where. Ooo--- stay away from me, I don’t want to catch a cold and miss work. That is what they told me. Frustrated, I just continued to work. I hoped they would spare me the melodrama and leave me alone instead of making me feel I had some STD. I wondered which was it that caused me more headache, my flu, or the paranoid melodrama it caused. It seems people have no faith in immunity, or the healing power of the body. 

sunshine.

Morning Sickness

Brain-Hand Coordination-

Class registration menu

Go to list of courses

Select appropriate course

View course details

View class timing

8 AM- 3 days a week.

Hand stops. Brain function goes frantic.

8 AM? Who wakes up at 8 AM on a Monday morning to go to class? Do you know what 8 am classes mean?

No more shutting off the alarm and going back to sleep. Catching the bus at least by 7:30 AM, breakfast or no breakfast. Spending Sunday doing homework and going to sleep at 9 pm.

8 am, come rain, hail, storm, snow, sun, light, darkness, cold, or fog.

8 am means being done by 10 AM and not knowing what to do with the rest of the day. And coming back when people are just starting to go to school.

It means arranging for breakfast at night and probably going to sleep wearing the next day's clothes just to get those extra 10 minutes of much yearned sleep. It means not caring about dress, hair, or looks, and getting into the department still half dazed and yawning. 

It means finishing all the pre-assigned readings by Sunday night, and not waiting until Monday. Which also implies getting the class handouts printed way before Sunday (I currently print it Monday morning).

It means not being able to wave sleepily to my roommate anymore and wonder how lucky I am before going back to slumber?

8 AM? Even for exams? But who will wake me up? 

Seems it is gonna be a tough quarter. Three days a week of morning sickness for the first trimester. No puns intended.

sunshine