Conversations with other women

This is a favorite movie of mine, but back to the post. My mother is in deep introspection. Our life-altering conversation went like this today:

Me: Why do you sound so serious? What were you doing?

Ma: I was introspecting!

(This will be interesting, I think to myself!)

Me: What were you introspecting about?

Ma: I was introspecting about you.

Me: What about me?

Ma: I was trying to understand if you are intelligent or "shorol" (not worldly-wise, a euphemism for boka or an idiot).

(This is getting really interesting now, I think to myself!)

Me: So what makes you think that I am intelligent?

Ma: Well, you are publishing papers, going places. So you must be doing something right in life.

Me: Fair enough. And what makes you think that I am boka?

Ma (very sheepishly): Well, many years ago, I bought an unripe watermelon by mistake that was all white instead of red inside. I did not want to throw it away, so your sister told you that white watermelons are really healthy and yummy and you ate all of it. 

Me: I think it says more about my sister and your lack of grocery skills than it says about me! Anyway, keep introspecting and let me know if you have an answer.

sunshine

The art of doing nothing

Grandma goes up the terrace twice a day for her walks. I do not accompany her at 6 am, but I try to accompany her at 6 pm. And while she walks and rotates her hands and her neck this way and that way, I do absolutely nothing. This time with grandma has taught me the art of doing nothing. Sometimes, I bring a book with me, but barely read it. Sometimes, I bring my camera to take a few pictures of the coconut trees, the sunset, or the high-rise buildings under construction. But most of the time, I do nothing. I lie down on my back and take a short nap or look at the sky and the airplanes. Sometimes, I bring a bowl full of kalojaam or black berries with me. And while I munch on them, I deliberately try spitting out the seeds from the terrace in a projectile motion to see how far each one can go. I look at what's in other people's rooftops. Someone is growing bitter gourds or pumpkin flowers while the others have hung clothes to dry. I try to spot the different landmarks of the city- The Howrah Bridge, the Salt Lake Stadium. I try to identify the different kinds of birds, although my knowledge about birds is restricted to the crows, sparrows, and pigeons alone. I hum a tune or two, or think of some research ideas that I could pursue. But mostly, as grandma is working out and sweating it out, I take great pleasure in sitting with her and doing absolutely nothing. Because doing nothing for an hour everyday actually frees up my mind later on to do much more.

sunshine

Nothing to lose

There are times in life when you take in a lot of garbage. And then comes a day when nothing really happens, but a small something tips you over. You realize that you have had it, and you are done taking in all the garbage. I think I reached that point recently.

It happened the same day I wrote my earlier post. I was walking back to my office, and the wind was strong. It was raining as well, and thankfully, I had my umbrella with me. I have very fond memories of this umbrella because I bought it on a rainy day during my trip to Europe. So it is a souvenir. Anyway. The wind was strong (Nebraska is infamous for that), and my umbrella kept turning the wrong way. There was no point in carrying it if I was getting wet anyway. So I tried to close it.

At that point, my finger got stuck in the umbrella, tearing a little bit of flesh and drawing a few drops of blood. I find the sight of blood very repulsive, and as I looked at my finger in horror, something in me flipped. Tears started rolling down my cheeks, mingling with the rain, as a bunch of school kids on an educational excursion walked by me. These were not tears of sadness or fear, these were tears of anger pent up for a while. The umbrella incident was totally random, but it invoked a strong sense of anger in me, because it was symbolic of the helpless situation I was in. And I realized, I don’t want to be helpless anymore. I don’t want to feel like a victim, because I have not done anything that should make me feel like a victim. I am done being in this toxic situation that I am in.

And suddenly, in my head, I heard my own voice. Screw you job! Screw you visa! Screw you insecurity. I don’t have to take this. I don’t have to live in a country where I am perennially afraid of the insecurities. I don’t want a colleague suggesting me ever again, even jokingly, that I should have tried hooking up with a citizen, like many people wanting to stay here do. I am done. I am so done with this life. It is no better than being made to feel like an outcast, being asked to sit separately, like the British did to the Indians pre-independence, or higher caste people did to lower caste people.

The epiphany of “screw you” perhaps came from self-worth, and gave me more strength than anything had given me in the last few months. I have a PhD (I am told that less than 1% people have a PhD, but in America or around the world, I do not know). I am in good health. I can speak in English. I can learn. I can relocate anywhere in the world. I can do math. I can think. I have the energy. I have the courage and determination to do what it takes. I can take risks. Most importantly, I am alive. Why am I forgetting all my blessings? Why am I constantly trying to fit in? When I moved to the US eight years ago, I had nothing. And I had nothing to lose. But now, what do I lose if I don’t find a job? Absolutely nothing. I just go somewhere else, and take my skills and ideas with me. I haven’t spent a single day for the last few years when I have not worried about a visa. No self-respecting academic should ever fear that. Because wherever I go next, I take my brains, and my ideas with me. I realized that a high school dropout is perhaps more fearless than I am, armed with fancy degrees and all.

This realization gave me a lot of strength. Often under duress, we tend to think that we are helpless. We are not. This will be my chance to reinvent myself, create my future, and start a new chapter in life. I am looking for a job, but I already have enough work to sustain me for a while. Then what am I so scared of?

When I get a job, this post will be shelved as one of those inspiring notes written during crisis. If I do not, these will become words that will dissipate into nothingness. In either case, I will have nothing to lose. And that thought that I have nothing to lose is empowering in itself.

sunshine

The Ides of March

A few months back, they selected my doctoral dissertation to be among the top three in the field. And last month, they told me that they do not have additional money to renew my contract.

The bipolar nature of academia baffles me. How could these two extreme things happen within a span of a few weeks, I cannot explain.

So I am back to looking for a job, a postdoctoral position to be more specific, not knowing what awaits me. It has been six weeks since that day, and I still haven’t found anything. But in these six weeks, numerous meltdowns and heartbreaking days of staring into the unknown later, I have had some profound realizations.

I have realized that I cannot control everything. That instead of resisting the waves, I can only learn to ride with them.

I have realized that the transition time between the end of something and the beginning of something else is the region of greatest possibility. I make the analogy using Lego blocks. Whenever something ends, anything, a relationship, a career, a job, a life, we lie like a pile of Lego blocks, broken, without direction, and feeling useless. But that is also the exact moment when we can recreate and redefine ourselves, mold ourselves into something new, create new possibilities, and become someone different. I think that if we were never broken, we would never get a chance to build ourselves again.

I have realized that the US is extremely unfriendly and unforgiving for people who require a job as well as a visa. Even when they have a PhD from the US.

I have started looking into my options in other countries, which I had not done before. The complacency of having a job in the US had stopped me from looking into my options elsewhere.

I have learned to reach out to other people. I don’t just wait for a job posting to show up. I proactively contact people, asking if they are looking to hire. Sure, nothing has come out of the effort so far, but failure is not the opposite of success. In fact, success and failure lie side by side, the opposite being not trying at all.

I have realized that people can ask to interview you, and you give a job talk with full gusto, only to be told that they do not have a position, but they will keep you in mind. What baffles me is, if they never had a position, why did they make me prepare a job talk and make a presentation in the first place? Human behavior is sometimes difficult to make sense of.

I have realized that there is more to me than what I do, my professional identity. When asked about who I am, I say that I am an educational researcher. However, there is much more to me than just being an educational researcher.

I have learned to be able to stare at the ending of something, and let go. If I do not find another job (with the visa in place) in the next few months, my stay in this country is history. I have been here for more than 7.5 years now, and to think that I might just have to leave everything I have and leave one fine day is heartbreaking. It is worse when you know that it was not your doing, and you cannot do anything to make the situation better. The feeling of paralysis that comes from helplessness is very difficult to come to terms. In fact these days, I notice in me a tendency to push doing certain things that bring gratification. The other day, my mom remarked that I need a haircut, and I told her that I want to save the occasion for the day when I find a job (equaling a hair cut with finding a job). I am seeing that the rice at home is beginning to get over, and a part of me is debating whether I should delay buying the big bag of rice until I find a job, because I don’t want to leave it unused if I have to go. The rice connection doesn’t even make sense to me, one needs to eat everyday, job or no job. Yet the prospect of spending for something makes me feel guilty, not knowing how much I might need to save for the rainy day.

I have realized that there will never be a dearth of work for me, even though there is a dearth of jobs. The number of papers I am involved in right now, it will take me at least a year to finish writing all those papers, job or no job.

I have started to notice myself as an observer, like I would observe someone else. Some days, I feel so lousy, it is hard for me to get up and get ready for work. Other days, I am naturally strong, telling myself that this is just a phase, and things will look better soon. I have better days when I feel stronger. But when I do not, the day drags on aimlessly, and inefficiency spirals, to make me feel even more lousy.

And of the many other realizations, I have also realized that I can look at the situation whatever way I want to. I can blame myself, my luck, or whatever. Or I can be kind to myself, and tell myself that it was not my fault. That come what may, I am in control of my life, and a certain external situation that was not created by me should not have the power to disorient me. Sure, I can choose to dance to the whims of fate, breaking a little bit every time the weather is rough. Or, I can choose to stay calm while the storm passes, because things will be better again. Is my pain greater than the collective pain of the world? I am looking for guarantees and securities in a world where airplanes disappear into thin air, and sturdy ships sink into the bottom of the ocean. Is my pain any greater than their pains? Or tomorrow if I was diagnosed with a terminal disease, will the job situation still bother me so much? It is all about perspective.

But most importantly, I just feel annoyed that anything should come in between me and my work. I dream of a day when I will be able to wake up and start working with enthusiasm, not having to worry about things like employment and visa.

sunshine

The Art of Giving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sunshine

I think I fucked up

            Those were the exact words I thought of as I hopped on to the elliptical at the gym today. I finally finished reading the book that I had bought quite some time ago, January 8^th, 2011 to be specific, but did not start reading until now. It is the personal account of someone, an ordinary human, ordinary like you and me, no superpowers or magic absolutely, who tours South America on his bike. You know, some books and movies and places and people connect with you, and some don’t. As I read chapter after chapter, at home, in my lab, sometimes at the gym, and even at Chipotle, I realized that it is not about him, his journey, his book, or his experiences anymore. At some point in time, without my realizing it, it had become everything about me, my life, and my aspirations. And I realized that I have fucked up. Really big time.

            When I was in my early twenties, I realized that I was getting inherently unhappy about the way my life was turning out. My family wanted to see me married to some “well settled” guy after college. Discussions about potential grooms at home made me feel the insecurity to my core. I was still in college, barely earning anything and dependent on my parents, and that made me panic. As much as we all love each other, I was unable to convey to them that this is not the life I wanted for myself.

            I wanted to see the world. Not on a dependent visa or using my husband’s money, but by myself.

            I realized that the only way I could achieve this was through education. I loved to study, I loved my books, I loved the subjects, but I was never really an academic. Never wrote the engineering or medical entrance exams, never prepared for CAT, no IITJEE, nothing. PhD was so not my thing. It was meant for the bright and brilliant, not me. However, I realized that if I wanted to get away, getting admission into a US university (with full funding) would be my passport and my visa to freedom. The problem was that I had absolutely no idea how to walk that path. No seniors, no role models, no one in the family, not even in college. Talking about mediocre background, it is as mediocre as it could get.

            Soon, I started networking with students who had made it. I started saving money from the tuitions I gave. I started secretly preparing for the GRE. I got myself a membership at the American Center. I did not tell anyone about it at home.

            Two years later when I made it, I told my dad the news, and he laughed out aloud. It had taken him a few days to get convinced that I was serious, and I was leaving. He said that he will not be able to fund my education. I told him that I had taken care of all of it. When he realized that I was serious and I was determined, he was upset. He tried convincing me into not going. He told me that if I wanted to see the US so badly, I could get married and travel with a partner. He did not realize that that was exactly the life I was running away from. It was not the lure of the US. It was the lure of freedom.

            When I left for the US, I promised myself certain things. And this book made me realize how I had not kept my promises.

            I had promised myself that I will never grow roots. Instead, I will grow wings. I will live and study and work in all the continents one by one, for five years max. That made it 30 years, 35 if you count Antarctica (I did not). In the US, I grew more disillusioned with the people around me, Indians who struggled to get work authorization and green cards. People who talked about the million dollar homes and the cars they drove. They complained about their children not speaking Bangla at home, or their parents not understanding why they could not move back. Their greatest dilemma in life was perhaps whether to buy a BMW or an Audi as a second car. I absolutely (with a capital A) did not want to end up like one of them. My education was my gateway to freedom.

            However I did not realize that with time, I became one of them.  The more I tried not to become like them, I became like them. I stopped growing wings. I started growing roots instead.

            The ease and predictability of life in the US grew on me. When I finished my masters in Seattle, I found a job there and promised myself that I will never move out of Seattle. When I lost my job, I reapplied for the PhD program in Seattle. They rejected me and I had to move, amid all the heartbreak. Thank God I learned to drive. It’s not that I did not have my moments. Unemployed and penniless, I lived in other people’s homes. But not once did I tell myself, “Screw you US, I am leaving.”

            I got into the PhD program a second time at the opposite coast now. It was my second chance in life. This time, I wanted to push myself, drive cross country (alone), spend time alone, and see this country. But a few weeks before that, a freak accident happened on the streets of Sicily and I tore a ligament on my left foot while backpacking Europe. I got scared. I shipped my car and took a flight. What I did not tell myself is, one does not even need the left leg to be able to drive an automatic car.

            Soon, I saved up enough money to be able to go backpacking again. I walked the streets of Lisbon, stayed at hostels in Paris, and dreamed of seeing more. I was happy being poor and living on free bread and seeing things that my family had never seen. However, I never told myself that I can give up what I have and move into a new country and start from scratch. I was just too afraid to let go.

            The US employment market has tested me once, and it is testing me again. Now that I am about to graduate in a few months and am looking for a job, I realize what a painful situation it is. I am ready to go work in small towns of Nebraska and Idaho and Tennessee (which I would hate I know), but never told myself that I have an option to bail out. Nothing has worked out for me yet, and it scares me. I am scared that I will not find a job in the US, and then I will have to start afresh. Whatever happened to that young girl who wanted to live and work in every continent. If I cannot get a job after my PhD here, screw you US, it’s your loss, not mine. I wonder why I haven’t said this aloud yet.

            As I look around me, I realize that over the years, I have amassed a lot of things I do not need. When I moved to Virginia, the first thing I did was buy myself a $600 bed (which is sinfully splurging by student standards). During my unemployment, I had slept on sleeping bags and other people’s homes, and now I wanted to assure myself that it is all fine. As a result every time I think of moving again, I wonder how can I move my bed with me, since I spent so much money buying it (see how material possessions tie you down?). I bought furniture and other assorted stuff and now I don’t want to give it all up. I was even dreaming of buying a black BMW once I have worked for a few years and can afford it, for the only reason being that my adviser drives one. My silver sedan drives perfectly fine and we have gone places all over the country for four years. However, the bed and the furniture and the car are ways in which I was subconsciously developing roots here. I could have saved all this money and done another backpacking trip someplace new. But I did not. I started everything I wanted, and then left half-way. I wanted to learn to dance, and I started Salsa, but gave up after level 2. I wanted to learn Tango, but never did. I wanted to learn different languages so that I could travel, but only ended up learning rudimentary Tamil. When a friend of mine (an Indian who lives in the US) went on a work trip to China, he fell in love with the place, made friends, learned the language, and then after a few years, convinced his company into posting him there permanently. I have seen Indians fall in love with the US, but never seen Indians in the US fall in love with China.

Reading this book brought back the painful realization that I did not become who I had wanted to become.

            Somehow in between all this, I turned 31, and stopped taking chances, taking risks. The pressure for marriage grew exponentially, this time not from my family (my mother insists that married or single, I should be what keeps me happy), but from my friends and society. Of the most recent among hundreds of such stories, some friends are trying to hook me up with a Bengali guy who works at a nearby bank. A good friend of mine was telling me the other day how she knows someone who knows someone’s someone who was single until 40, and then she met someone and married him in 3 months, pronouncing that I still had hope. My close friends started to look at my single status as a disability, not a way of life I have consciously chosen because I have not found anyone who is like me, and I am not willing to compromise. I don’t think these friends mean bad. I just think that I am in wrong company.

            Anyway, I realize that I need some soul searching. I need to break free of this cycle. I need to uproot myself again and take on new challenges. Maybe I will go back to school again and study something I have always wanted to. Maybe I will start taking Tango lessons. Maybe I will start to see the world again, although I have no idea how, with the meager amount of savings I have. I feel sorry that at some point, I gave up on myself. I failed myself. Being accepted by others and the sense of security became more important to me. When I was younger and inexperienced, I had more hopes, more dreams, and more courage. I have no idea how I lost that person in me, or how to find her again.

sunshine

Trying new things

A few weeks back, I opened my eyes to the glorious sunshine one morning to exclaim, “Shit, I will be turning 27 this year!”. I scurried to the bathroom mirror for tell-tale signs of greying hair, wrinkles on my face, or even a receding hairline. But everything looked fine. However, I now felt that my life-wicker was waning while I did the same mundane stuff over and over again. Nothing was wrong in my life, not an extra pimple on the face, no degenerating hormones or dystrophic muscles. But the very thought of spending a life analyzing health impacts of metals on humans was depressing. So I decided to try something new, something exciting.

I’d heard that my university friends were performing a classical dance for the opening of a new South Indian temple and were looking for another dancer. I speak or understand no Tamil, but I found myself for the rehearsals, inwardly rolling on the floor laughing when I heard the lyrics (which I understood nothing of). Having danced to tapori songs all my life, a classical performance was not what I had expected. Nothing had prepared me for a chance to dance Bharat Natyam to the song “Margazhi Thingal” in a temple. Most people I know perform after years of classical dance training, and the little bit of dance I had picked up was due to my interest in Bollywood. Yet the choreographer had immense confidence in me, no matter how long I took just to get my tripatakas and ardhapatakas and the other mudras right. Not just was the song alien to me, there were parts in the song where there were no words at all, but the tei-yum-dat-ta’s and the Jatis. I do not know if ignorance gave me the courage to go classical the first time in front of an audience, but here I was with a mini jasmine garden on my head, kohl-laden eyes, my limbs painted resplendent red with the red highlighter as a substitute for aalta, my mind vacillating in between controlling the ticklish sensation and wondering how very dermotoxic the highlighter would be. When I sent pictures, my family back home thought that I had dressed up all classical and hired a photographer to take my pics just for kicks.

 

My group wanted to perform to another song. It was a far cry from the Bharat Natyam I was religiously practicing. It was full of hip jerks and ovary-dislocating pelvic thrusts. For the next few weeks, I danced to songs that I did not understand with friends whose language I did not speak. I made my own version of the song in my head, making strange words out of what I understood. Imagine the fun you have dancing to something you do not understand, especially when the dance moves looked like milking cows. Someone even told me that I looked “authentic South Indian,” whatever that meant. Again, it wasn’t an earth shattering, but I think I did well. I was also able to get out of the lethargy that prevents you from trying out something new, getting pally with a group of unknown people from different backgrounds, no matter how trivial or unimportant the act or the effort itself was. I danced to kumbida pona deivam and yammadi athadi.

That summer, I also registered for level 1 salsa classes with my roommate and her boyfriend and completed it. I tried my hand at some bowling, thanks to a classmate of mine from Pakistan. I went to a bull riding show in Tacoma last month, starting watching (and liking) South Park, and went for a dance audition for another group last week.

sunshine.