"Heights" Of Frustration.

I was looking at my school pictures, the ones that almost belonged to a different era. Once a year, we came to school prim and proper, looking our best and our shoes shining, when we would be queued up and a pot-bellied man from Sharda Studios would take our class pics. I noticed that in all these pictures, I always stood somewhere at the back, my smiling face making every effort to pop out somewhere in between other faces. Why was it that in every pic, I was either lurking at the back with my face barely visible, or crouched low on the ground in front of the others as if I did not matter?

I guess you get my drift of thoughts. I have always been among the top 3 tall girls in class. In college, I was actually in the top 2. And let me tell you that though many girls I know would gladly exchange their high-heeled shoes to get my height, being tall is not always that cool. Okay, now I don't have the gigantic height the “Susmitas” and the “Bipashas” can boast of, but I guess standing roughly 165 cm tall is not so bad in my part of the world. Or maybe it is.

In school, I never belonged to the group of elite or petite girls who acted all coy while the boys dreamed of them and wooed them. Till middle school, most boys in my class were shorter than me, barring the ones who took gymnastic lessons or older boys who failed and repeated classes. I guess most guys considered me "one of them", since they never showed any interest in me except when pairing up for science quizzes. 

Being tall ensured that I was always pushed to the hinterlands of the group because it is the privileged short girls who were allowed to stand at the center. In most pics, my head would be popping out of nowhere or I'd be sitting on my knees with a dozen hands making a V behind my head. While working in labs, I would help get the reagent bottles off the top shelves, put them back again, and climbed stools if need be. If you had a fantasy for dating tall men, almost 70% of the men you met would be eliminated off your list immediately, unless you were in Scandinavia.

I am not just tall, but large-footed too. Until puberty, and sometime even after that, I outgrew my shoes every six months. Bata soon stopped stocking my size of footwear. Even today, barring flip slops and running shoes, most shoes for girls do not fit me. Nor does all those tank tops and tube tops marked S, M, or even L. Anyone could mistake my feet for a man's feet, sans the hair. My palms are larger than most girls', and no amount of manicure or nail polish would make them look pretty.

I wore my dad's shoes and tee-shirts through most of my teens (also because those hormonal changes were making me go through some identity crises). I am the tallest woman in my family, and nothing they buy for themselves (except saris) fits me. Three more inches, and I'd be my dad's height.

Things weren't this way always. But when in my teens, my mom bought me a skipping rope, and I had to jump everyday. Jump, jump, jump, and soon, I was growing by inches every month. There is a "Wall of Fame" at home where everyone's height is marked and dates every few months. Dad would hold a scale by my head and note down my height with a pencil. 

I have heard weird questions like, “Don't you find the ground far away when you look down?” Or, “How will you find a Bengali guy?”, and “Did you ever plan to join the armed forces?” 

How can I forget my misery during dancing/cultural events when I would always have to dress and act the part of a boy? While the shorter girls would look pretty in their frilly frocks and lipstick and rouge, I was always wearing shirts and trousers and ties in dance events. While the girls wore colorful sarees as they danced to Marathi songs, I tried to look happy in my dhoti and gamcha on my head. The taller ones were always paired as men with the shorter ones, and soon, I gave up participating in dance events just because I was tired of dressing and dancing and acting like a guy. I was tired of the black painted mustaches and beards. I wanted to dance wearing flowers and garlands and lipstick.

Of course I always got the upper berth in trains. And got to lead my group in the Independence Day parades, holding the flag. I got to be the confidante of guys in school who considered me closer to them than the other girls. All said and done, I'd rather be tall than short. 

Things changed when I moved to the US. Suddenly, most people were taller than I am. No more did I stand in a class group photo as the tallest girl. There have been times when I've stared at a girl a little longer than necessary, trying to debate if she was 5'10” or more. And the last time I went to buy a pair of track pants, no more did I have to grope for the XXL, XL, or L. The M fitted me fine, and with a little bit of effort, who knows, I might even be able to go for the S. 

No matter what, frilly frocks or no frocks, high-heeled shoes or no shoes, petite looks or no looks, and tall boy friends or no boy friends, I am proud to be who I am. I am not sure I would feel the same way though if I was born as Rani Mukherjee.

sunshine.

I Am Her Fan Now.

Autobiography Of A Fan.

Rejection always hurts, whatever be the reason. In fact, it gets worse when you do not know the reason. I would never know why my past owners rejected me. I mean, I must have been brand new and spic and span once upon a time. But my owners dumped me in the parking lot of Costco. It could be that it was winter, and they no longer needed my services. It could be that they found a better replacement, someone who did less acrobatics and gave better return on investment. Whatever be it, I was extremely hurt, lying cold and dejected on the streets in winter for God knows how many days.

And then she found me. sunshine found me. Not that she was willing to haul me on her shoulders and carry me home. You see, I am quite tall and heavy. In fact, it was sunshine's friend G who spotted me first. I heard her ask sunshine if she wanted a fan. She didn't look very convinced at first. You see, she was new to the country and didn't know the ways here. She didn't really appreciate picking up stuff from the roadside and carrying them home. Little did she know that expensive stuff like sofas, printers, and bikes find themselves on the streets too, all in great conditions, just because their owners grew tired of having them. Luck could make one come across an array of discarded stuff, from shoes to table lamps to desks and chairs.

And then I heard G explain her that she was a student and it was okay to take something someone had left on the streets if it was still in usable condition. She had been embarrassed at first. It felt cheap, picking up stuff from the streets like rag pickers. Seems she didn't know the adage about Rome and Romans. She didn't know if she would need me in a cold country like this. Well, she hadn't yet seen the summers yet, had she? I also heard her asking how she could haul me all the way to her place. I guess she didn't like the way I looked. Or may be she didn't want to clutter her room.

Much to my delight, I soon found myself being hauled into the trunk of the SUV and being carried away from the parking lot. How glad I was at the prospect of finding a home. But then, she didn't really think she needed me. She adopted me more because she didn't want to argue with her friend. Who knows, she would soon discard me, and I would find myself lonely on the streets again.

She didn't send me away at first. For months, I stood in a corner of her room in the hinterlands of her closet where I could not be seen by anyone. Every time she opened the closet and then could not shut it back because my legs would come in between, I would hear her swear to herself. Perhaps I occupied a lot of space. Nevertheless, I was happy to be home.

And then one fine morning, she decided to clean her room and get rid of the junk. I knew my time in this house had come and gone. Soon I would be on the streets again, cold and lonely and depressed. I already saw a lot of things find their way into her trash can. And then it was my turn. She opened the closet and scanned me for a while. She frowned and I wondered if she was making up her mind. And then she pulled me out of the closet. I was so happy to see the sun again. And then, out of nowhere, my prayers were answered. She was soon on her haunches, oiling me and cleaning me and fixing up my parts and screwing me tight (not literally so). At least she was willing to give me a chance and see if I could be of use. I heard her mutter under her breath how bad she was with gadgets and machines. Well, she wasn't stupid, just slow and awkward. She scanned my parts and soon, she was pressing the right buttons.

It felt so good to be of use after months. There is a different kind of satisfaction when you are of use to people. I knew that she had changed her mind about throwing me away. She placed me in a corner of her room. Ever since, we have been great buddies.

I've seen her groping for me the moment she would come home. Winter is almost gone and I guess she feels stuffy in her room. I watch her sleep comfortably at night while I worked. And I watch her while she works. I watch her while she studies and does homework, happy to be of use. I watch her while she crouches on the floor and writes blog posts. I loved to see the enthusiasm on her face when she blogs. I loved to read what she writes. 

And then one day, I saw her writing about me. I saw myself being mentioned in her blogs. I read about myself and people read about me.

Ever since, I've been her fan. All puns intended.

A Fan.

(sunshine).

And You Thought I Couldn't Make Decent Omelets?

I have been mad at myself. Today, I burnt my lunch. I could not even make a decent omelet for myself. Girls my age are making babies and managing homes. And I was incapable of even taking care of myself. I have been swamped and stressed with work the last few days. So I was not really paying attention to the omelets. That's my excuse. But failures have a way of letting me feel low.

I am useless. I can't cook myself a decent meal. What is the use of so much of education, so much wisdom if I could not fry a simple omelet?

But then, as a desperate measure, I had to see the humor in the situation. Okay, so I could still not prepare a decent meal. Granted. But then, I could do so many things that many others who cooked well could not. 23 years of student life has taught me some of the things I would never ever need in daily life. And there lies the humor, even in such a grim situation.

1. I can stain slides. What more, I can distinguish between almost any basic slide. For the uninitiated, a slide is the preparation of a tissue section of any or many organs of the body, and these do not resemble the original organ in any way. I can easily tell a liver slide from that of pancreas, and I know which is a kidney slide, a spleen slide, a skin slide, an intestine slide, a stomach slide, a lung slide, or slides of the male and female reproductive organs.
   So what if I cannot fry an omelet?
2. Three years of undergrad has ensured that I can identify a wide variety of bones. I can distinguish between leg bones and hand bones. I know which is a thigh bone and which is the bone of the lower leg. I can distinguish the types of vertebrae bones (bones of the spinal cord). I can identify the bones of a bird from that of a snake, fish, or even a rat. I know why a certain bone is the bone of the forelimb and not the hindlimb. I can identify the skulls of the above mentioned animals. What more, there was a time I could name and number all the 206 bones of the human body.
   So what if I burnt my omelet?
3. I have dissected some of the weirdest of systems. I can show you almost any systems of a fish, including their cranial nerves and the pituitary in their brain. The same goes for cockroaches, rats, and snails. I can show you the 7 distinct mouth parts of the cockroach. I can show you how the nerves originate from it's brains. And you thought cockroaches didn't have brains. There was a time I was so obsessed with them that immediately after I killed a cockroach at home, I would see if it was a male or a female cockroach.
   So what if I cannot fry an omelet?
4. There was a time I knew the periodic table by heart. I could assign every element to its correct group, not to mention the fact that I knew the symbol of every element. And that was when there were more than 106 elements, divided into 7 groups, most groups with sub-groups A and B.
   And you thought I was good for nothing?
5. There was a time I knew all the zip codes of Calcutta by heart. You could give me any zip code and I could locate the place for you.
   And you thought I couldn't even fry onions properly?
6. Ever done a blood test? I could easily do a bleeding time, clotting time, and cell count for you. Provided I didn't faint at the site of blood. I could tell you how they measure your blood pressure, and the fact that when you think they are looking at that instrument in your arms (it's called a sphygmomanometer by the way), they are actually listening to the sounds made by blood flowing in your arteries.
   What's the big deal about cooking?
7. I can efficiently make proteins. How? I can take minute amounts of proteins from your body, insert it into bacteria, and make million times the copy of your proteins that way by letting the bacteria reproduce and double your protein every 20 minutes. Then I can isolate the protein from the bacteria, and purify it for you. Cool, huh?
   And you thought I was a misfit in the household lab we call a kitchen?

Well, there are hundreds of such things I can do. No, I don't mean to sound boastful. Just that if I could do all that, I might as well learn to successfully handle something as logical, mathematical, and artful as cooking. 

I know I'll master it someday.

Oh, I feel so good about myself at last !

sunshine.

Little Joys In Life.

It was one of those bad mornings for me. Not just the morning, but the entire week had been bad. Projects, submissions, tests, misunderstandings, lethargy, you just name it. It seemed everything bad was jam-packed into this one week. One more day for the weekend, and I was already dog-tired. The last few nights had been bad. I had weird dreams. I had nightmares of pain and death and suffering. In one of them, I even saw that I was back in India and I did not have a job. I had woken up in cold sweat.

I had an early morning class at 8:30 am, when it is still dark. Last night, I fell asleep studying, the lights still on. The first thing I noticed when I woke up were the unwashed dishes from last night's dinner.

I hate doing the dishes, especially because that is what I have to do first thing in the morning. Grumpily, I brushed and put on some milk to heat for breakfast. Irritable and grumpy, I stood in the coldness of the wintry mornings in my shorts and somewhat crumpled tee shirt, scratching my head in confusion as I looked at the unwashed dishes in the sink and frowned. I was in a sour mood. I felt like being one of the lowest life forms on planet Earth. Washing dishes early in the morning did not make me. There was something about this morning I so very hated. Why? Why me? 

Grumpily, I opened the tap for warm water, wet the sponge, and started to hastily pour out a generous amount of the dish cleaning liquid. And then, I happened to look up and out of the kitchen window outside. And I stood there transfixed and in awe. How had I not noticed this earlier? This was my fifth month running in this house. Why did I not notice it before? I released my breath when I realized that I was involuntarily holding it.

For there before me stood the mighty and the beautiful Mount Rainier in all its pristine beauty. Never once did I realize that one of the most beautiful mountains could be seen right out of my kitchen window, when I was doing something like washing dishes.

The dishes and the class was soon forgotten. The early morning sun was casting a golden hue on the mountain. It was an unusually clear morning, unlike the usual cloudy/rainy ones. I washed and dried my hands (dishes be darned), scampered back to my room to get my camera, and here it is, the view.

The beauty I captured on the camera is nothing compared to what I saw. Sometimes, everything in life seems to be going wrong. And then, it takes just a little, just a sight out of the kitchen window you have never noticed before, to realize what joy the little things in life could bring. 

After that, I hummed a sweet note all the way while cleaning up the rest of the dishes.

sunshine.

Snow Is Not Fun.

Deceptive are the ways of Bollywood movies. Flimsy chiffon saree clad women dancing in the snow made snow look like a lot of fun. Love birds throwing snow balls at each other. It's winter here, and it's already snowing. I have never seen snow outside movies. And this sub-zero temperature is not really making it a very pleasant experience. Have you ever touched your face on a cold night to suddenly realize that you can't feel your nose? You move your fingers down to your lips, your cheeks, and you cannot feel them either. Trust me, it is not a very good feeling. I hate winters. This is the first time that I'm experiencing such extreme winters, and I am not happy. 

1. It snows here, a light rain of flakes for a couple of hours, and I keep praying- snow more, snow more. Yet it never snows enough to shut down school. No matter how cold it is, I have to go to school every morning. And you know how it feels walking in the snow? Try jutting your face inside the freezer (where you store meat and make ice). That is exactly what it feels like when you walk in the snow.
2. The tank tops, strapped tops, even the colorful sleeved tops and tee shirts and the open sandals and chappals are gone. It's been weeks since I've shown anything more than my eyes and my nose. Sometimes I wear so many layers of clothes and am bent down with weight (if not with age) that I wonder if I'll ever recognize myself in the mirror.
3. You don't really fancy attending 8:30 am classes three days a week. I have to burn the midnight oil at the library doing reference work, poring over books and journals. It usually gets late, and then, it's a nightmare walking up to the bus stop.
4. How would you feel if you thought that while you are walking, some weird force of nature is getting your clothes damp and wet (It rains nine months of the year here)? No matter how many layers of clothes you wear, you always have a feeling that your clothes are soaking damp.
5. I don't see faces on the streets anymore. All I can see are eyes and the nose.
6. These are winters minus the steaming hot coffee, pakoras, and khichuri mom made while you spent a lazy evening reading a book. Now, even if I need a glass of water, I have to fetch it myself. 
7. Do you know how many times I've tripped and slipped while walking in the snow? It's damp, it's slippery, and it's not that simple.
8. You wait for the bus on a cold night when you see a couple approaching, holding hands and kissing and talking in each other's ears, totally oblivious to the cold. And there you keep waiting for the bus, thinking, "I wish!". 
9. Cold or no cold, exams don't wait for anyone. Sun or no sun, I have to study, no matter how sleepy this weather makes me and how I long to get inside the blanket reading a novel. 
10. Taking a shower, cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, washing hands before eating, or anything that involves water becomes a painful chore. You try to remain as far from water as you can. You kinda become hydrophobic.

11. It's too much to go out and socialize with friends.
12. Most of your money is gone either buying winter clothes, or medicines for cold, cough, and fever. Not to mention the frozen fingers threatening to become gangrene infested, dry cheeks, and chapped lips.
13. No matter how much you love the butter pecan ice creams and the pina colada yogurt, you can't eat them anymore.
14. Every time you hit the chair, the car seat, or even the shit pot, you get microvolts of pulsating electricity passing through your frozen skin.
15. Gym and working out? Forget it if that requires going out in the cold. You are so sluggish, you sleep and eat all day at home, put on weight, and then the next year you get even more bankrupt spending more money getting bigger clothes. Not to mention how you want to die when you see a well-toned person running in the cold.
    Well, what to say, sunshine needs sun, and most of the time there is no sun. A few hours more, and I'd reach the North Pole. Whatever little sunshine you have barely touches your skin; it's colorless and frozen most of the time.
    Snow looks good only in on National Geographic and in movies. In real life, it is a pain.

Pic taken from my apartment window. 

sunshine.

Fighting For That Last Drop.

It was late by the time I got back from the lab. The cell cultures that I was transforming had somehow taken a lot of time and I had to grab a bite before I headed for the library. As usual, I had missed lunch. Not having a lot of time to cook, yet hungry enough to eat an elephant (and reluctant to eat out), I decided that it would be the best to rip open one of those packs of “ready to eats”, warm it, and gulp it with some toast and juice. I made a horizontal slit along the whole length of the silver packet and poured the entire contents into a bowl. I pressed as hard as I could with my fingers without making a mess. This done, I grabbed a bottle of drinking water nearby and poured just a few drops into the pack. I held together the sides of the packet and swirled it to clean the inner walls, making sure that nothing oozed out. Finally, I emptied whatever remained of the packet right into the bowl.

Wait, the last step was not written in the directions. Not that it was a childhood habit. It's just been three months since I have actually started to cook or warm food for myself. Where did I pick this habit then?

I thought hard. And then suddenly, I knew. I remember mom would do the same with the milk packets back at home. I had often seen her adding a few drops of water to the milk packets and swirl it, finally to add the last drops of water-milk mixture into the heating vessel. 

I thought hard about this habit of mine. Did everyone do it? Why was it that I refused to let go of the last bits of food? This wasn't wastage. Would I have done it had there been guests around? Why was it that after using almost 99% of the contents, that 1% mattered so much? Come to think of it, it took me only a few seconds to get that 99% out. But it took me a lot of time and energy and effort to get that last 1% out.

And then I realized that it was not so new a habit at all. Consciously or subconsciously, I had done similar things in the past. Like these:

1. Rupturing my nails in the process of taking the last bit out of the toothpaste from the tube, and then making a slit with a razor and using up the remnants at least for the next one week.


2.Adding a little water to the ready-to-eat packets to get the last of the gravy out.

3. Licking off the inside walls of the Tastemaker in Maggi with fingers.
.
4. As a kid, I used to lick off the salt from the potato chips packets. I still do when no one is looking. 

5. Licking off the chocolate from the wrapper while the actual chocolate is still in my hands.

6. Adding a little water to that shampoo bottle for that last rinse when the contents are gonna be over.

.
7. Pouring juice or milk from cartons till the last drop, and then looking inside the carton to check if there is more, and finally keeping the carton upturned till the last few drops were gone.

8. Scraping off the last remnants of dried up kheer or custard from the aluminum vessel. It tastes better than the actual kheer. 
9. Using the pencil till it is too small to be gripped.
10. Eating the last grain of rice, the last thread of noodles, or the last onions from the chilly chicken gravy at a restaurant, carefully manipulating the cutlery while making sure that no one is looking.
11. Tapping off the last bits of powdery stuff from the sachets of health drink powders or powdered soups and cans of spices and salt.

12. Using the soap till it is too thin to be held, and then trying to stick it with a new bar of soap so that nothing was wasted (The cycle is repeated for subsequent bars of soaps).
.
13. Using the moist tissue paper to wipe off the face, throat, neck, and then use whatever moisture remains for the hands and legs. 
14. Making the best of spoons to get the last bits from that bottle of jam or butter, that can of soup, that cup of yogurt, or that bottle of ginger garlic paste.

15. Poising the can of condensed milk right over your tongue till the last drops are out.

16. Drinking green coconut water (or Frooti) out of a straw till nothing but air was being drawn in. Then looking inside to see if there is any flesh remaining and scraping off the last remnants of coconut using the knife (I used to get frequent finger grazes doing this).

17. Wondering if anything could be added to that moisturizing lotion bottle to be able to use the last drops of the lotion that sticks to the bottle (that is of course after you have spent quite some time poking your index finger into the bottle and getting out whatever lotion you could).
18. Wondering after the lab experiment if the latex gloves, the Eppendorf tube tips, the petridishes, and the disposable pipettes could have been used again.

19. Saving all the polythene packets, shoe boxes, paper bags, and pet jars carefully under the bed to be reused (even if that meant accumulating more junk).

20. Swiping out the last remnants of the chocolate cake icing from the paper napkin.
    .
    sunshine.

A Sense Of Belonging.

One of the many scary things about the new city is how I'd lose my way every now and then. When I arrived here, I was given a set of maps of all dimensions and sizes from the department. There were a couple of campus maps, departmental maps, and city maps as well. Yet I hardly realized their utility till I started to venture out on my own. The first day I was to make it to the orientation, I had taken directions to the department by someone. Yet the moment I stepped out of home, I was lost. I have a strange liaison with ill fate. If there is one right answer among a couple of wrong ones, I usually pick up all the wrong options first. It was a wintry morning and the moment I stepped out of home, I was supposed to decide whether to take a right, or a left, or to walk straight. I had confidently taken the left. When I realized after some futile minutes of walking that this was perhaps not the way, I had come back to where I had started, and then taken the straight road. Well, I had finally made it to the orientation a couple of minutes late, having finally taken the right one.

What's the big deal? You can always ask people.

That's what I thought initially. But this doesn't work in the US. There are no pan shops where you can ask for directions. There are no roadside shops or tea stalls where you can ask for help. There are no rickshaw pullers who will take you to the correct address. And people do not ask others for directions. They carry their own maps. Needless to say, they know how to read maps as well. That was not the case with me. Not initially at least. I had no idea how to read maps. Here, people drive from one corner of the country to another taking directions on the internet. And usually there are maps at all the major bus stops so that you can figure out where you are.

Yet I needn't even have ventured out to the city to have been lost. My campus was good enough. So huge is the campus that for weeks, I used to get lost on my way to the department. It was embarrassing asking people, since no one asks for help. They read maps and find their own way. Even when I finally started to read maps, one would see me all disoriented, a map in my left hand, me scratching my chin with my right hand, looking this way and that way. If I had to go to the right, chances were high that I would take the left. That is how I survived the first few weeks.

Then, I started to get to know the campus better. I made a note of all the bus routes that would run from my home to the department. It was embarrassing asking the bus driver every time if that particular bus would cross my department. On umpteenth occasions have I got late for class, having taken the wrong bus and realizing only a little too late. On umpteen occasions have I been lost in the maze that my department is, unable to figure out the alleys, the wings, and the corridors. Honestly, I felt so lost here. I know Calcutta so well that I would give others directions. And here early in the mornings, I would freeze in the cold, huffing and puffing, trying to figure out my way.

Eventually I managed to do fine. Eventually I managed to read maps and get on the correct bus routes. So here I was waiting for the bus one fine morning, exhaling hard intentionally to see the whiffs of water vapor go up when I saw a lady looking a little lost. She looked to the right, and then to the left, and then got pensive. She seemed a little lost, as if she was trying to figure her way out. She looked at me. I smiled. My eyebrows arched.

You need some help ma'am?, I blurted in my recently acquired American accent, only to realize a little late that I myself was unfamiliar with the city and could do with some help myself. 

Well, I am trying to figure out my way to the Downtown, she said.

Oh well, there is no direct bus for Downtown here. However, you can go straight, turn left, and keep walking till you reach the next bus stop, which is the "Khampus Porkway" (as they say "Campus Parkway" here). You can take 70, 71, 72, or 74 from there. They are quite frequent. Don't take 43, it'll take a long time before you reach there.

It seemed I said everything in a single breath, without realizing. The lady's face lit up, she smiled, thanked me, and went away. It is only then, standing alone in the bus stop, that I realized what I had just done.

I had just directed someone someplace.

I had just directed someone someplace in an unknown city.

And I had given the correct directions and the bus routes. The shortest one too.

Wow, having lost my way all this while, I had actually helped someone locate someplace in the city.

It was from that day that I developed a more intimate connection with the city. I started to notice the buildings and the roads a little better whenever I ventured out. And perhaps from that day, I subconsciously let go off my inhibitions and let the city welcome me.

I was no more a stranger here. I was now a part of it. I let a little bit of the city's soul reside in me. I felt a certain sense of belonging now.

It was not long before I figured out not just the correct roads to my campus, but the shortcuts, the trails, and the connectors that took me to my destination in a shorter time.

sunshine.

Strength And Strategy.

I don't think one can survive without the other. And for the third S, that is “success”, one needs to have both.

It takes a lot, and who would know it better than I do? It's strange how you see things around you, but barely notice them. And then one fine day, on a sudden moment of realization, things change.

I saw tall and mighty figures crumble to dust in the face of opposition. I saw strength boiling down to nothingness in testing times. I thought I would grit my teeth hard, and resist it. I thought with time, I would develop nerves of steel and endure it. I thought I would stand like that pillar of strength who bowed down to nothing. I thought that with time, I would become superhuman. I thought one became successful by standing proud and upright during crises.

I thought wrong.

And then, in one of the video clips, I saw the undersea creatures. I saw how successfully the sea anemones withstood the undersea currents by swaying and dancing with them and by not opposing them. I saw how they attached themselves to a strong surface and kept bending to and swaying with time.

That was strategy.

By standing tall and erect and inflexible, they would cause their nemesis. But by swaying with difficult times, they made sure that they withstood the harshest forms of inclemency.

Beautiful.

I saw the tall and the strong eventually bend or break just because they tried to be taller and stronger. And then I saw these little things adapt themselves and thus thrive successfully.

And then, I knew. I just knew.

That to be successful in whatever you do, it is not just enough to have a goal and oodles of strength. You have to have a strategy as well. The right strategy. And sometimes, rather than resisting force and breaking in the process, it is better to take life as it comes, and sway to the harshness of testing times. Instead of resisting and breaking up in the process, I'd rather sway and take life as it comes.

That will be my survival strategy henceforth.

Pic taken from here.

sunshine.

A Day To Write About.

This would perhaps be a long post, but bear with me. There are times when something happens, and it totally changes your perception of a place, or people around you. I am in such a state right now. It's barely been 12 hours since all this happened. But awake now, and still a little groggy from sedatives, it seems as if the entire morning happened eons ago.

In 12 hours, I had dealt with everything. Pain. Doctors. Cops. EKG. Injections. And much more. I woke up this morning with a deadly pain in my chest. It was strange, since I had eaten okay last night and got proper sleep too. Trying to ignore the pain, I focused on work. I had a couple of meetings, labs, papers to write, and everything else that would make you ignore your bodily discomfort. But my body made sure I did not. Even before I was out of bed, I knew it was serious. Every two minutes, I felt a sharp stab of pain right in the middle of my sternum that would last a few seconds. I tried breathing deep, I tried to get some fresh air, but the pain kept coming back like a cyclic rhythm. I felt that someone was stabbing me in the ribs every few minute.

My first step was to call up a few friends, who for some reason were not available on the phone. I called up someone, who immediately asked me to make an appointment at the campus medical center. Scared of doctors and shots, I thought that I would be okay in an hour or so, and there was no need to make an appointment. A few minutes later, I had keeled over in pain. 

I called up the clinic, and for the next 10 painful minutes of my life when I barely managed to keep my breathing okay, I explained to them my symptoms. I asked them if I could come over immediately.

I am sorry but you need to call the emergency first.

(I was recently told that anytime you face a crisis, see an accident, see fire, get attacked, get stuck inside a locked building, swallow something, anything, you dial three digits. Nine. One. One.)

The emergency? I couldn't believe it.

Yeah, we cannot risk anything happening to you on your way. We need the medic incident reports first. They need to get to your place first.

I was in a dilemma. I had never dialed those three digits before. Once you do, an entire team of ambulance, cops, and the fire department shows up at your doorstep in a minute. I had heard tales about their promptness. Today, I witnessed it.

Hello, there has been an emergency. Chest pains. This is my address.

20 seconds later, I heard the shrieks of the sirens. I did not even need to look out of the window. I had barely managed to open the door for them when four well built, uniformed men entered and asked if I had called. And then, a pair of strong hands inserted two tubes that connected to an oxygen cylinder into my nostrils. Another pair tied something strong on my left arm to check my blood pressure. The third pair was counting my pulse. And all this while, I was never even asked a single question.

When they thought that I was in a position to talk (I was always in a position to talk, just that they never let), they asked me about my discomfort symptoms and took copious notes. 10 minutes later, I was on my way to the clinic with S.

The clinic had some more actions in store. Temperature, blood pressure, and pulse (though these had already been done once earlier) later, I was asked for an EKG. An EKG? I thought an EKG was for elderly people who had massive cardiac arrests. I was told that an EKG would be done not because they thought I had a heart attack, but to make sure that everything was fine. So while I lay in the dimly lit room, small tubes attached with adhesives all over my chest, I felt graph sheets making graphs of my heartbeat. Thank God no one saw me that way. As expected, everything was fine with the EKG report.

Next, I was told to go get a blood test done for pylori infection. These are the bacteria that aggravate the digestive lining due to excess of acid secretion. I did not know this, they told me so. They always tell you what they are giving you and why are they doing that. Back in India, I remember going to the doctor for a simple fever when he would write some 3-4 medicines in a handwriting best read only by the pharmacist. I could never really understand if those squiggles were made intentionally so that no one understood them. I would later have to ask the pharmacist what medicines had to be taken when and how many times a day. Here, every instruction was labeled on the medicine vials. What more, you were told about everything that was being tested on you. I remember back in India I would ask my doctor what exactly was wrong with me, only to see an inscrutable "Why do you want to know? Are you the doctor or am I?" expression on his face. I had a right to know, and I could also distinguish my hepatocytes from my lymphocytes.

To cut a long story short, I was informed by a very patient doctor who wore braces on her teeth that the chest contained organs like the heart, lungs, the food pipe, and it could have been anything. An hour later, I was informed that it was an inflammation of the esophagus, which in layman's term meant that excess acid in my gut had caused inflammation of my food pipe in the chest area. Strangely, I was happy that someone took out the time to actually explain to me what was wrong with me. A needle was again pricked in my arm with utmost care, and when they were done, they nicely bandaged it up so as not to leave any evidence or mark (see pic). I was given a medicine to swallow that would act like a local anesthesia and numb my upper gut. Very interestingly, they actually explained to me that the medicine contained three different stuff, one of which would put me to sleep soon. I was given the medicines, visiting cards, and appointments to come back in a few days. Roughly four hours after I had entered the building complaining of pain, I walked out in the bright sun towards my department.

I had to inform the department that I was taking the rest of the day off and I would be working on my take home due this Friday from home.

Word had spread in the department about my illness and I was soon offered a chair and concerned looks as soon as I had reached there. My departmental secretary had already called the professor and rescheduled my take home to be handed over by Monday.

It was the finals week, and here I was sedated and ready to doze off. My department actually understood this and gave me the extra weekend to finish my exam.

This country never ceases to amaze me. As long as you are insured, being sick is nothing to be scared of. You get the best treatment. Every single symptom you complained of would be dutifully diagnosed. They would draw blood with utmost care. They would inform you about every medicine you take. You would walk out of the place more knowledgeable, and more aware of your body and your illness. The next time someone asked you what was written in the prescription, you wouldn't have that blank look on your face. People would even reschedule final exams. In India, you miss one single exam, and you repeat the entire year.

As I think about the day's experiences now, I can see every incident replaying in my mind. It was not nice to be in such pain for hours. But this incident has definitely made me understand this country a little better. I appreciate the way the doctors did everything meticulously, and followed protocol to make sure that things are fine. The way they explained to me the symptoms for every discomfort I had. The way my friend stayed with me like that silent support, giving her work a little less priority for the day. The way the professors showed concern, and other students emailed me ask if I was feeling better. Most importantly, I appreciate the flexibility in the education system where you are not penalized for things you have no control over.

In a nutshell, my perception about this country, the people here, and the way the system works has totally changed. With medication and sleep, I feel a lot better. Just that I wish I had taken note of how the machine made graphs based on the my thumping heart.

sunshine.

Sound Justification?

Sometimes, we get so caught up with the rigmaroles of mundane life that we fail to notice the simple things right under our nose. When was the last time you got the highest in marks in class? Was it last semester? When was the last time you wrote the best essay and won accolades for you ideas? Last month? When was the last time you went to a night club and danced away? Last weekend? When was the last time you were reminded of your megalomaniac future plans and how much you want to earn in life? Last night?

And when was the last time you actually stopped on your way to class to admire the beauty of the lake and the ducks paddling in the water? When was the last time you stopped in your tracks to see what the slight noise of something behind the trees was all about? When was the last time you stopped to admire the blue sky, the different colors of birds, or simply the variations in the shapes and sizes of the clouds in the sky? When was the last time that you actually got rid of the rain jacket and drenched yourself in the rain, uncaring if you will catch a cold or if you will be able to make it to the class on time? When was the time you chased a butterfly, a duck, or a squirrel?

I know it is not right to go to a class late. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and I was on my way to the class, heavy books in hand, concepts in my brain, and ambitious dreams in my eyes. And then, I sensed some movement near the tree trunk. I knew I should be ignoring it and make a move instead. And what did I do?

There are times like this when you don’t really feel guilty walking into a class late or cooking up some weird excuse to your friends for the delay. For more than what I have learnt sitting in the comfortable confines of closed walls, I have had my share of learning here.

-

sunshine.

Nature Did It.

They said it rains a lot here. So what? As if it doesn’t rain in India. That’s what I thought.

You had to be here to know what the rains here are like. And they say this year has broken the record of the past many years. Unlike India, it doesn’t pour. It keeps drizzling all day. This has been the case for the last few weeks.

I guess people don’t really notice the rains here. Back in India if this were the case, everyday would be declared a rainy day and people would never go out for work. Here, I am expected to attend classes from 8 am three days a week. Well, I don’t remember seeing daylight anywhere before 7 am here. What more, I don't even need to look out to know if it's raining. The constant sounds of the angry slaps on my windowpane says it all.

The weather is such that you wish everyday was a holiday. You wish you could delve deeper into your sleeping bag and the alarm clock wouldn’t ring at all. You wish there was mom making hot and comforting food. But in the morning, all I survive on are milk and cereals.

I know that I signed up for this life. But then, I saw a very beautiful sight today. Remember Indian weddings where the groom's car is decorated allover with flowers? I have no clue what happens in American weddings. But on my way to school, I actually stopped in the rains to take out my camera and click this.

Who decorated it? Nature did it. Don’t you think it looks amazing?

sunshine

Wisdom Strikes.

Earlier this evening, this is a moment captured from my room window where the moon shines bright in the faint glows of the sunlight-streaked sky.

It’s past midnight, and as I sit sleepless in my room, lonely and bereft of human company, with the only sounds coming from the music in my laptop, wisdom strikes.

I am turning into an insomniac. I know I must sleep, but I sit wide awake, unable to decide what to do. There have been a thousand different ideas puzzling me, confusing me. I know not what to do. Or perhaps, I do.

When insomnia hits, it’s better to sit with your books and study. You either end up learning your chapters, or you ultimately fall asleep.

This is my theory.

A brief hiatus before I rebound with more ideas, and more writings.

The first yawn is almost on its way. Eureka !!!

sunshine.

Look Hair, I'm Fine.

What happens when one fine morning, you open your mailbox and find an email where someone from the department you do not even know introduces herself and asks you out for coffee?

You feel good about it.

And what happens when you get another email from someone else from the department asking you out for lunch the following weekend?

You feel elated.

What happens when you get a few more of such emails with people asking you out for more coffee and lunches, people from the department whom you do not even know that well?

You tend to get suspicious.

Tracing back the origin and the reasons of the emails and then correlating it to what happened in your life that triggered those emails proved to be a task as difficult as solving murder mysteries in your mind while you read the detective novels.

It took the Sherlock Holmes in me a while to figure out what was happening.

A few weeks ago ….

When I moved to Seattle, I started losing a lot of hair. Every day, as I combed my hair, I found strands of hair everywhere. Despite the humidity and pollution in Calcutta, I hardly lost hair. I never applied curd and eggs on my head. I never made any effort to maintain my hair. Yet, nothing happened. Every time I went for the haircut, the hairdresser commented on the thick crop of hair I had.

And then, I moved to Seattle. I would be horrified to discover strands of hair in the shower everyday. I was unable to figure out a plausible explanation for this, since the weather suited me fine and I was eating and sleeping well. I was so excited in my initial few days here that I wasn’t even depressed or missing home. I was clueless about what was happening. I asked my friends if they faced the same problem and some of them admitted that they did. But they were mostly men. A young woman with a thick crop of hair and not suffering from any major illnesses or setbacks in life didn’t really fancy rubbing shoulders with such balding men.

So every morning, I looked into the mirror to see how much more of my forehead was showing. But beyond a point, I stopped worrying. I believed I was aggravating the hair loss problem more by worrying and losing sleep over it. Even at the current rate of hair loss, it would take me perhaps another 30 years before I had to think of a hair transplant. Soon, I forgot all about this and moved on.

But then, I met someone in my department who casually asked me if I got a new haircut. I told her that it was perhaps the loss of hair that made me look a little funny. The rest of the conversation from my side was more in jest. I told her how the US wasn’t treating my hair well, and that very soon, they would name me a bald eagle. I also told her that I couldn’t find a roommate and was living on my own (not that I had any issues with that, I was quite enjoying the space actually).

With some logic not quite clear to me, she put two and two together, and concluded that I am suffering from depression. She thought that the absence of social company in the form of roommates was adding to my depression.  Perhaps I wasn’t eating or sleeping properly. Perhaps I was missing home. And that’s why I was losing hair. I was perhaps on the verge of sinking into cause chronic depression. Some people who remained depressed often committed suicide or tried to harm themselves. Naturally, I was in desperate need for help, according to her of course.

This is how she interpreted the seemingly innocuous conversation of hair fall. So she immediately shot a group email to some of the older students, discussing my “situation” and telling them that I needed help. She feared that if left on my own, I’d end up with chronic depression. Maybe I needed some more time getting used to the place. Maybe I needed to hang around with people a little more.

I understood this after I read those emails the students wrote me. They told me how difficult the transition was, and how brave I was living away from home. My doubts were further confirmed when one day I accidentally bumped into one of them, and she admitted that an email was sent to many older students asking them to help me out. Everyone after that started asking me if I was fine, and if I needed help. So much for a joke that backfired on me!

Of course the person doesn’t know that I come from a place where competition is the way of life, starting right from primary school. Everything is a struggle. Even going to work on time, navigating the traffic is a struggle. People get used to standing in line and waiting for hours and still not have their work done. Buses get crowded, drivers swear, passengers grope or fistfight. And then there are floods and heat waves. Bomb blasts. Earthquakes.Political unrest. And people survive all that. People who write their exams better end up getting lesser marks than those whose mommies and daddies are influential. Answer papers get misplaced, never to be found again.

I myself have written the board exams with a fractured leg. I have qualified and interviewed at better universities, and was rejected solely because my university did not publish results on time. I have had my masters thesis copied word by word with the consent of the professor, because the person could not get her readings right. I have had my statement of purpose plagiarized too. And I have survived a lot worse than this. Yet, nothing depressed me.

And then, I come to the country I have always wanted to be in, and people assume that I am depressed. I am in love with Seattle. I love the weather, the people, the campus, the roads, the buses, and everything else. I no longer fear crowded buses or question my safety when I walk home from campus late at night. I am spoiled for choices. I have an assistantship, and I have health insurance for the first time in life. I am making new friends. Life couldn’t be better. Yet, someone thinks that I am depressed because I am losing a few strands of hair, and creates mayhem for me. Should I call this caring? Or a sign of being panic stricken? Perhaps these people haven’t seen what real struggle is.

Seriously, I am doing just fine. In fact, I am doing great in life. I just wish that my department would understand this.

sunshine.

Prick Me Baby One More Time.

I thought I should write about this before the pain somewhat eased. I am referring to the pain in my biceps. Words like injections and blood have always scared me. The sight of a tiger would perhaps not scare me as much as a sight of a syringe would. Only sheer mental strength prevents me from passing out every time I need a shot or a vaccination.  

My department thinks that international students are a depot of germs and diseases. Within a week of arriving here, I was handed a long list of vaccinations I was supposed to take at the department health clinic. Despite being immunized right from childhood, handing over all my previous health records, and being in the pink of health, I had to take more vaccines, including the TB test.

Suddenly images from the past vaccination and blood test experiences came flooding back. A clinic that smelled like chloroform and alcohol. Really ill patients. Babies crying. People with plasters and limb casts and wounds ready to be fomented. How I was dreading this. I remember when a friend was leaving the city and had asked me to help pack, they had accidentally slashed their hand while using the knife. Instead of being useful, I had fainted, and they were the ones sprinkling water on my face.

Being alone in a new country made the anticipation of pain and suffering worse. Doctors are liars. They always lie that injection shots feel like ant bites. Maybe I had excess bradykinin, the pain-causing factors in my body.

I was already half dead by the time I entered the immunization clinic. Full dead actually, half from all-day classes, and the other half from fear. What more, I had a meeting in the next 30 minutes, so I did not really have the time to sit back and cry. 

When I entered the clinic, I was a little taken aback by the ambience. There were no wailing babies or wounded patients. What amazed me even more was the fact that there was no stench of chloroform or blood. Okay, so this is how it is in America, I told myself. So health clinics here did not reek of suffering and death. Maybe the needles here did not pain that much either.

I was soon made to fill up a couple of forms and directed towards a semi-shielded cubicle. The lady attending me made me sit and asked me unusual questions. Was I allergic to things? Did I have anemia or a low blood pressure? Did I pass out at the sight of blood? Back in India, with the long queue waiting outside, nobody would actually bother to ask all this.

Soon a wicked idea popped up in my head. What if I scared her a bit, would she be a little more compassionate towards me? I made a very serious face and told her that I always passed out when I saw blood. And just when I was expecting the usual rebuff of being too old to feel pain or fear, she took me to one of the nearby beds and asked me to lie down. 

I saw some of the most amazing things that day. At every table, there were trays of candies and chocolates, and no two of them were the same. You could pick whatever you wanted, as many you liked. Like a child, I soon found my eyes raving at the sight of so many candies, undecided as to which one I should pick. When the lady asked me if I was scared, I told her that I was scared, so I preferred looking at the candy tray. She asked me how do I keep in touch with my family, and if it is very expensive to make phone calls or trips to India. And jut when I was starting to calculate my monthly phone bill, she pricked me hard.

Ouch…..

And we are through….

Oh, so soon?

Yeah. So how expensive is calling them up?

I was so engrossed looking at the candies and calculating figures in my head that the initial trauma of seeing someone approaching with a needle was gone. Later, no hairy guy rubbed my arm hard with a swab of Dettol-soaked cotton, making me sick with the smell of the antiseptic and the sight of that one drop of blood. The punctures were neatly sealed with band aids, making my arm looked like someone did patchwork.

For every vaccine that I got, I was given a handout of what I was vaccinated for and why. They made sure that no person was ignorant about why they were being vaccinated. And they gave me a complete handout for the dates when I’d have to go next. Very organized. I would even receive regular email updates whenever my vaccine dates were due.

Pricking me multiple times on the same arm hurt a lot. The Mantoux test was even more painful. But I don’t dread going there now. As long as I get to choose and take whatever candies I want to, I don’t really mind a little pricking here and there.

sunshine.

A Day When....

Everything went wrong. Well, almost everything.

I thought it would take me a long time to hate this place. But then, I got fever. Wednesday night, I came home with a slight temperature running. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought and gone back to doing the daily chores. Just that I soon found myself too tired to cook or study. I collapsed on the carpet.

I would have been that way had a friend not called. Something seemed wrong from my voice, and she insisted that I come over for dinner. She gave me a ride, cooked me dinner, gave me medicines, and offered her living room since I was too ill to get back home.

The next morning, I found myself feeling better. I waved her a goodbye and got back home. Since classes started a little late that day, I might have some time for a shower and a brunch.

The shower, I had. I still had some 40 minutes before classes started. I thought I’d rest a while, just lie down and listen to music so that I didn’t doze off.

And doze off, I did. When I woke up with a start and squinted at my wristwatch, I knew that the classes had just started about a minute back.

Shit !!!!

I couldn’t afford to miss classes because we had to make a small submission every week based on that day’s class. If you were absent, you couldn’t make the submission. No handouts were available online. I called up a friend to ask if she had reached class. She didn’t even pick up the phone.

Wearing my shoes and taking the keys with as little time as possible, I dashed for the door. From my home, I have to walk down a straight lane for a few minutes, and then wait for two signals to cross the road and then get to the bus stop. It’s like a “T” where I walk on the vertical line of the “T” to take the bus on the horizontal line. This means that even while I walk, I can see the buses running. 

And just when I thought I would cross the first signal and still make it on time, I saw the shuttle leaving. There was no way I could have done anything but helplessly see it go. This isn’t India where you wave at the bus from a distance and the bus stops in the middle of the road, never mind the honking cars behind. The next one was 15 minutes later.

It had been drizzling all morning. I made it to the bus stop fine. But Mr. Murphy had more drama in store. At least three different buses took me to the department from home. But none of them came. Other buses came and left. People at the bus stop came and left. And I just kept standing there. I had even forgotten my umbrella. Surely I looked like a drowned rat in trouble.

It is then that I felt the first few drops of tears trickle down my eyes. I wouldn’t have noticed it since it seamlessly mingled with the rain on my face. I will never forget that day when I kept hugging the wooden plank in the bus stop, waiting for the bus and weeping. I realized what it meant to be alone and a foreigner in a new country. 

Would I skip class and go home, and live with the burden of feeling like an irresponsible person because I had dozed off ?

I don’t know why but I kept waiting for the bus. The bus eventually came and I took it. By the time I reached my department, I was already 30 minutes late. The class was 50 minutes long, in one of those huge auditoriums where you entered from the front door and climbed the steps so that when you came in, everyone could see you. There was no escape from a back door. I was still debating if I should enter the auditorium. It felt humiliating.

I did. I must have been real desperate to make it that day. When I entered, I thought that a thousand eyes were on me, judging me. I wished I could turn into a whiff of smoke and merge into oblivion. But I did not. I crept in silently, wishing that people would not recognize me. This is one of those seminar classes that both the students and the faculty attend. 

And just when I’ve climbed a few steps and taken a vacant seat and settled in, I craned my neck to look to my left to see the Chair of our department and the head of this class look at me.

I wish that the ground had opened up and engulfed me. But nothing fortunate like that happened. 

I did attend the last leg of the lecture. But it is on that day that I realized how difficult life had become for me. Sometimes, you fail to appreciate your family and take everything for granted. You fight, you complain, you whine. I'm not saying that the role of my family is to be my alarm clock and my cook. I hated that my parents did not like me studying late at nights, objected to long phone conversations and frequent eating outs, and absolutely did not allow sleep overs. So I argued, rebelled, and left home. I realize that you need a family, not only to force you to do the right things at the right time, but also to give you that overall love and support that essentially forms the backbone of your well-being.

sunshine.