A Guest Post.

For a change, this is going to be a guest post from a dear friend. Don't ask me who. - Happy Reading. -

A season of forgotten memories

I was wondering... I was wondering about what i could share that had be truly worth it. From politics to poverty, anger to happiness, frustration to hope.. almost all emotions flashed across. And then I came across, the one thing I have always cherished but never been able to put into words. Its more of a talisman, more of a thing that one goes by.

I often look at this picture of my baba on this mantelpiece in my room and I wonder if he is up there looking at me, wondering if I had live up to his expectations, be able to somewhere make my own mark. I know that's the wrong thing, the wrong idea in my head, but I just can't help wonder. I wonder and I wonder, I wonder about what we would have had conversations about if he were alive, wonder about what he would say when he listened to my ideas, how he would bear the difference in ideologies. Its more of an ideological plank, that i am interested in. Its not so much of an emotional thing, the emotions in us are about ideologies and that makes us, us.

I remember having heard about him a lot of times, back in Iraq, from dad and mom. I remember because it must have been countless times because I was just four when we came back. I remember remembering their verbal references to a person “pitaji”, every time taken with a touch of reverence with head bowing slowly down. It just might be my bias, but that is how I remember it. When we came back to India, I remember a man in a hunter topi, all suited in a garb of a lawyer standing in the platform in Etawah and dozens and dozens of people had come to receive us, but my everlasting memory is of that one person who stood and smiled. Dad and mom bent and touched his feet, Sis did too and I did as well. It was I who got to be lifted up in his arms.

Now how does this person and his memories make it relevant to be so emotionally charged. Most of it is second hand. But this is how it goes.

Born in 1912 in Orai, he was eldest son of the second eldest son of a very well to do family. Now as it used to be, the eldest got to keep the ancestral property and the rest had to make their own, so he inherited next to nothing. Decently well off. Son of a religious man, my dad remembers him reciting Ramayan in Sanskrit by memory. Mother was the only daughter of the diwan of risayat of Gopalpur. At the age of three, a gang of outlaws put a sword on his neck and demanded all the gold, and his mother gave it all. So they were now decently poor. Sent to Allahabad to study law, he joined the krantikaaries and spent quite a lot of time there. Then came back to Etawah and was married in 1935. His wife died of tuberculosis in less than two years and then he vowed never to be poor. So now taking care of a family of more than 60 people, he worked from 5 in the morning to 12 in the night. My dadi defines it as puja. More about that later.

Engages in nothing more of that krantikaari activities, maybe he outgrew them or maybe he adjusted to the circumstances but then he became a gandhian. In 1941, he gets married to my grandmother. He had a “rolling” practice. That was the term used by so many of people who talked about his work. I once came upon his passbooks of Imperial bank of India (later State Bank of India), and he had balances of more than a lakh. He also became an Arya Samaji in this time. Became a bhakt of Swami Sharananandaji who was blind by birth, but is credited to have lived without food for months at a stretch and he once got puris fried in water (but those are very different stories).

Anyhow… so he converts to an arya samaji. The affect is profound… he has no bias for religion. When after partition , lots of Sindhi people move to Etawah, he helps them. How I got to know this is also a story. In 2000, I go alone to Etawah and give some clothes for dry cleaning and while taking the clothes back, I go along with our family help to the shop… the young man.. nearly my age takes the receipt and gives me the clothes. The old man sitting watching lovingly over his grandson asks me, how come I am there with pappu, and I tell him how I am the grandson of my grand dad. He asks his grandson to give back the money. He makes me sit there, calls for those mouth-watering lassis and talks to me about my grand dad and how much he remembers him still. I was shocked and amazed.

Then there was this time, when his younger brother, my dilli waale baba spoke about the number of inter-caste and inter-religion marriages that he had helped get done. All of them happened on the second floor of our house and dilli waale baba used to be brother to the brides.

So I guess, being a two time MLA on Socialist Party ticket and leaving voluntarily when Rajendra Prasad did so himself, the whole family going without food for two days during Lal Bahadur Shastri's call in 1966, taking up 7826 free cases during land ceiling act implementation. In 1990, an estimated 20000 people turned up for his funeral and kept coming till 3 months later. (They brought their own food and stayed in make shift tents)

If I ever wanted to be someone, emulate someone I would wanna be someone like him.His teachings were terse and simplistic. I remember only four of them which I got dressed in a dhoti-kurta, a 6 year old grandson sitting in baba's kothi next to him writing his A's and B's.

The first one was when he said, people should see the world, but live at home, near their roots and that is the one thing that showers “barraqqat” on the family. And this made me decide not to go to US.

The second one was about never calling on a lady unless indicated to do so. I must have missed 15-20 women who thought I was dumb when I did not respond to them despite the effort.

The third one was not about eating tomatoes. This was attributed to gall bladder stones and that since its a South American food, and does not suit Indians. So I tend to give tomatoes a miss in salads.

The fourth one was always eating curd after a long round of eating sweet food, either jalebis or mangoes. (Back in Etawah we eat jalebis by kilos and mangoes by dozen. My record for jalebis is 2.25 kilos and mangoes is 59 and bananas is 27 in a single sitting and that was when I was 12 years old) and I swallow curd at trhe end of food instead of eating it with food.

I wonder if these hold in these times, but all I remember about him are these things and his smile when he saw me walk up the stairs to deliver his paan and tea. And he had always make me sit next to him and ask for the kulfiwaalah to be called. All truth be told, I want to believe in his wisdom.

I was always referred to as baba's grandson, because I used to accompany him on his walks with my tiny hands folded behind my back, just like him till I got tired and was put on a rickshaw which followed him. He was a very warm fellow and since almost everyone has a nice incident related to him, I guess he must have been a pretty nice himself too.

I still see him looking at me and wondering if I will be able to do as he would wish me to. All I hope is that I would be able to do some justice.

Meet The (G)Host.

Every time I talk to my dear old grandma back home, she says something that makes me smile at her naivete. For her, the US is nothing more than a country where the so called “bhalo chele meye” (good children) go to make a career and return once in two years with chocolates, wearing weird clothes. She, much to my amusement, thinks that women in the US are exceptionally modern, wearing denims and speaking in English, no matter how old they are.

The last time I called her up (that was when I told her for perhaps the millionth time that I can hear her fine, she doesn't have to scream her lungs out just because I was calling from across the other end of the globe), she instructed me, rightfully with her age and wisdom- I don't want to see you turn out to be an American when I see you next.

After I hung up, I wondered for quite some time what she meant. May be she was referring to something on the lines of short clothes and changed (or utter lack of) mannerisms that maligned our so called rich culture. Was I turning out to be American at all? I was shocked to hear my inner voice tell me-

No, but may be, you are turning to be a South Indian.

What ! What did you say? A South Indian?

I'll introduce you to someone very close to me, someone I befriended in Seattle, who is now like family. My only family in this new country. G, the lady who hosted me during my initial days.

And almost turned me into a quasi-South Indian.

G is amazing. I had only corresponded with her via emails before I came here. I would never know why I was expecting a buxom lady with traditional looks, waist-length hair weighed down by chameli flowers, wearing a bright yellow Kanjeevaram saree and tons of jewelery. My first surprise (rather, shock) came on meeting a cool chick with the most un-traditional ways. Coming from a family where we usually dress up for visitors, I was a little uncomfortable to see a woman wearing shorts, and be cool about it. Okay, now that was months ago. 

Soon, I was to find out so many other qualities that only increased her coefficient of “coolness” in my eyes. We soon became good friends. She called me names and teased me of my “dehatiness” (rustic nature), getting used to the ways of the country. Her husband, a decent, God-fearing man with fearful, angry looks and a thick mustache, dutifully informed me that if I hung around with G, my home would soon look like a garage, shopping for stuff I'll never really need. She has turned me into a shopaholic. I'll soon be sleeping on the streets, not only due to lack of money, but also due to lack of space in my room.

And thus I was introduced to the world of a South Indian couple in the US. Soon, I learned to chomp on the dosas, idlis, rasam, sambar, some preparation she calls the South Indian reduction, tamarind rice, and the coconut chutneys with relish. The weekends at her place would mean listening to the incessant melodrama of South Indian television on her TV (something she spends quite a bit of money on), with buxom women in gaudy sarees stealing babies and thick-mustached men wearing half lungis and speaking a language I was light years away from understanding. The characters in these soaps speak a lot of accented English, especially when they are fighting over paternity issues and property rights. Every time I heard that man screaming Surryyyaaaaaaaaaaa Suryyaaaaaaaaaaa (as if this is the last time he is singing), I would be reminded of the Surya bulbs and Surya tubes. Soon I started to recognize the latest South Indian tunes, thanks to the fact that G subjects me to the torture of listening to Tamil songs every time she is driving. I would never know what these words meant, but they seem to be words out of popular songs- Vaaji Vaaji Shivaji (I thought it was Bhaaji Bhaaji), Unnale Unnale, Aambal Aambal (God knows what they meant, and why every word is repeated twice). My name was soon abbreviated to a more South Indianized one. Though I understand little Tamil, I soon learned that one had to say “Serri” and shake the head before keeping down the phone, and there were other words like Adi Paawi, Vyanda Vyanda, Rhomba Rhomba, and Kunjam Kunjam (again, the repetitive words).

Perhaps the rudest shock came to me when I started to witness these guys screaming at each other. Nothing serious, they do that every day. They call each other names which when translated mean pigs and buffaloes. And G tells me that this is their way of lovey-dovey conversation. Imagine my plight being the helpless girl hiding under the dining table when these guys scream at each other in a language I couldn't understand. Later, when I asked her- What were you guys fighting about?, she would coolly reply- Fighting? We were just talking to each other. The most difficult tasks around her husband include getting him in a picture frame, taking him to a mall, or making him smile. He could talk about work and cricket for hours, without even realizing that the ladies at the back seat of the car were snoring. And G could shop for hours, never really getting tired of sales and discounts and outlet malls. She once told me to accompany her to the Burlington Coat Factory to which I made the mistake of asking her innocuously if we needed to buy something from there. The menacing look she gave me after that (which when translated into words meant, silly girl, do we go shopping only when we need something?) was enough to give me the message. And yes, the silliest thing according to her that I have ever told her is the fact that pati is parmeshwar (the husband is God), and it is wrong to call him names that belong to the four-legged bovines and canines.

My next shock came when I was informed that her mom too is an avid reader of my blogs, and she had thus passed the link to the other members of the family. I was stumped, not knowing what to say. Soon, the amount of appreciation I got from the blog-readers in her family compensated for everything.

And thus started my first ever association with a South Indian family, their ways, their cuisine, their language, even the foul language, and the way they fought and screamed at each other. It is strange how we live in different corners of the world without even knowing who will next become an essential part of our life. So much so that the last time I was on the phone with mom, she remarked that I have developed a mild South Indian accent, and before hanging up she told me something to which I replied- Serri. She couldn't understand if I was asking for a Sari or a glass of Sherry.

And thus started my South Indianization in the US. My introduction to the world of kootus and kozambus, half-lungis and veshtis, mustached men, and women on TV who could better be punching each other at the WWF.

sunshine

In-Class-1.

A few words of advice for those the first time here from personal experiences of (or watching other people) goofing up. Forgive me if you already know these. Just that the subtle changes were so obvious to me.

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Education-

-1. Most of the profs are okay being addressed by their first names. Terrance becomes Terry, Thomas becomes Tom, and David becomes Dave. Imagine calling a 60 year old Prof. Jagnavalkya Sengupta “Jaggu”.

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2. There is no need to ask for permission when you enter a class, even when you are late. They do not ask you to hold your ears and stand facing the black board, even if you enter 10 minutes before the class ends.

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3. It is okay to eat and drink in class. People actually use this time for listening to class as well as having lunch, so that they save up on time. But it is recommended not to eat Indian food in class. The smell is distracting for people not familiar to this cuisine. And every time you are thirsty, there is no need to ask the professor if you can have water. Have water, lemonade, coffee, juice, wine whisky, nobody cares.

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4. It is okay to work on your laptop in class. No teacher would scream- “All students who had laptops hidden in your bag, make a line to the principal’s room”. As long as you do not make noise, nobody cares.

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5. It is okay to sleep in class. No one will ask you sarcastic questions like- “And what were you doing staying awake last night?”

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6. When you give some reason for not being able to complete an assignment on time, people trust you and understand your problem. Never be untruthful or take advantage of this. In fact if you cannot attend a particular class, it always makes sense to email the prof/TA beforehand.

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7. Every email you send is documented, and taken as a final word from you. Never ever write anything that can be used against you and get you in trouble. As a precautionary measure, it makes a lot of sense to save important emails where some kind of confirmation/decision has been reported
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8. Some professors dress formally for class, wearing a tie, while some professors come to class in denims, sports shoes, and anything you’d rather wear at home. As for you, it is okay to wear chappals, shorts, track pants, or whatever you wanna in class (as long as it doesn’t look indecent). As long as you get good grades and do you work on time, no one really cares about what you wear.

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9. Stop bowing to a prof “Good morning sir” every time you meet him in the alley. Just smile and say hi. If asked-“Hi, how are you doing?”, let it suffice to reply in a one word GREAT and smile courteously.

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10. Plagiarism or cheating is a serious offense here. So if you cite someone, give proper references and links. And just because the TA or the prof works on his laptop in the examination hall doesn’t mean you are allowed to turn your head this way and that way, or go to the restroom looking for paper chits. No one, I repeat, no one cheats here. Don’t you ask me the punishment for being caught cheating or plagiarizing stuff. No one would even dare to do such a thing.

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sunshine.

Childhood Memories-1 (The Gutter Baby).

It was a cold, wintry night back in the early 80s when I had just started school. Naturally, most details of the event are from my mom’s recounting them over and over again at every family get together.

It was a wedding we were attending and I must have been 3-ish. I was dressed in a white wedding gown my grandma had spent a fortune buying, the types bridesmaids wear in English weddings. Looking all cute and chubby and adorable, I went there with mom and dad.

Now I wasn’t a kid who used to jump on sofas or break stuff. I was a well-behaved kid, outside home. So while all the other kids were running around like crazy, I sat dutifully beside my mom, happily clinging to her and basking in the nice smells of her makeup and expensive silk saree. I am sure sitting on a chair my legs wouldn’t have reached the ground then.

After a volley of compliments from the other aunties, something on the lines of “Wow, what a cute little daughter you have, and she is so calm and well behaved”, my mom insisted that I go and play with the other kids. Not that I wanted to, I was more comfortable sitting with my mom. But then, since my mom insisted so much, I must have reluctantly gone to make friends with those monkeys running around and pulling at each other’s hair. Even there, not comfortable with befriending anyone, I marched towards a vacant chair at some quiet corner.

Now there was this huge drain/gutter in this rented wedding place which, instead of these morons securing with wooden planks, decided to cover up with thick cloth. And then they placed a few chairs close to it.

And of all chairs, I had to choose a broken one to sit on (Refer: Murphy’s Law). The moment I sat, the chair toppled, and the next moment I was neck deep in the drain, along with the cloth and chair.

Word traveled fast and someone yelled to the aunties- “Someone’s kid has fallen in the drain”. Now, almost all the moms ran to the spot, fearing if their child was the one. My mom however sat in peace, convinced that I wouldn’t have been the one running around and thus falling into the drain. Soon the other moms returned partially relieved and yelling at my mom- “Go, it’s you daughter in the gutter”.

My poor mom must have run for her life. Soon, I was lifted off the gutter by the armpits, my pretty white gown all brown and muddy, my little frame stinking like horse shit (or may be something worse). In that cold December night was I taken to the tube well and gallons of ice cold water was poured on me to wash me clean. Dinner be darned, mom had to carry my shivering self back home, which was quite far away. From dressing like a bridesmaid, I had returned home like a beggar, draped in nothing more but my mom’s shawl. And then my poor mom had to put up with a stinking baby the next few weeks.

So that is the story of a quiet baby falling into a gutter. Later, we heard that a few days earlier, a poor old woman, all dressed for the wedding had similarly fallen into the gutter. Even now, mom recounts this episode to others, or tells my granny-“Remember how she had fallen into the gutter……”. 

Anyway, a word of advice. Just watch your kids the next time you are in a gathering. Washing clothes from the gutter might not be a very pleasant thing to do. You can of course get rid of those, but you cannot get rid of the baby, can you?

Ever since, my mom calls me gutter-baby in jest.

sunshine.

Trin Tr-Information.

This is a purely informative post. Of late, I have received emails from some of you who have made it to a grad school in the US. First, congratulations to all of you !!!! Second, as you all requested, I have decided to write a few posts on life here. Feedback from students who are already here and would like to add more in the comments section are most welcome. This post is based on the way the telephone system works here. Of course things may vary from place to place, and many of you might already know whatever I have written here. Nevertheless, I hope this information is useful to some of you.  

In the first few days that you come here, you will be looking for good plans. There are a few providers here like Verizon, T-Mobile, Cingular, etc. and each have their own plans to choose from. Applying for a credit card may take a while, so if you have a good friend who is willing to help, you can get a phone in his/her name and keep paying the bills every month.

I was not aware of the many options by providers, and I was more confused than ever. However, G helped me out in all this. Now, I have a mobile connection that allows me 600 minutes of free talk time a month. Weekends are free. Let me explain to you what this means.

The US is a huge country. Naturally, the states fall here under 5 time zones. The eastern coast is ahead of the western coast by 3 hours. That means while your friend in the eastern coast would be eating lunch, you would still wonder what to make for breakfast.

According to my plan (that is, the option I have chosen for my cell phone), no matter which time zone I am in, 9pm to 7am and weekends are free for me. That means during this time, I can call up anyone in the US in any time zone and that would be free for me. Of course I pay an amount for this at the end of every month. Unlike in India where we buy cards worth money, here we buy plans worth time. So I get 600 minutes of talk time free. This means that anytime on weekdays 7am to 9pm I call someone, minutes will be deducted. The pulse is per minute. Once your 600 minutes are exhausted, you pay extra. If you pay more while choosing your plan, you can choose from more number of talk times. I especially like the system here because the free timings ensure that you usually keep all your phone calls for the night after you are done with work, and whatever calls you make during work time are short, important conversations.

Most universities have student rooms or computer labs with their own phones. So if you want to make local calls, it is best to use the university phone. Anywhere you need to call within the campus, you just need to punch in the last 5 digits of the phone number.

Most phone numbers are a 10 digit number where the first 3 digits are the area code. Some states might have more than one area code.

Usually, the cell phone comes free with the plan. And these are cool sets with camera and other stuff.

Sending and receiving texts both cost you.

Calling and receiving calls both use up your minutes. So even receiving calls (except from 9pm to 7am and in the weekends) is not free.

There is something called a family plan where you can include a number when you choose your plan. So you might live in Oregon while your husband/boyfriend lives in New Jersey. Including him in the family plan will ensure that all calls made at any time of the day are free.

Calling India-

I have been using the Reliance calling card (where you can but cards worth $5, $10, $25, $50, $100, or $200) and get talking minutes accordingly. However there are other calling cards too, and you must make some market research before you choose a particular card. You keep on recharging on the net once your talk time gets over.

There is another option called the Voice Over Internet Protocol (VOIP) phone. You need to install a phone in India, pay some $40 for having it installed, have broadband net connection back in India, and then make unlimited calls at home @ approximately $10 a month. Your folks pay nothing. If there are more than one phone numbers you regularly call in India, you must install more than one phone.

That in general is how the telephone system works here. However, it is always better to do your own research before you choose a plan. Any feedback or further information on whatever I might have missed out is most welcome.

sunshine.

My “Wonder”ful World.

I wonder-

Why no matter which side of the street I am on waiting for the bus, there always seems to be more buses running on the opposite side.

Why every time I hit the “up” button on the elevator, the one going down arrives first.

Why the more I study for the exams, the better gets my chances of screwing them up.

Why every time the professor in class asks a student some question, I always know the answer to it, but when it is my turn to answer questions, I am clueless.

Why every guy I have a crush on has a crush on somebody else, and guys who have a crush on me do not get crushed back at.

Why every girl from college who was better in academics has a better job, and every girl academically inferior to me has a husband, while I have neither.

Why every time I try to guess the correct answer to a true/false question in the exams, I end up choosing the wrong option.

Why every time I check the prices for avocados before buying them, they are $1 each, but every time I forget to check their price, they are $1.80 each.

Why every time I wake up late, I have all the unfinished jobs in the world to do before I leave for class.

Why my fellow passengers have always been uninteresting couples with badly behaved kids throwing a tantrum every now and then whenever I travel.

Why every time I get late for class and do not bring lunch, the girl in front of me always munches on a chicken burrito.

Why every time I tell myself that I do not have the time to cook, and my body should understand and cooperate and use up all the fat reserves, I end up feeling hungrier than ever. Perhaps my stomach has no brains.

Why the probability of me meeting my dad on my way back home always increases a hundred fold whenever I am with some guy friend.

Why when we lived in an era with no call waiting on the phone, every important call for dad came whenever I used to be on the phone.

Why mirrors in shopping malls are strategically placed everywhere so that every time you pick up a sexy dress, the fat girl in the mirror sarcastically laughs back at you.

Why every time I am done buying something (say a camera, a laptop, a webcam, whatever), its price either goes down or I see a better deal elsewhere.

Why every time I am the least prepared for class, the professor seeks my opinion on topics the most.

Why every time some girl in the group starts going out with some guy, I am always the last one to know.

Why every time a handsome guy on the plane is looking lost trying to find his seat and I pray that the empty seat beside me be his, he seats himself at the remotest corner in the plane.

Why lip sticks look great on every woman, but it makes me look like a blood-sucking vampire.

Why whenever I absentmindedly scratch my hair or dig my nose in an empty room, someone walks in without preamble.

Why of all the 30 odd 5 year old kids who were by themselves at that wedding, I was the only kid who sat on a broken chair and fell in the gutter on that cold, wintry night.

Why every time I make a resolution of working the most on a particular weekend, I end up sleeping the most.

Why every time G comes over to my place, my room is in a mess, while it looks fine the rest of the days (or maybe whenever my room is in a mess, G decides to come over).

Why every guy who looks interesting is engaged, married, or has migrated to Antarctica.

Why every time Y would call me up back at home, I would be in the loo.

Why every time I study lead, arsenic, and cadmium, a question on mercury comes for the exams.

If the hypothesis of a good looking person always marrying a bad looking spouse is true, should I prefer considering myself good looking or should I prefer having a good looking husband instead?

Why every time I forget the phone and imagine every Tom, Dick, and Harry trying to call me up, I rush home at the end of the day only to find that no Tom, Dick, or Harry called me.

Why any sari that looks good on me always looks better on my friends.

Why just when I reach the crossing does the light turn red.

Why every time I stood on the left in a crowded metro, the lady on the right always got a seat first.
Why every time someone clicked the camera without telling me, either my eyes were shut or my paunch was showing.

Why every time I had an important appointment to attend to, the alarm clock would ditch me.

Why every time I sat down to watch India playing, Ganguly got out.

Why every time I would need my sun glasses, I would forget to put them in my purse.

Why every time I would go on for a photo-clicking spree, the batteries would run low.

Why every time there would be a huge queue to get a platform ticket, there would be a paunchy ticket inspector right at the gate.

Why I can never determine what spices to put in what curry and always end up cooking horrible food with all the wrong spices.

Why every time I am in a huge family gathering, some aunt of mine always has to recount inappropriate stories from my childhood.

Why every time I have a nightmare of getting onto a weighing machine and the pointer crazily deflecting to the right, it is actually never a nightmare, but stark, harsh reality.

Why every time I decided to wear something adventurous to college, dad would go to office late or come home early.

Why every time I am on the phone and am required to note down something, maybe a number or an address, I can never find a pen in the radius of some 10 feet.

Why I can usually remember any persons’ month of birth, but usually never the date of birth.

Why every time I miss the bus despite running to get it is the bus I needed to take, and why whenever I reach the bus stop on time, it is never the bus I needed to take that arrives first.

Why every time I sneaked into the kitchen at night, I’d get caught by mom. Even now I have this habit of looking here and there to make sure that no one is around when I am stealing food from the fridge, though I very well know that no one is around.

So what are you wondering about today?

sunshine.

I Miss-

1. Going to sleep with a leg over my sister.
2. The smell of fried onions on Sundays when dad cooked meat.
3. The tanginess of paani puri and the mouth watering pakode on rainy days.
4. Saying “dada, jaben na ki?” to the cab driver.
5. Singing the national anthem in school everyday.
6. Hushed conversations, sweating inside telephone booths on sweltering days.
7. Sweating in general (unless I am at the gym).
8. Bargaining prices and the unnecessary, yet customary, “Achhe dekhke subzi dena” to the shopkeeper, and the equally feigned “Haan haan, bilkul fresh hai”.
9. My kids at school wishing me, and then a few girls coming up to me after class and smiling shyly, “You look very nice in a sari ma'am”.
10. Ma asking me- “And who was that you were whispering to over the phone to for so long?”
11. My best friend and I making plans of running away to Africa someday. 
12. The irritating tunes of those K-serial songs I knew so well, since every TV in the neighborhood would be switched on in the evenings.
13. The librarian telling me- 5 baj gaye hain (it's 5pm now), the library is gonna close now, and me saying- 5 minutes more please (libraries are open 24 hours on weekdays here).
14. Rushing to catch the last metro and fretting over the fact that dad would be mad at me for getting back home at 10 pm (most of our parties start at 10 pm here).
15. Staying abreast of every new Bollywood movie, thanks to my trailer-watching addiction. 
16. Bengali graffiti on the walls.
17. Double checking if the hand-written “bill” the local shopkeeper gave me was added correctly.
18. Home made raw mango sherbet during the summer.
19. Raiding sis's or mom's wardrobe to wear something interesting at parties.
20. Whining to my friend that I have never been to Goa and she has been to. Now, she whines that she has never been to the US.
21. The hang of having exams once a year. I now take them almost once a week.
22. Looking at the US flag at the USEFI and telling myself- someday I'd be there.
23. Eating in plates and leaving them in the sink for the domestic help.
24. Making a fuss whenever mom cooked spinach or raw banana curry.
25. Asking dad in office what is he gonna get for me on his way back, and dad calling mom on his way from office and telling her, “Don't cook dinner tonight. I am getting Biryani for the kids”.
26. Giving missed calls at home while they called me back. Now, they give me missed calls and I call them back.
27. Sending texts and missed calls to friends. Here, you pay for texts too. 
28. Threatening mom I'd go to sleep on an empty stomach if she didn't make goat meat in the next 2 days, and she actually telling me that I was welcome to do so, for this way I could lose some weight.
29. The prasad from neighbors after the Puja, and the sound of conch shells.
30. Asking mom to wake me up at a certain time the next day, and going to sleep in peace. It is my shrill alarm clock that does the job now. And in case I have exams, I make sure that I keep the lights on so that I sleep light.
31. Not having to worry where my next meal is gonna come from.
32. Waking up in the mornings and demanding dad to come and sit by the bed so that I would hold his hand before I decided to leave bed.
33. Going to class only to be told by the prof that he has decided not to teach that day for some unknown reason.
34. Gandhiji smiling on Indian currency. They are different heroes now.
35. Calling up Munnu on a random day and demanding- BUNK CLASSES, I WANNA HAVE PIZZAS !!!!!
36. Dad screaming suddenly while watching the Discovery Channel- “Come here quick, see how rockets fly!” while I'd escape at the first signs of commercial ads.
37. Those ritualistic fights with dad and arguments with mom.
38. Watching every second movie in cinema halls. 
39. The unannounced (or announced) arrival of guests at home. I don't get to entertain guests here.
40. Going over to the terrace and looking up at the moon and the stars.
41. Wedding invitations, those cards that somehow looked all the same to me, and me pleading with dad- But please I do not wanna go, I don't even know anybody there.
42. Locking myself up in the bathroom every time the train left the platform, in fear of the eunuchs. I used to be so scared of them.
43. The painful site of little children and old people begging on the streets.
44. Railway stations, and their all familiar sights and sounds and smells.
45. The fear while crossing the streets in India, and the joy every time I would make it.
46. Grandma, and her aloo parathe. She telling me about how thin and pale I looked every time she saw me, and her defending me in front of mom all the time.
47. Kali Puja, Holi, and Durga Puja. It isn't the same here.
48. Getting welcome holidays on these frequent Bandhs.
49. Talking to friends while not having to calculate the time difference.
50. Locking myself up in the bathroom while I cried so that nobody would see me. Now I cry in my own room out in the open and nobody knows. 

What are you missing today?

sunshine.

If Blogging Were A Profession.

Ever wondered what if blogging were a profession? What if blogging was something we did 40 hours a week to earn money, and not something we did to unwind at the end of a long day? I hear that some people are professional bloggeres and make good money out of it. And then there is Adsense too. But I don't mean all that. What if in a party, there were people introducing themselves to each other in answer to “What do you do?”, saying, I am a doctor, I am a journalist, I am an engineer, and I am a blogger? After all, there were no biotechnologists, computer scientists, epidemiologists, graphic designers, or choreographers once upon a time. And then there would be further introductions about the educational backgrounds. So perhaps when the engineer came from Delhi (just randomly), the doctor from a medical school in Bangalore, the journalist from Pune, the blogger too would identify as an alumna of the prestigious Indian Institute of Blogging Sciences, the first of its kid in South Asia. While engineers had specializations in electrical, computer, mechanical, and so on, and management students specialized in finance, marketing, or HR, bloggers could specialize in social blogs, media blogs, review blogs, literary blogs, picture blogs, blogs on politics, food blogs, blogs on activism, sports, child rearing, and so on.

What if there were blogging companies, sometimes multinational, that hired bloggers fresh out of blogging school? These freshers perhaps got a four year undergraduate degree in Blogging Sciences (BBSc) or a masters level degree (MBSc). Of course they could have an option to pursue higher studies in any of the prestigious American schools (or for that matter, anywhere in the world) that had an entire department, “Department of Blogging Sciences and Research” to it. There could be new concepts like macroblogging and microblogging. Of course there would be general GRE, TOEFL, and Subject GRE (depending on what you wanted to specialize in).

In the job sector, one had the freedom to blog about what one was good at. They would help the companies that hired them earn revenue in some way. They had a choice of working in a cubicle in the office with the computer, or going outdoors to write about things (or maybe a combination of both). They had certain rights and as employees, were entitled to certain allowances and emoluments. Their employers could get them transferred to other blogging projects, or even other cities or countries. And blogging as a profession wouldn't just be an extension of media or journalism. There would be new concepts and different dimensions to it. Blog researchers and professors could take a sabbatical and go visit other countries. Like doctors saved lives (and some looted their patients) and engineers made machines to help people save time they don't know what they are gonna do with and managers skilfully transferred their work to the lower rung and marketing professionals made people buy products they could do without and government officials spent all day drinking gallons of chai and chatting and biotech researchers fiddled around all day with genes, inserting the gene of a fish into that of a lizard to see if it could swim better, (no offense meant), bloggers too could have some kind of contribution to the society. After all, the concept behind the establishment of most professions in the society lies in creating a demand among people and then meeting the demand created with a steady supply.

And then there would be such and such ads in the matrimonial columns of the newspaper- “Alliance wanted for tall, fair, handsome Brahmin Blogger (IIBS), only son, own house, working with an MNC in Bangalore, A+, earning 10lac pa, wanted fair, slim, convent educated girl (preferably blogger)”. Mothers could work from home, since it mostly requires a computer and creativity. 

And then the Oxford English Dictionary could have new words added to it, like blogomania (madness for blogging), blogophobic (someone who is scared of blogs), blogstipation (temporary or permanent inability to relate to or write blogs), blogosophy (like philosophy), blogoholic, gynoblogger (a female blogger), a misoblogist (hater of blogs or bloggers) and an anthropoblogist (one who blogged about humankind), perhaps an ornithoblogger (blogger of birds) and a sauroblogger (blogger of reptiles). Of course omnibloggers like me could write about anything under the sun. And with the evolution of the new language, who knows, we could find some innovative swear words related to blogs or bloggers. Come to think of it, if excreta or the technical act of love making can be converted into swear words, then why not this?

And then, two gentlemen newly introduced to each other would converse something along these lines.

Hi, I am a medical student of AIIMS.

Hi, I am a blogging sciences student from IIBS.

Oh wow, that's cool. I took the entrance test for that institute four years ago, but couldn't go beyond the prelims.

I too failed to clear the AIIMS entrance test. Luckily, I made it here.

So what would you want to do next?

Oh, there were campus interviews last month. I got a job in the R&D section of Blogtor & Gamble.

sunshine.

Science And Religion

Last weekend, a few friends drove to the nearby Gurudwara. I am not Sikh, and I had never been to a Gurudwara before this, not even in India. It was a lovely, sunny morning, and we drove for about an hour through the picturesque roads before we reached there. Since I didn't have a dupatta of my own or a handkerchief large enough, I was given a piece of blue cloth from the basket of colorful ones to cover my head. 

I visit religious places more out of curiosity. I am curious about the visitors, the buildings, the architecture, and what people do there. Here, I was curious to see what a Gurudwara looked like. It felt that I was in India and not in the US. There were hundreds of people, children running around wearing traditional Indian clothes, dupatta-clad women, bangles and all, in their bright salwar kameez. Most men wore colored turbans, and there was something about the whole atmosphere that made me long to visit the Golden Temple. I had recently watched the movie Amu, and that came to mind too. It was soon time for the Langar to begin. We were famished and we queued up.

The food was delicious. There is something about the food cooked in God's house that makes it so delicious. We sat on the floor and ate with our hands. I couldn't have been happier to be there.

A man was going around distributing rotis for people who wanted a second helping. I lifted my palms the way the others did. The man flung a roti at me, and to my horror, it went past my outstretched palms and landed on my lap.

The man was livid. He gave me a nasty glance and muttered a flurry of things that, although incomprehensible to me, did not sound nice at all. For him, I had done something that was sacrilege. I joined my hands and bowed my head, wishing that he would not create a scene. God's house was the last place where this should have happened. 

The man left, giving me vile looks. On my way back, I kept thinking about this episode in silence. Religion says that I had done something terrible (according to the man at least). Science says that some molecules of carbohydrates had defied the laws of physics and landed wrongly, either because the neurotransmitters in my brain weren't prompt enough to stop the direction of gravitational motion, or because the man's motor units (hands) didn't act in co-ordination with my neurons for me to time the catch well. The man might as well have been a batsman, the food a cricket ball, I being the fielder. So I went for a catch and I dropped it. I instantly regretted it, and instead of answering back, I apologized. I wish the man had responded differently. 

sunshine

"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.