Who moved my chicken again??

Part 1: Here

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Part 2: It so happened that the office had organized a fall potluck. In case your wondering eyebrows are arched as to what I am still doing in office, let me explain. My boss agreed that I get to stay as long as this project I was working on is active, and then basically they show me the bye bye flag. So as of today, I am still going to office and praying that the project takes forever to complete.

As a part of the office team, I was expected to contribute to the potluck. On a side not, I couldn’t hate anything more than an American potluck in our office. First, most people bring the kind of meat that I wouldn’t even touch- beef, pork, ham, turkey. It’s not religious, it’s just a psychological thing that I have not been able to bring myself to eat any kind of meat I did not eat as a kid. And then, I am still not used to eat salad, cheese, tortilla chips and dip for a main meal like lunch. Needless to say, in most office potlucks, I end up eating what I have cooked myself.

So this time they asked me to make something Indian. Something spicy and flavorful, just like the restaurants here, they told me. I didn’t have much time, hence decided to make the simple “murgir jhol” that’s such an integral part of a Bengali lunch on a lazy Sunday. It’s basically the yellow curried chicken that takes minimum effort to make, marinating chicken in yoghurt, frying onions, tomato, ginger and garlic, and then throwing everything in and cooking it together.

It was an instant hit. Everyone hogged in it, shedding tears, thanks to the great spice tolerance. It so happened that I got 2 boxes full of the curry, not knowing how many people I was cooking for. At the end of it, they had emptied one box, and the other one, or rather, 50% of the chicken was still there.

My colleague remarked again and again how wonderful the curry tasted and how her husband and the entire family loved Indian food. Though I was planning to hog on my chicken for the next week, my Indian values intervened and I offered that she take some chicken from Box 2 for her family. Readers, “some chicken” was the operative word here.

I worked till late and on my way back, entered the office kitchen to pick up my dabba. No prizes for guessing why I am writing about it. My dabba was gone. My 7 days of chicken ration was gone.

I was bewildered. My emotions ranged from confusion to anger to hurt. I could not imagine looting the whole dabba when offered “some chicken”. It seemed my fault that I had asked her to take some, instead of me sizing out her portion. I mean I could not make heads and tails out of it, as to why someone would leave no trace of almost 1.5 kg chicken. It’s not that she was known as the glutton officemate. If anything, she was quite middle aged, had a family of kids, and one would consider mother-like people did mother-like things. I remember those numerous occasions from childhood when I was taught not to pick up more than one toffee, 2 biscuits, or one gulab jamun when offered a plateful. I guess it’s the way we are brought up, taught how not to behave like a greedy glutton, live in misery, and not eye those rasgullas that look back at you all tempting and juicy. You would be left salivating like Pavlov’s dog all evening eyeing the goodies, but will not dare to touch those just because mom taught you self-restraint even if you were dying to sprint on the food. And now, all I felt was confusion.

She returned to me my dabba all cleaned up ad washed, with a thank you note. She later told me that her family had loved the chicken. I just wondered what did she do with chicken for at least 15 people.

It’s amazing how we grow up with certain values as a part of our culture. It doesn’t mean the other person who doesn’t share our values is bad. It just means the other person is different from us, and doesn’t identify with our culture. I wonder why we are brought up to live in misery and hunger and not succumb to the demands of the senses, apologize and compromise and learn to be satisfied with whatever comes in our share. My colleague I am sure would have been totally oblivious to my thoughts and confusion, and I know she did not mean harm. But it’s just that what she did was so different from what she would be expected to do.

If only the boss had vanished the chicken and had reconsidered his decision about my bye bye letter after he had it.

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An Over Documented Life

I flipped through the seven folders of my weeklong trip to the different places I’d been to during a particular week of travel and holidaying. Beaches, dams, mountains, fountains, parks, falls, trees, leaves, water, sunshine, and nature.

Every day was documented in a separate folder. Day 1. Day 2. Day 3. You get it, don’t you? I’d decided to take advantage of a digital SLR camera I owned, and capture every bit of what I saw. From every angle. Left. Right. Front. The fountain gurgling water in different directions. Four different shots of the same cloud crowning the mountain. The same beach from three different angles.

I randomly selected a particular folder and clicked on it. 327 pictures. 327 pictures to be sorted, selected, grouped, and labeled. A bunch of representative pictures would be facebooked. A bunch would be emailed home. A bunch would be uploaded on Picasa to be emailed to friends. I flipped through random pictures, hoping to remember the name of the mountain. I clicked on consecutive pictures and all of them looked the same. I remembered the “hocus focus” game we played as children where one would have to spot at least 6 differences in the 2 photographs published in the newspapers. One picture had a minor difference not there in the second one. I tried to focus on the 2 consecutive pictures of the mountains. I could not spot a difference. Maybe one was zoomed in a little more. 327 pictures in a day? And 7 days worth of pictures? I involuntarily yawned. Perhaps the picture sorting task could be done tomorrow. Perhaps in the weekend. We will see.

I remembered an era from a different lifetime, not more than 5 years ago. A Kodak KB 10 camera. 32 pictures in a roll. Click. Wait. Take it to the shop. Wait for a few days. Get the prints. Sort them manually. Put them in an album. Store them in the cupboard.

32 pictures. An entire trip. Was it not an era where trips and festivals and occasions were well documented? Of course there was not a second chance if you happened to shut your eyes when the camera flash shone. You could not have pictures of the same object from different angles. But those 32 pictures were valued, prized, cherished. Not dumped into a folder to be sorted later. I remember my parents’ wedding album. My childhood album. No two pictures look the same, yet every picture has been so well documented.

Hawaii trip. 700 pictures. To be sorted later.

San Francisco trip. 200 pictures. Later.

Birthday pictures. 15 of the 90 pictures have the same facial expression with cake smeared on. To be sorted later.

Bits and bytes and kilobytes and gigabytes of pictures. Later.

The irony is, if you don’t sort it now, you never feel like sorting it later. If you don’t upload it now, you never feel like uploading it later.

Message to self: stop clicking in paranoia as if the mountain is going to collapse the next moment. Enjoy the view first. Don’t take more than one picture of the same thing. And remember, the quality is not in numbers.

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Publicly Transported

These days, I take pride in claiming that I drive pretty well. I drive long distances, about some 40-50 miles at a stretch without getting a backache. I no longer fret at the thought that this might be my last day of life since I am driving. I no longer have to dress up in layers for the cold because I don’t have to wait outside for a bus. I save a lot of time, do not have to figure out bus routes and timings. All I do is feed my address into a GPS. This is what I call a hassle free life.

However, last week, I decided to take the bus for a conference in downtown. Downtown is pretty bus-sable from my place, and I would not have to go round and round in circles trying to find parking. I needed to start much earlier and have some extra time because I’d have to wait for the bus. It was getting cooler and I was already dressed in layers. I fidgeted through my hand bag, realizing I had forgotten my music player somewhere. I somehow found a book from the innards of my bag and tried to busy myself with it.

I cherished my one hour journey, realising how much I have missed taking the bus. For one, the bus stopped and picked up so many different people, dressed differently, speaking different languages. Some listened to music, some read a book, and some conversed. I had totally forgotten how much I liked sitting in a corner and observing people, what they did, what they said, where they got up from and where they got down. The bus stopped at so many places, giving me a chance to observe all the street signs and the shops and the people, sitting comfortably and without the tension of looking straight and driving safely. It was a joy ride.

Driving a car might be comfortable and time saving, but I’d prefer the bus any day over a car. It is an eventful life, watching and talking to people, or simply sitting quietly and watching the world go by you. The noise, the smell and the sounds, the traffic, the joy of sitting at a height and watching the world is stimulating to the senses. Some are headed for the office, some for schools. Suddenly I felt more social, participating in the things around me, smiling at the lady beside me, watching the person boarding the bus. By the time I got off the bus, I was smiling to myself. The hustle and bustle around me had energized me.

Slowly you get used to the comforts of a car and forget the eventful journeys while taking the public transportation. For me, I still like to take the bus or the train every now and then. Driving alone is boring. Riding with the world is so much fun.

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Need For Speed

I always knew I would be writing this post, but did not know it would be so soon. Driving comes with its own set of experiences and accomplishments. There is a phase of driving when you don’t know whether to kick on the left thing or the right thing to stop your car, and every car pulling up behind you scares the hell out of you. And then comes the stage when you hit on the gas and never look back.

Unless you see lights flashing behind you of course.

I have always scoffed at cars being pulled over the shoulder and getting speeding tickets. They always felt like the school children who the monitors had separated out of the crowd to be made to stand up on the bench and hold their ears just because they talked to much or did not do their homework. Being pulled over by the cops was the most humiliating experience for me. Or so I thought.

And then I graduated to the next level – the level of a seasoned driver.

It so happened that I was on my way to the durga puja celebrations. I was running late because of the usual reason. It took me quite a while to dress up, resplendent with the red sari and makeup, not to mention picking up friends, my new chore as a car driver these days. The venue was a good 45 mile away. I was finally mastering freeway driving and had just gotten onto I-5.

Thrilled to be leaving past the cars behind me, I changed lanes till I was in the leftmost lane, the lane for the high speeders. I was following a bunch of cars. After a few miles of driving, I saw a uniformed guy standing at a distance. I thought it must be the usual traffic guy, directing the drivers to drive to a different lane because of shoulder work going on. Even before I knew, the cars in front of me flew away while I was specifically asked to stop.

And that was my first speeding ticket.

He claimed I was driving at 74 mph on a 60 mph zone. Could be. But weren’t the cars in front of me doing the same? I was merely following them. Or was I a better target because I happened to be the last car in the row? And isn’t 74 permissible in a 60 zone when you drive on the fastest lane? No traffic, no congestion, okay I was speeding, fine. But couldn’t they let me go with a warning?

I was fined $144. Not a great news, given my lay off and financial condition. I might contest it in court. I might defer it for this is my first traffic offense. But I am definitely not intending to cough up the money if I can avoid it.

I realized it was so natural to step on the gas once you are a seasoned driver and not even realize you are speeding. I always thought if I ever got a ticket, that would be a slow driving ticket and not a speeding ticket. Somehow, I am happy I have joined the club of speeding ticket holders. Makes me feel like the rest of us.

In school, I always carefully avoided the group of ruckus creating children who did not do their homework and were made to stand up on the bench, holding their ears. Now I feel I have joined the club.

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Downsizing

7 days ago, I couldn’t imagine in a thousand lives what my life would be 7 days from then. I was happily camping in Montana, never realizing that the next weekend I would be doing things different. For the first time this summer, I haven’t taken advantage of the good weather to do something outdoor. Instead, I’ve stayed home, finishing office work, looking for a job, and most importantly, packing. I am leaving home to relocate to a friends place closer to office, so I can spend lesser time and money on commute. G is out of town and let me stay at her place for as long as I need.

This is the first step I’ve taken towards downsizing and cost cutting. I have been packing clothes, food, and whatever I need. I don’t want to think about my apartment, because I miss it already. I have gone through the vicious cycle of being glum, feeling low, breaking down to tears, and then holding myself up and packing again. I don’t know what I will do with my apartment, maybe put it up for someone to take over the lease, sublet it, let it go, I don’t know. Ironically, packing has been fun during the numerous other occasions this summer, when I have gone hiking, camping, sightseeing, visiting other cities. Packing is definitely not fun this time. It is a sore, emotional issue for me.

I also cleaned the house and sorted out the clothes and shoes that I will donate to Goodwill. I have been meaning to do this for a while, but never really found enough time so far. I think I had acquired far more clothes and shoes than I am going to need. My apartment looks less cluttered now. My life has never looked more cluttered.

I thank everyone for your good wishes and your comments. Its been a difficult 4 days, but it feels good to know that there are people who feel your pain and pray for you though they personally don’t know you. I have cherished reading each and every comment.

Till next time.

sunshine

The Others

While growing up, I have witnessed a steady traffic of strangers aka temporary residents in our house. These were the uncles and aunties who came and stayed with us for a couple of days, weeks, maybe months. Frankly, I never did like the unknown faces that lived in the house, ate with us, and laughed with us. Some of them were office colleagues who were trying to find temporary accommodation, some were distant relatives trying to find a new home or job in the city, and some were even more distant relatives who according to me had no business of staying with us. This is one thing about dad, that he never did turn down anyone, never told a no to anyone. Anyone and everyone was welcome to live with us.

More than two decades later, I don’t think I am doing anything different. First, I hosted 2 people who were interning here and happened to be my cousin’s friends. Then I am currently hosting a new student who is starting school, till she finds a place to call home. 3 years ago, someone hosted me, helped me get used to the ways of the new country, and made my adjustment a lesser bother. I try to do the same by hosting someone at my place every year. And what do I get out of it?

Company. Friends. Observing someone at close quarters, seeing how similar and how dissimilar our lives are. I get to talk about so many things, learn so many things from them. It is not quite as having a roommate, it is better. With a roommate, there is a compulsion of staying together, even though you want to tear your hair or beat your head against the wall every time you saw them. You don’t have to be diligent about taking turns cooking. There are no such rules per se. You can still lead your normal life and have temporary company at the end of the day.

So far, I have enjoyed temporarily hosting people at my place. Yes, there were times when I longed for my own space, longed to come home and not see anyone. But the fun of living with someone has outweighed my solitary life cravings. Maybe we all are lonely, and desperately seeking company in whatever form. Who knows?

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3 Years

Exactly 3 years ago, I left for the U.S. today. It’s been an eventful journey so far, enjoying graduate school life and then work life. An enriching experience full of commendations, rejections, laudations, mixing, adjusting, and learning new survival skills, not just in professional life but also in personal life. And when I looked back and thought I had seen it all and done it all, little did I realize how far from the truth I was. I was thankful to have a job even when the economy went crazy. I read about people who lost their jobs and told myself, “This will not happen to me, I shall be safe”. I did not realize that I am not the “chosen one”, and anything that affects my surroundings is bound to get to me sometime. This week, barely one year into my job, I lost it. I was laid off, just like many people who were told their skills were no longer required. I went through a gamut of emotions- shock, scare, shame, self-doubt, anger, helplessness, and everything mixed up to be one emotion I barely identified with. With time, I just got detached from the pain. I am back to my job hunting schedule. It’s scary, not having a job, the constant anxiety and the sense of panic that comes with that. Ironically I was telling a friend the other day that despite the Monday morning blues, I am grateful that I have a job to look forward to in this shitty economy. Now, I no longer do. I realized that I could perhaps use my blog as a medium to de-stress myself, to pen down my thoughts and fears and concerns so that I could see things in a more objective way. For once, I am definitely leaving no stone unturned to make sure that I get a job. Till then, life will continue to be as whimsical as it has been. At least I now know that I could not have been immune and unaffected by the shitty economy that we are in the middle of right now. 
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Three Lives

Three women live in different corners of the world. They are the same age. But they share a drastically different fate. 

My friend in Seattle is concerned about her cousin who has been missing for 8 months now. 

My pregnant friend in Kolkata is complaining that her husband comes home late most of the times, drunk. 

My mother drops subtle hints as usual about how it’s high time I got married. 

My friend in Seattle hears from the cops about her cousin at last. The decomposing remains of her body were found abandoned inside a suitcase in a forest somewhere. The husband confesses that he is the perpetrator. DNA tests confirm the same. I sit in shock as I read this email from my friend with the heart wrenching, gruesome details. In the meantime, my pregnant friend waits patiently for her husband, hoping that someday, he will be sensitive enough to give up his party-animal life to return home early. That someday, the insensitive in-laws will stop dropping by, expecting her to cook and clean and fend for them. My mother is less subtle and more direct this time. 

What does it take for a person to value the sanctity of life? Sure people who go bitter can part without the ugliness of it. What does it take for someone to want to take the life of someone, more so someone he was married to and had kids with? What is this, a gross manifestation of evilness personified? In a different corner of the world, what does it take for one to be a more sensitive and respectful towards someone? I think of the number of places I have traveled this year. I think of the number of independent decisions I took this year. Got my visa. Got a raise. Bought a car. I’d like to believe I am doing well in life. I do not wait on anyone, depend on someone for pursuing my hobbies, or anything else for that matter. I’d really like to keep being in my shoes. I like the independence. I am thankful for the way my life is. No insensitive husband to wait for. No suitcase to look at and wonder if this is where I will end up. I am confused, sad, and angry. I wonder what’s wrong with the world around me.

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I-5 Finally

What you fear the most will come back to haunt you.

What you want to avoid will meet you when you least expect it.

What you don’t want to see will look at you in the eyes.

I could have written about this in my usual humorous, wry, sarcastic, “I don’t give a shit” style. But when I think about it, I am struck by the truth of my above mentioned lines.

For years, I feared to learn to drive. I even shuddered at the thought. Even when I learnt to drive, I was shit scared of freeway driving. I wanted to avoid it for as long as I could.

My summer pals went jogging in Greenlake, and I thought of accompanying them with a book and my mp3 player, just some time to while away from home. Post running and dining, we headed home. This time, I was behind the wheels. Usual drill. No music in the car. No unnecessary talking. No rolled down windows or unnecessary noise. The GPS was set to the “avoid freeways” mode. It would take some 10-15 extra minutes, and a few miles of extra drive, but still, no I-5 for me. I’d take the I-5 on a special occasion, maybe a few months from now, when I had all mastered the skills of driving. I even asked them to double check the GPS. “Avoid Freeway” mode.

I drive an unknown road, and the next thing I see, I enter a lane with the sign “I-5 South only” written in front of me. A signboard it wasn’t, it seemed it was my fate written all over me. A goof up. An unpredictable, brainless machine for a GPS. I instinctively slowed, even wanted to reverse the car if I could. The driver behind me honked. Bleddy impatient man.

I had two options. I could freeze and be honked at and get hit. Or I could pretend as if nothing had happened, and keep driving. Survival instinct, I was so close to doing the first when I did the second. I cautiously took the next exit.

I reached home safely. I parked the car. I shut the engine. I somehow made it to the front door of my apartment. I shut myself up in the restroom.

I began to sob.

I don’t know if it was tears of victory, or tears of relief that I was alive. Later that night, I counted the numerous occasions when this has happened to me.

What I feared the most has always come haunting me. What I wanted to avoid the most has come looking for me.

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Flights of Freeway

No matter how tired and sleepy I am, I must document this before I sleep. I smile to myself as I type this. It’s a very special night. It’s a very special feeling. It’s the same feeling you get when you know you are falling in love.

I kept hesitating for days, concocting a lot many excuses – bad weather, bad traffic, exhaustion, and what not. The truth was, even though I had bagged my license, I was shit scared to hit the freeway. I imagined driving my car from office to work, a good 20 miles, the majority of it being on the freeway, and I shuddered at the dozen different things that could go wrong. I could hit something, something could hit me, the possibilities were endless. I felt scared, guilty, and then went into denial till I knew I had to do it.

And I decided to do it.

Back from office, I asked the boys (my roomies) to hand me the car keys. I know what they thought with the look they gave me. But it was time I got rid of my fears and took the plunge.

Office to home, I drove a good 20 miles for the first time, all by myself. It was mostly on the freeway, and it was shit scary. 520 West it was. It’s the first time I drove at a record speed of 65 mph. There were so many times when I wanted to give up and take the next exit. But driving till I reached home would have made me the happiest.

I know I slowed down unnecessarily so many times. I was honked at so many times (I think 6 times) especially while yielding to opposite traffic while taking a left on green. I am thankful to those who were patient and let me merge at Montlake. I know it isn’t that big a deal or that great a distance, even marathon runners run more than what I drove. But the first trip on a freeway is always scary and special (I don’t count the previous 2 mile freeway driving experience with my driving instructor 4 days ago). Maybe someday, I will fulfill my dream of driving to any national park, any beach, without hesitating about the length of the drive. Maybe someday I’ll do a US cross country driving trip. But these 20 odd miles of driving with all the tension and honking and slowing down will always be special.

I am not exaggerating a bit that by the time I had reached home, my limbs were shaking and my back hurt out of the tension released. But little steps, one step at a time. Just thinking about it gives me a high that will not let me sleep easily tonight.

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Happy Birth Day Baby

July 17th, my blog turned four. Back in 2005 when I started writing, I didn’t know how my blog would change my life, and stick with me through my changed life. People have come and gone, I’ve changed jobs and locations, but if there is one thing I’ve held dear, it is the collage of various memories I have documented through my blog. I’ve always believed it is great to pen down at least one post at the end of the day, something that changed your life, something that made you think. This is an ideal situation of course, writing 30 blog posts a month, given that the last few months, I haven’t crossed the single digit number of posts. But the desire to blog more frequently still remains. Wishing my blog a very happy birthday. We have grown up together over the last few years, and I hope the partnership and the bonding continues.

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Driving Myself Crazy

I don’t mean to sound sexist, but I have always associated cars with men. Men driving cars. Race cars, everyday cars, sardarjis driving huge trucks. Little boys playing with their huge collection of cars, ramming one into the other. Strong men controlling and maneuvering a vehicle moving at breakneck speed with their hairy, powerful hands. An alter ego of mine liked to believe that the steering is not meant for manicured, pretty hands with red painted nails. A woman coming out of her driver’s seat to open the door for a man is unheard of.

Anyway, these were my excuses to myself for not learning to drive. But come America, you are not really expected to depend for office commute or grocery on your friends. My US trotting trips would have been more fruitful if I knew how to drive. Instead, I waited for buses for hours, not just for the office or grocery, but even while going out on a date, while visiting Disneyland in California, even while exploring the beaches in Hawaii.

Come summer, I hosted 2 interns at my place so that they would teach me how to drive. Sharing my space with two boys is a different story altogether that would make a good few dozen blog posts, but for later. They were friends of friends of course, not random strangers.

As you can imagine, its been an interesting summer for me, living with two guys who have helped me car hunting, giving me advice on things I knew nothing about (car insurance, car maintenance, etc.), and took me for my car practicing lessons everyday. I did take half a dozen classes from the driving school, but the rest, I left to them. There was no respite after a long and hard day at office. They had to take me out to the nearby streets and sit through the process of a rather wobbly-handed me driving.

I am sure that more than me, my roomies prayed I passed the test. More so that I could spare them the “take me out for driving practice” chore at weird times of the day.

I parallel parked perfectly. I backed around the corner more than perfectly. Uphill parking, downhill parking, emergency stopping, changing lanes, everything went fine. I sat through the torture of having a Chinese man as my driving examiner at the DMV whose instructions I barely followed. He deducted 2 points for me taking a slow left turn, never realizing it was my random guess that he asked me to turn left. He took off 4 points because he thought I drove slowly, not realizing that when you don’t follow your examiners heavily accented Chinese, you drive slow. But all that is beyond me.

Yes, and so are the days of asking my roomies to take me to practice, of waiting for the driving school instructor to come pick me up. Gone are the days when friends would ask me how much more time I had before I took the test.

For after 1.5 month’s trials and tribulations, I passed my driving test with flying colors. In the very first attempt.

I am on top of the world. If there was a remake of DDLJ, my dad would take me around those heavily framed pictures of my long dead ancestors and boast about how they drove cycles and bikes, while I am the first person in the family to actually own a car and know how to drive it.

I’m still scared of speed and have not yet hit the US freeways. But passing the driving test has been a huge boost to my confidence.

Not that it makes me wish any less that my fictitious brawny, hairy, chivalrous man with strong hands still drove me around and opened the car door for me.

Thank you everyone for all the good wishes, it all worked. sunshine has one more feather in her cap now. She can drive.

sunshine

Exams

I accidentally bumped into my exam schedule and wondered why I didn’t find it all this while. I looked at the date my first exam is going to start, and realized exams were just 10 days away. They were to last for a week, and that meant I was preparing for some 5-7 tests. The tests are pretty intense, and it is during these times that I always regret not having studied harder. I calculated the number of chapters I was supposed to study and realized that I had some 25 chapters to finish in some 10 days. Studying 2.5 chapter everyday would leave no time for revision, so I must speed up. I must target finishing at least 4 chapters a day to begin with, to give me enough acceleration. This means I need to study for 14-15 hours a day. I don’t really remember what was I busy doing throughout the year, but I am clearly not prepared for the exams. I also know that if I start to put in all my waking hours, I can manage to finish my target and do well in the exams. I will not aim for getting the highest this time as I do not have that much time. I will rather ensure that I skim through everything so that I do not end up leaving unanswered stuff. I promise I’ll study earlier and harder the next time.

But something in me doesn’t feel right. I feel the pressure, but not really the killing urge to get back to my books. It’s a bright and sunny day outside. Summer is here, and people are out there enjoying themselves. I don’t really feel like studying. I feel like standing on a railway platform, supposed to catch the train in front of me. The train starts rolling slowly. I know I must hop on to the train. But something in me doesn’t let me lunge after the train. I stand and watch as the train leaves in front of me.

I realize I am not prepared for the exams this time.

I wake up from my dream to realize that it is not quite 5am. I still have an hour’s worth of sleep. I hug my pillow tight and go back to sleep.

I am glad it was just a dream. I am glad when I wake up an hour later, I will get ready for office and not for some exam I am not prepared to take.

I wonder why even after one year of bidding student life adieu, I dream of exams approaching.

sunshine

Driving: instructor versus non-instructor

For weeks, I struggled with the idea of having an instructor versus a friend teach me how to drive. I could afford the former, and I had plenty of the latter. People had mixed opinions. Some balked at how I could even think of coughing up $400 for 6 hours of training. Some felt it is a necessary skill done best with professional help. Of course there is this hesitancy of getting into a friends car and learn driving. I don’t think I would be comfortable if someone learnt driving using my car.

I wouldn’t have thought of a driving school if I was a student. But I wouldn’t have bought a car in the first place if I was a student. If I could afford a car, I could afford driving lessons too. A little bit of market research later, I had signed up for a driving school.

I think that was a great idea. It is like being taught at home versus being taught at school. Of course I hear that great men like Tagore were home-schooled. But if Tagore were to learn driving, I’d recommend he go to a driving school too.

First, you need to be with someone who is more confident and less scared than you are. I am talking about steering something at least a few tones heavy, in the right direction, and at the right speed. You might not end up head on colliding with another car, but even a minor dent or scratch caused by a small accident is not desirable.

The best thing I liked is that my instructor has her own set of brakes. So while for the first few hours I struggled with how to and how much to move the steering, stopping my vehicle during need was one less thing to care about.

My instructor talks to me non-stop. At first it was annoying that she should ask me how sweets are made in India when I am struggling to juggle the steering, indicators, mirrors, brake, and accelerator. I was holding on to the steering tight, as if I was holding on to my life, my knuckles white. I was confusing between brakes and the gas (accelerator). Every time I saw a car behind me, I felt mentally pressurized to do something. She calmly asked me to speed up if I saw a car behind me. I have never felt more helpless.

Eventually you get the hang of it. My instructor had more confidence in me than I did in myself. She encouraged me, challenged me, even pushed me. The first friend who started to teach me drive never let me hit the gas. The second friend almost curled up in a fetal position on the rightmost corner of the car, holding on to the door and his dear life while I drove. Their fears are understandable. But things didn’t work out.

2 classes with the instructor and I had graduated from residential buildings to little streets. I was braking, accelerating, indicating, yielding and parallel parking. I was backing around the curb. I was changing lanes. Freeway driving hasn’t happened yet, but it will not be long.

To cut a long story short, go to a driving school if you can afford it. It is expensive, but it is better than the tension I cause myself and my friends in the process of learning to drive. See it as an investment. No amount of parking-lot driving can prepare you for driving on the main streets. I strongly recommend learning from an instructor rather than be a road hazard. I’d rather lose money than lose friends.

Btw, thanks for the good wishes. I am now the proud owner of a nice car.

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The first step

Forgive me readers for the deluge of car posts. When doing or even thinking about something takes so much of your time and attention, this is inevitable. For years, I bore the embarrassment and discomfort of answering the question- “Why I do not know how to drive”. Unfortunately, the truth (Because I did not drive in India and feel that I am too old to start now) didn’t seem good enough.

I follow a personal philosophy, for better or for worse. Resist till you have to relent. For years, I resisted. Then finally this summer, I decided to relent. I finally got tired of asking people for a ride, or depend on others for my love for traveling. I decided to mentally prepare myself to drive.

Usually people decide to learn, learn driving using someone else’s car, get a license, save, and buy a car. I didn’t really think I wanted to spend the energy to ask someone into letting me drive his car. I decided to buy a car.

Having a job and some financial stability makes it a lot easier to achieve your goals. After one month of serious car hunting, I finally bought a car. I bought a car when I still didn’t know how to drive one. As of today, I own a car. I also spent a fortune taking driving lessons. But it has been worth the money and the effort. When I am not taking lessons, I have the flexibility to practice driving in my own car. I am yet to take the road test, but as of today, four driving classes later, I can nicely parallel park, back around the corner, and do non-freeway driving. It did take a lot of effort, but the pain has been worth it. I think it was a good decision to buy a car.

Wish me luck for my test. I really cannot wait to pass the test, learn to drive on the freeway, and take off to some place I have always wanted to. Till then, I’ll be committed to my driving lessons.

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Car (e) free

Things that I am told.

What? You still don’t know how to drive?

How many years have you been in the US?

Come on, it is not that difficult. Millions do it. Even women do it.

Don’t you feel like a handicap?

Oh, it doesn’t take more than a few days.


Things that I say.
Yes, I don’t drive.

Yes, you are right, I have never driven.

Yes yes, damn right. I have never driven in India as well. Or Nigeria. I have never handled the steering wheel.

Yes I know the statistics. I know the numbers. I have been here for 3 years now. I commute 20 miles each way to work everyday. That is 40 miles of travel. That is 3 hours of travel. That is travel worth 3 bus changes. And yes, I still haven’t learnt how to drive.

Yes it is not that difficult. Millions do it. And that’s why I am scared. The millions we are talking about are right there on the streets.

Yes, I know it is easier than driving in India. But it still remains a skill I haven’t mastered.

Yes, I do feel like a handicap, happy? I have a genuine fear of speed. Calling me a handicap doesn’t make me feel better, or make me want to jump behind the wheels. It only makes me feel like not answering your phone the next time you call me.

Yes I have a genuine fear of controlling anything that moves faster than 5 miles per hour. If I can willingly commute in buses for 3 hours everyday, my fear must be real, right?

Yes, I fear it because I feel like being in control of a toy that can actually hurt or kill people if I make mistakes. Including myself.

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And so goes the conversation between my well wishers and me. Yes I know learning to drive doesn’t take more than a few weeks, and there are millions who do it. I know people mean well. But shock treatment, wisdom and pushing me doesn’t help. What’s in a car, I wish I could fly planes. It’s just that I don’t think I am ready for it yet.
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Writing

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

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

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

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

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

sunshine

Chamat-car (A Miraculous Transaction Story)

The economy is making people do crazy things. Or so I think. Simple things are no longer kept simple. Lets say I want to buy a car. Or maybe a home. Not buy a home but maybe rent an apartment. I go look up the web for advertisements on people selling their cars or homes. After spending umpteen number of hours, I finally shortlist a few I like. Something that goes with what I want and is also compatible with the price I want to pay for. Sometimes I stumble upon something I really like. So I email the person or leave a message. Expectations are building. I really like the color of the car and would love to own it. The apartment seems bright and sunny and I would love to go take a look. I wait for a reply expectantly.

Almost always, I get back a reply like this. It seems the owner would love to make business with me. But work, poor economoy, or a harrassing wife has taken him away from me. He was living in Seattle even last week, but now, he lives in some Godforesaken place in Europe, Kenya, even Timbuktu. But is this not to deter me. It seems my dear friend still has an internet connection, and is eager to make business with me. So he starts with a description of the car or apartment, with newer features added to tempt me. He promises things like “doesn’t need maintenance”, “is all insurance covered” or “will not be damaged even if you beat it up against a mountain”. He then shares his personal sad story, about how his wife left him or his boss fired him, or his wife left him for his boss and the boss also fired him, that brings him to Timbuktu now.

However, much to my good fortune, he is willing to work things out. So he has hired this external company, usually eBay, who will be handling the transaction henceforth. What this means is I send all the money to ebay, and he claims that ebay will send me the keys to the car or the apartment, or ship the car itself which is sitting somewhere in Idaho at the moment (why???). There is a 5 day money back guarantee. So at the end of 5 days if I decide not to keep the car or the apartment, this gentleman claims that I can send back the keys and I will get my money back. I don’t get to see the man whose car I will be driving or whose house I will be living in, I do not get to test drive the car, but things are in such a seemingly spotless conditions that it seems there is no need to test anything.

He further claims that the process is risk free. And yes, I am also supposed to reveal my name and my address. I don’t know if he wants my social security number yet. It seems everything will be handled and taken care of from there. So here is how I see it.

I am lazing around a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, sipping my tea when I hear the doorbell. Suddenly I am reminded that 5 days ago, I had made a payment of some 5-6 grands to a person and an agency I know nothing about. I open the door to see a bright red toyota camry 2 door coupe, complete with sunroof and power controls and a V6 engine smiling at me outside. I rush to hug the car, in the process realizing that this is probably a shade darker than my favorite red. I scratch my chin for a while, finally asking ebay to refund me. In 2 days, I have my money back. In case it is my favorite red, I hop onto it, the tea cup I am holding already forgoteen, hit the gas, and am on my way on a long drive to the XYZ national park, showing off my newly acquired car.

I have one simple question. Since I already like the car and am thanking my stars for getting such a masterpiece for half of what I would have spent, who exactly I direct my “thank you” note to?

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Playing It By The (Y)ear

What a journey from F1 to H1B. An entry into the PhD program ensured that I was “visa-safe” for the next 5 years at least. But fate had decided differently, and 2 years into the program and I was decided I was done. F1 continued into OPT for another year, so I was safe till the next few months. But what next?

What next is a very tricky question. Everyone asks me, "What next?" I wish I had a concrete answer to give. But I do not. My parents always questioned me about things I did not have the answer to. “So when will you obtain security in life? When will you get a secure visa status? When will it be that you will not be worried about your stay in the US?”

Unfortunately, I did not have an answer to these. The “What next?” question baffled me. But what baffled me more was the anticipated anxiety of change in status against my control. F2. H4. It scared me to think that if I did not get a work permit, my stay in the US would be untimely curtailed. It scared me to think of being on a dependent visa status, unable to work. It scared me depending on someone else for my need and greed. It is degrading , being physically and mentally sound and stable and yet not be allowed to work. It wasn’t just about the money. It was also about growing and achieving and contributing.

Marry someone here and you will not have to be worried anymore. Better still, marry a US citizen- they told me. It was a depressing idea, not because of my high moral standards and all, but because no relationship that starts in convenience can end without extracting substantially out of you. I wondered what was the price one paid in return for status security.

I panicked and applied for a PhD program again. If H1B didn’t happen, the plan would be to go back to school again. Fortunately, I heard back a yes from 2 good schools. But you know what I heard back from me? That I did not want to go back to school. That I wanted to work.

And thus continued the tug of war, the war on nerves, the unnerving anticipation, and the hope that things would be okay. Obtaining a job was one thing, getting a visa was another. True, there was no security, no comfort of being a foreigner in an alien country, no matter how diligently you tried to work.

Anyway to cut a long story short, I finally got an H1B visa approval, after months of prayers. Truth be told, it is a relief, but I haven’t yet started to feel ecstatic. News, good or bad, takes some time to seep in. It isn’t being nonchalant. It is just giving yourself time till the news seeps in.

So now I am good, like they say here, for the next 3 years. Like I see it, security and visa stability comes in installments of a couple of years. The next 3 years are secure as of now. Next, we will see when we come to it.

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A Tax-ing Promise

Dear self,

Promises are sure meant to be broken, especially after deadlines are over and the pressure is lifted. Nevertheless, I’ll try to promise myself, just to keep up to the ritual of making and breaking promises. I promise that henceforth I will keep my important documents in order. Medical bills, electricity bills, tax documents, everything barring those letters trying to sell me free credit cards or car insurance (though I don’t have a car) and sentimental letters asking me to make a donation to the cause of victims will go in a separate box bought especially from Ikea and will be attended to immediately. Tax return filings will not be procrastinated till the deadline henceforth, especially since I have figured out that it can take months of procrastination (3 months in my case) but just one hour of focused effort to get my taxes done. However, big words, you know why? You see, there is this W2 form, an important piece of document that has all the figures related to your income and expenditure except how much you pay for buying clothes every month. Sometime during shifting apartments a few months back, I misplaced my W2 form. To make matters worse, I was supposed to fill in 2 W2 forms this year, the penalty for remaining in school half of the year and then working the other half of the year. I did get dirty looks on informing the office that I would need a duplicate copy of my W2 form, and that too 1 day before the deadline of the tax filing. The second W2 form would need some special pulling strings to achieve, since I didn’t go to school anymore. But all this would mean I would miss the deadline for filing tax returns. Needless to say, I decided to pillage my home to find the two original W2 forms.

Pillage I did everywhere. Cushions were upturned. Drawers were emptied. Cupboards, clothes, drawers, everything was ransacked. The good thing about bathrooms and kitchens and balconies are that I am not really known to keep papers there. But that still leaves the bedroom and the living room to plunder. Shelves, racks, chests, cupboards, no stone was left unturned to find the two W2 forms. Funny, I found ten other documents I was looking for in the process, unpaid electricity bills, receipts from the Kabab place I had dined at 6 months ago, free credit cards from companies I have never heard of, receipts for the Walmart shopping I did 2 years ago, little hand written grocery lists, and so on. I even found the Macy’s receipt for the dress I bought last summer and couldn’t return (because I couldn’t find the receipt then), receipts for unpaid electric bills, and the envelope of my graduation pictures I have been looking for ever now. But the W2 forms were still missing.

To cut a long story short, the W2 forms were finally found, after a couple of hours of ransacking the house, missing out on the evening dinner party, after endless hours of squatting and searching on my knees in the remotest of places (like under the bed), cursing under my breath every time my bones creaked, making a resolution in the process to hit the gym for the endless time now after re-discovering my unsurprising loss of body fitness. Careful me had nicely stored the forms in a big file got from India to especially hold my important documents. The file was again carefully stored in the suitcase, beneath layers of junk like speakers, unused electrical wires, and various little paraphernalia (like band aids, of all things). And why may I ask the thought of checking the suitcase never occurred to me?

Because 2 weeks back, while rehearsing for the play, I had kept the suitcase on one of my dining table chairs, using it as a prop to hold my script at eye level for me to read and perform.

And this post is dedicated to all the hours lost, not just looking for documents, but for procrastinating, fretting, panicking, making my life miserable, and early-ing my process of ageing and getting white hair and sleepless nights for nothing. Age should bring wisdom. Not forgetfulness and procrastination.

sunshine