Judging a bottle by its cover

Baba Ramdev has been omnipresent in our household for decades now. In an era when watching television before evening was a strict no-no, my mom would dutifully watch his yoga programs first thing in the morning, hoping that watching proves to be at least half as effective as doing it. So this time, I was not surprised when I saw that the entire household has been taken over by his brand of products. From cooking spices to breakfast food to hair oil, personal care products, cosmetics, and even the vermilion my mother wears on her forehead, everything had Baba Ramdev's stamp on it. Open the kitchen drawers, open the bathroom shelves, he is everywhere. 

Now, I strictly refused to use these products, mainly for three reasons- Did not like the smell, did not like the name, and did not like the fact that everyone in the family was obsessed about him, using terms like "natural" with no idea about what natural is. Ironic enough, my sister has an equally voluminous stash of beauty products collected from Europe and America, although she has never stepped outside India. 

One day while taking a shower, I am pleasantly surprised to find a bottle of shower gel amid a jungle of Ramdev products. L’Occitane is a very favorite brand of mine (French in origin), and I remember getting all excited about discovering this store when I visited France earlier one summer. It is an expensive brand, and I use it quite conservatively. I am quite surprised that my sister knows about it too, and more importantly, has a huge collection of this brand, way more than I do. I happily take a shower, but wonder why I step out of the shower smelling of papayas and pumpkins. 

Looks like she emptied a bottle of Baba Ramdev's hand wash into the L’Occitane bottle.

We haven't been on speaking terms ever since.

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Of tea and coconuts

Our domestic help (wonder if there is a better term) in Calcutta knows that "didi" (elder sister, referring to me) lives abroad, and visits occasionally. I had never met her prior to a recent trip, but heard many interesting things about her. A woman in her twenties, she went ahead and had her system ligated after she was forced to conceive. These are stories you typically do not hear every day, even among the upper and empowered classes. 

Now this is not your average hourly help in the US who shows up in their car, cleans your mansion in silence, and leaves. Growing up with temporary help (those who do not live with us, but show up for a few hours every day) has been an essential part of my life in India. She is a little different though. She hates missing work. While every household complains of domestic help gone missing from time to time, this was surprising. I later learnt that every morning she arrives, ma makes fresh and hot rotis and curry, and feeds her a proper breakfast. Food is a great incentive, naturally. She was so happy to see us when we arrived from our week-long family trip earlier. "Chhuti nitey bhalo lagena tomar?" (Don't you like vacations?), I had asked. 

I am not a tea/coffee addict, and drink it only when I have company. She drinks a different kind of tea than the rest of my family. Her's is boiled with milk, spices, and ground cardamom, and I love that kind of tea. Every morning, she and I would sit and drink our cup of tea, chatting up. She talked about her family, her desher bari, and so many other things that I listened to with great interest. She now knows that I love coconuts, especially green coconuts, and she already got me some from the neighbor's tree. 

As I am getting used to the comfort of drinking piping hot cardamom tea every morning and chatting up, she disappears. She calls ma to inform us that her one-year old is suffering from measles, and she will have to stay home. This being a contagious disease, ma asks her to take her time until the little one gets well. With my tea drinking buddy gone, I have lost my motivation of drinking tea. I am leaving in two days, and will probably not meet her anytime soon. I miss her funny stories and her energy. I wish I could meet and say goodbye once.

As if hearing my thoughts, she rings the bell one morning. She is lugging a huge bag, and I rush downstairs to see what the matter is. She is looking haggard, like she hasn't slept in a long time. She is wearing her usual nightdress with the dupatta thrown in. It might seem a weird dress combination to someone not used to this, but this sight of wearing a nightie and throwing in a dupatta before you go outside is pretty common in Calcutta. She places the huge bag on the floor, careful not to touch me so that I do not catch measles germs. She knows that I am leaving soon, so she got me six coconuts. These are not coconuts really, but a stage between the green coconut and the ripe coconut (something she calls "laava", and not a daab or a narkol, although I have never heard of the word before). She got hold of the neighbor guy, bargained prices, and bought me six of these. These originally have a thicker shell that I am not so good at removing (I can break coconuts though), and she takes time to remove the shells, so that all I have to do is split these open. These have a very tasty, soft and white flesh (shNaash), and a lot of sweet water inside, much more than an average coconut does. She hands me these, wishes me luck, and leaves. I tell her that I have missed drinking tea with her, and she says that she hasn't even had the cardamom tea ever since. She has a sick baby waiting at home, and tells me that she felt conscious walking on the streets, not having combed her hair or preened up like she does. She still got me the coconuts though, taking me by surprise.

In my Calcutta trip, love has come to me in all shapes and sizes and ages and circumstances, and I have received it with open arms. Neighbors feeding me whatever they cook on a daily basis (kumro, chalta, tyangra), because I do not get to eat all this in Germany. Strangers (strangers to me, not to my parents) bringing me narkol naadu. People showing up to tie my sari, because I am not good at tying one. Friends inviting me home and cooking my favorite food. Friends calling me cabs because they have discount coupons that would save me some money. And I continue to accept love with gratitude, enriched by the daily life experiences of the immediate people in my life, collecting all the stories they tell me, creating memories, and feeling the magic of this place. 

Breaking a coconut to that.

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Othering the non-mother and the lesser-mother

Update: Another post I wrote on this.

“Accepting the motherhood dare. I was nominated to publish a picture that makes me happy to be a mom. I am going to tag a few friends who I think are fabulous mothers and can rise to the challenge of publishing a picture of their own.”

I find the wordings of this post utterly disturbing. I repeat, I am talking about the wording of the post, and not about the concept of posting pictures of your children in general. I enjoy seeing the pictures of (most of) your children on Facebook, until you get to an obsessive point. Some of you, I do not know and do not care much. Most of you are my friends, and I feel happy. I even “Like” and of late, “Love” some of those pictures.

However, I find the above “motherhood dare” game disturbing at many levels. When I first saw a few women chip in, I shrugged it off as one of those low-IQ-but-innocuous chain posts on Facebook. Posting the color of your bra, the size of your shoe, we have seen it all. However, this post grew viral in no time, and everyone and their aunt were suddenly rising to the challenge (whatever that meant). I found a well-written article that mirrored my thoughts. So I posted it on my wall, asking what exactly was challenging about publishing pictures (that you do anyway), and what exactly was the “dare” part of it? Many got angry. Women who never write on my wall started defending themselves. Some who have not interacted with me in the last ten years “Like”d the posts of others defending themselves. Clearly, I had stirred up a hornet’s nest.

To paraphrase some of the conversation (since I cannot directly quote people without their consent), women asked what is wrong with posting motherhood pictures when people were posting pictures of their life events anyway. Everyone refused to see that I had problems with using words like “dare” and “challenge”. I had recently met a Mexican immigrant, a single mom of two who worked four jobs and earned meager wages cleaning people’s homes and toilets. If she fell sick, there would be no money coming. To me, that is a challenge. I recently met an eminent professor, a stalwart in her field, who had to bring up a child while being a graduate student, TAing three courses and doing full-time research. She had no help from parents and one day, she passed out in the parking lot out of sheer exhaustion. That to me is a motherhood challenge. I know a parent whose newborn was secretly taken away from them because the partner did not get along with them and decided that they will no longer have a role to play in their child’s life. The parent has been fighting for their rights. To me, that is a challenge. A fellow blogger has had the most difficult birth that I have known of, fighting against all the odds to keep their premature newborn safe and healthy. I know women who want children, but have not been able to conceive. That is a challenge.

To me, my own life choices are somewhat of a challenge. I wish to have children, but have never had a stable job, have been working in yearly contracts for the past several years, did not find a partner whose intellect complements mine, a person who can look beyond the money he makes and the model of the car he drives, and refused to get hitched to anyone just to get some stability and security. I know that I am running against time, and I may not have a child in this process of getting set up in life. But I do not earn enough right now to raise a child on my own, and I have decided to stay single until I find someone who believes in an equitable relationship and makes me feel that we are worthy of being with each other. There are mothers who are alone and working very hard to make ends meet. And then, there are women who want to be mothers, but cannot be due to many reasons. To think of some elite, privileged, smug women who have access to all the basic needs, who are social media savvy and posting their pictures as a challenge, a dare, seemed somewhat ridiculous, insulting, and marginalizing. Marginalizing not only to the non-mothers, but to the lesser-mothers. It’s like welcoming some people to an elite club and telling the rest that you do not belong here. As I reflected on my post and the angry comments it instigated, a few things came to mind:

1. My biggest question was, “So what exactly was so challenging and daring about this post? Did you overcome a disability? Climb Mount Everest perhaps? And when you handpick some of the so called “great moms” according to you, aren’t you marginalizing the “lesser moms”? Why did most people think I was making a personal attack against all the mothers of the world, and to the concept of motherhood in general? What might have led to such wide discrepancy in understanding?

2. Why were women writing on my wall, dissing me and defending themselves? While they posted pictures on their walls, I posted my thoughts on my wall. I never questioned them or commented on their posts. They did, to me, on my wall. Isn’t that intolerance towards alternate-opinions? Not only do you do things you assume correct, but argue and shut people who are differing in their own spaces?

3. I have heard so many women say, “Motherhood makes me complete.” Why haven’t I heard the same thing being said by men, that fatherhood makes you complete? And why don’t women (or men) say, “My job makes me complete. My degrees make me complete. My parents make me complete. My dog makes me complete.” and so on? Of course this is a general question, a reflection, and not a criticism. How can any one thing make you complete and the lack of it make you incomplete?

I had looked forwarded to some constructive comments and reflections. Something more that “You are wrong and you need to feel happy for mothers just like we feel happy for you when you visit a new country or get a new job.” None came. What came were lame, weak explanations something on the lines of, “We are modern day women. We do not judge you. It’s the older generation that did. Our generation is very progressive.” Some more sweeping generalizations on the lines of “these things never happen in our generation.” Perhaps this is what blind racism or blind casteism looks like. To totally not acknowledge that racism and casteism still exist.

Interestingly, women from our generation give me a lot of flak about my life choices, and these are women roughly my age. When I finished a PhD, they said, “Get married now, and your life will be complete.” When I found a new position and moved continents, they said the same. It is like something was always amiss according to them. With every milestone I reached, the need to be coupled to feel complete became even more profound. And the judgment came too. Big time. “This is abnormal. How long can you stay alone? Everyone needs someone. How will you have children?” People assumed things about me, that I am alone and lonely and unhappy. The discrimination was always there. Unmarried or childless women are still treated as second class citizens by our own clan. This, I speak from personal experience. 

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Not drinking problem

In my German learning sessions today, they dedicated an entire 30-minute unit to teaching how to say only three words (wine, beer, and restaurant), and the different variants of it. 

"Do you want to drink something? Yes, I will have a beer at your place. Or I will have a beer later, at so and so restaurant. But what will you drink? I will have wine. No, no. I will have a beer with you at that restaurant located in that street and that square. Would you also like to eat something? No, I only want to drink a beer. Excuse me. I want two beers please. Thank you." And so on ......

The thing is, I neither drink beer, nor wine. Maybe I should just learn how to say coconut water in German instead.

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Grand Storytelling

A gentleman once boarded a crowded bus on a wintry morning, traveling with his wife, and two cauliflowers. Freshly plucked, he had bought them from the grocer near the Howrah Station for an excellent deal. A pair of huge cauliflowers with ripe florets weighed down his arms while he stood in the crowd. With her tiny frame, his wife had somehow managed to find a seat in the bus. However, he kept standing, making small talk with his fellow passengers, like he always did. 

For the rest of the ride, he held on to the bus rails with one hand, beaming and recounting to the fellow passengers how he had struck gold by managing to find these cauliflowers for ten rupees only. The fellow passengers nodded with interest. As the rickety bus continued to navigate the cobbled streets of Howrah, the gentleman continued to chatter, telling people about the wedding ceremony at home. His nephew was getting married soon, and the cauliflowers would be cooked for lunch by the women in the family. The three brothers lived together in a big house, with their wife, sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren. The daughters and sons-in-laws were visiting too. Caterers were not in vogue back then, and the women in the household cooked together for every ritual before the wedding, although there would be a designated group of thakurs (cooks) hired for the main wedding spread. 

The fellow passengers listened with feigned interest as the chatty gentleman talked. When the stop arrived, the gentleman and his wife got off the bus. And so did one of the fellow passengers. Without preamble, the passenger shoved a ten rupee bill in the gentleman's hand, grabbed the cauliflowers, and vanished in the crowd. Just like that. The gentleman looked at the ten rupee bill, too confused to react quickly. Didn't he just carry the heavy produce all the way in a crowded bus, so that his family could cook it for lunch?

His wife misunderstood what happened, thinking that her husband just handed the cauliflowers as a good Samaritan. She bickered. He lost his temper, his ego already bruised. He argued back. And like children after a fight, he just started walking faster, using long steps. The house was a good fifteen-minute walk from the bus stop, and her four feet ten inches were no match for his six feet one inch frame. Not used to walking alone on the busy streets, she was hurt and confused, and wiped tears as she walked as fast as she could, trying to catch up with her husband. Still angry, he soon disappeared into the crowd. 

She crossed the dhopa'r maath (washerman's field), the narrow bylanes, and the pond, taking the final left to enter the corridor to the house. A movement caught her eye, and she turned to find her husband strategically hiding himself behind a tree, so that he could watch her walk back safely without her knowing it. She ignored him and entered the house, bursting into tears, managing to summarize the basic details of the event as she wiped tears. The brothers, sisters-in-law, nephew and nieces scolded him for acting childishly, while he stood there all grumpy until his anger melted. They did not eat cauliflowers that day, but still had a good lunch. 

My grandma just recounted this autobiographical story back from the nineties, for the umpteenth time. I have heard this story many times now, but still ask her to recount it. This is because I love my grandma's knack for storytelling. And once she did, I summarized it here. This is an ordinary, commonplace, inconsequential story from one day of my grandparents' life. Nothing life-changing, nothing spiritually awakening. But I still love it. I think that grandmas are the best storytellers, giving you a glimpse of a world where you either did not exist, or were too different to relate to. I have many friends here who grew up in different countries all over the world. I am curious about the stories all your grandmas told. And while I hope that you share some, I will try to document my share of stories, from my grandma's point of view.

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Our homegrown celebrity

A few years ago, grandma fell very sick, taking to the bed. Diabetes led to the gradual failing of her kidneys, and she had to be hospitalized for a long time. It's a story from many years ago, she is perfectly fit now after working out, having lost 55 lbs and slimming down beyond recognition. But back then, my mom visits her one day at the hospital. She is hooked to a dozen different pipes and monitors. Her face is all swollen, eyes closed, breathing heavily. A number of instruments are constantly recording her vitals. The doctor is wondering if they should start dialysis. Grandma is sick beyond recognition.

When my mom sits by her bed, grandma slowly opens her eyes. With great effort, she tries to smile. Despite her condition, there is a twinkle in her eyes. She tells mom, "Do you know, Suchitra Sen's physician is now my physician?"

In her tryst with death, what excites her about life is that she now shares her physician with a celebrity. When her physician recently died, grandma expressed her sadness to my mom, "We lost our physician. Suchitra Sen and I."

Suchitra Sen was a renowned Bengali actor of the yesteryear from the 1950s. Someone like Meg Ryan of Hollywood or Madhuri Dixit of Bollywood.

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The real art of living

I often write about my grandma, because there is so much to write about her. At a time when all of us have been disappointed with life, she tells me that what keeps her going strong despite all the odds is the single minded desire to live.

Grandma fell very sick about 2 years ago. Her blood sugar and cholesterol shot up, kidneys went haywire, and there were many things that went wrong. From hospitalizations to passing out, she saw it all. Since then, she cannot drink more than one bottle of fluid a day. Which means that if she has a bowl of lentils or soup, she will have to subtract the same amount from a bottle of water. Imagine thriving in the Indian summer that way.

Eventually, grandma decided to fight her diseases. She completely changed her diet. For someone who has no access to the gym, she started brisk walking every day. She did this for a while, and lost 25 kilo (55 lbs). Imagine losing that much weight for someone less than 5 feet tall, and that old (Metabolism slows down with age). Eventually, all her diseases started disappearing, and her readings came back to normal. Now, she wakes up at 4 am everyday and sprints up to the terrace for her walks, goes up and down 5 flights of stairs every now and then (she lives on the fifth floor), takes all the washed clothes to the terrace to dry, takes care of grandpa, and is much fitter. I recently saw her picture, and she looks so thin, that I could not recognize her, despite knowing her all my life. I joked that she could easily join Hollywood. She has almost become grandma/2. 

My uncle one day got her a piece of fish fry, and she said that she was looking at outside food after 1.5 years. She was so worried about eating it that she nibbled on it, and took an entire hour to finish it little by little. And last we spoke, she told me the same thing. I do not care about good food anymore. I just want to live well.

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A post from the post office

The last time I went to the post office, the gentleman almost barked at me, since I spoke no Deutsche. Of course why I was at the post office is a rant for a different day altogether. This time, I was prepared, armed with my knowledge from unit 1, chapter 1 of my lessons.

"Excuse me? I understand no German. Do you understand English?"

You have no idea how many times I chanted these lines in my head. My last time at Potsdam was bad. I had learned how to say simple sentences while ordering food, but when I went to the restaurant, I blanked out, and all that came out of my mouth were just keywords, "Hähnchenfleisch, essen, bitte, löffel" (Chicken, flesh, eat, please, spoon). My linguistic skills had made me want to die of shame. 

But this time, I did not want to embarrass myself. During the 20 minute bus ride, I chanted these sentences like a mantra. At the post office, I went to the lady at the counter and said, albeit in a rote fahion,

"Entschuldigen Sie. Ich verstehe kien Deutsch. Verstehen sie Englisch?"

I even said "Ainglisch", and not "English", because that is the German way of saying it. The lady smiled sweetly, and spoke to me for the rest of the time in perfect English. She did not bark or fumble or confuse me with her German-English (where the verbs are all messed up, and people ask me to "remember" them instead of "remind" them).

I need not have spoken in German at all. But the effort that went into making myself understood in the local language, and successfully so, made my day. Because on one hand, I design large-scale studies and analyze complex data for a living. But on the other hand, my language skills are no better than that of a two year old. On one hand, I write journal papers with little effort. On the other hand, I struggle to speak two lines in German. 

I might be slow, but I am working hard. I am trying to fit in.

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Tooth and nail

I am not miserly at all. As long as I do not have to borrow from someone, and still save something for the rainy day, I believe in living well, eating well, and traveling well. I will not put myself through discomfort to save a few bucks, or not do something I really want to do just because it costs money. 

However, a tube of toothpaste completely changes my personality. Every morning since last week, I see myself vehemently squeezing it with all my strength to get that extra bit out before I have to trash the tube. I even have a new tube handy, but I can't let go of this one. My hands hurt, my nails break, but every tiny squeeze I get out of that tube feels like victory. 

Sometimes, I don't really understand myself.

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Poster Child

I was in the bus, on my way to work this morning, watching people, when a bygone memory from more than two decades ago made me nostalgic. We used to live in a little town, little enough that very few buses took you around, but big enough that the ride to school took about 45 minutes every morning. Every day, my sister and I would hop at the back of the cycle-rickshaw, enjoying the cool breeze and lack of traffic very early in the morning. And all through that ride, our favorite pastime was to count the number of cinema posters of Aamir Khan and Shah Rukh Khan, the two prominent actors in Bollywood. I was a non-supporter, but since sister was an Aamir supporter, my default poster counting went for Shah Rukh. 

We had rules too. Big time. When one of us would be losing, we would make impromptu rules, like the actor has to be visible on the poster to count. Or, we could not count posters that were old, and hidden beneath newer posters. And there was a way of counting too. Whenever we spotted one, the person would shout- Aamir 1, or Shah Rukh 12, making Raju Bhai, the rickshaw puller chuckle. Sometimes, when we felt generous, we would help the other person locate posters. But if we were our default mean selves, we would just say- "Hey, you just missed that poster on the wall, but since you cannot see it now, you cannot count it."

I do not see any point to this game now, but for strengthening counting abilities (it was already strong, I was in the eighth or ninth grade, my sister in the second grade), getting familiar with movie names like English Babu Desi Mem, Guddu, and Zamaana Dewaana, and just staying engaged during the long ride. The game was so pointless, so without any agenda, that it was good. So good that years later, I think about it and feel nostalgic, wishing that I could still be counting movie posters on my way to work now.

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Discovering Barcelona

There are many things that make a city memorable. History, art, culture. And then food, music, and most importantly, people. Barcelona told me goodbye with as much energy as it said hi. I spent the last few days soaking in the energy that the city had to offer. Gorgeous views of the mountains and seas. A super efficient public transport system. I stayed at a hostel, like I always do, getting to know the local people and meeting more travelers from across the world. A super small but functional room (more like a large walk-in closet) with a twin bed, a tiny table, a wash basin, a window overlooking the west, and a reasonably good internet connection. The hostel was in a nice neighborhood, with parks, cafes, and a huge fruit and vegetable store. Most days, I was happy skipping meals and eating the juiciest of grapes and oranges instead.

I had an early morning flight back to Germany. Although the metro runs until late, it doesn't run at that hour. However, the hostel people told me that there is a bus running every twenty minutes that would take me directly to the airport. Although they mostly spoke Spanish and some broken English, I was able to figure out which direction to take the bus from. They told me something like bus is €2.15, taxi is €25.

So 3:45 am, I stepped out of the hostel after leaving the keys in a box, the door closing behind me. I walk up to the bus stop. It is absolutely dark, and for some reason, it feels more like a midnight in India than US. Occasionally, a person is walking by. There is a cool breeze blowing that is so comforting. Occasionally, a car would pass by. I admit I am a little nervous. Although I am a bus person, I am wondering if it was a good idea to be waiting at the bus stop alone at that hour. There is no guarantee the bus would show up, and since I do not have a phone, there is no way I can call a taxi. What if someone attacks me? What if I never make it to the terminal?

The minutes ticked by slowly. The digital display overhead showed a couple of names of places, date, time, and temperature in yellow. The silence was getting unnerving, despite the cool breeze that was so comforting.

Suddenly, at 4:03 am (3 minutes past the scheduled time), I saw bright headlights and heard loud music. My bus appeared out of nowhere and suddenly braked in front of me, to my utter relief. I hopped on to it to realize that the bus was full, with hardly any space to stand. Loud Spanish music was blaring. The driver was saying something in Spanish. It felt like I had hopped inside a party-bus. Everyone was talking loudly. The driver handed me my change with one hand, the other hand on the wheels as he took sharp turns. If you have seen Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris where Owen Wilson hops inside a car and goes to a party every night, you will know what I mean. A midnight party bus with rambunctious people carrying heavy suitcases and playing loud music drove me to the airport. The bus was completely full with airport passengers, with hardly any space to stand. It was past 4 am. I wonder if the city ever sleeps.

I was almost tempted to stay on the bus and go back to Barcelona. This city is like a magnet. It draws you in, and makes you want to stay here forever.

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Bare Walls

The bare walls in my home are a testimony to how my life has changed over the past decade with these cross-continental moves. The homes where I grew up never had bare walls. They had framed and garlanded pictures of the Gods and Goddess, and the deceased people in the family. The walls had calendars too. Every year, the new ones would replace old ones, just like life. Other than the few smaller ones, there was one single-paged, huge Dey's Medical calendar we hung every year, just like every average Bengali family did. Holiday dates were marked in red and bold, a huge red cross in the middle of the page. Then, during the Bengali new years in April, every local Mishtanno Bhandar (sweet shop) gifted us smaller calendars rolled with blue/black rubber bands along with a box of sweets. These calendars were smaller, less overbearing, and had Bangla font (and Bangla months) with pictures of Ma Kali or Ma Tara. The design and the fonts changed every year, but the subjects remained the same- Ma Kali, Ramkrishna Paramhansa (Swami Vivekananda’s guru), or Baba Loknath sitting on a lotus.

Eventually, as we grew older and Archies inundated the markets, calendars stopped being free and Ma Kali was substituted by other forms of Mother Nature. Scenic waterfalls and snow-capped mountains from unknown lands. Birds, flowers, and bees. As the science of photography improved, every hue of the sunset, the ripples of water, and the yellow and black stripes on the bee's abdomen became even more distinct. We saw lands and flowers and insects that were not familiar, not local to us, and reveled in it. By the end of the year (and with parental permission, which was very important), I would remove those calendars, taking a pair of scissors and go snip snip, making wall hangings, collages, book covers, and bookmarks out of them. Calendars made excellent book covers, although the laborious act of covering every book I read died with me finishing school.

I wonder how many of us use wall calendars these days. Technology has shrunk our entire worlds (including people) inside our smartphones, computers, and online Google calendars, taking away with it the excitement of flipping through and changing the pages of the calendar every month.

Even after all these years, my heart somersaults in joy whenever I see a stack of calendars. I sometimes pick them up although they no longer make it to the walls (hammering nails in the wall takes effort). The calendars just get lost somewhere amid piles of textbooks and research papers. As for the walls, they continue to remain bare for me. Unlike my friends, I do not hang pictures of anything anymore, even my family or my photography. After moving to seven different homes in four cities across two countries and two continents over the last ten years, I have decided to go minimalist. I no longer accumulate stuff that I will not be able to carry to my next home. Not only is accruing stuff laborious, the act of getting rid of stuff is emotionally painful. So my walls continue to remain bare, with only a tiny, rectangular Seattle magnet on one of the iron rails of the heater. The Ma Kali calendars are a relic from the past, something I only get to see and relish when I visit the local dry cleaners in Calcutta.

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The language of love

My German lessons- I try to listen to 30 minute recordings of two people making daily life conversations every day. They keep repeating the lines, and that helps me learn German. 

However, listening to these conversations has also fueled my fertile imagination. It started with an innocuous hello, with the guy asking the girl if she is German, telling her that he is American, and understands only a little German.

Soon, the girl told him that his German is quite good. I smiled. Conversation flowed freely. Words were exchanged. The next time, he asked her how she is doing, and she said thank you, asking him how he is. I was not just learning German, I was also beginning to paint a rather hopelessly romantic picture in my mind. This was just lesson 3, and there were about a hundred of them. I wondered if they would be driving to see their grandchildren by the time I reached lesson 90. 

Then came the action verbs, naturally. Would you like to eat something? Maybe drink something? Yes, sure, at the restaurant by the Opera square. And they met again, and again. Sometimes on the Beethoven street, sometimes on the Goethe street. They ate dinner and drank wine. By lesson 6, they were asking one another if they would like to meet at the restaurant, or at their place. I was grinning broader with every passing day. Then, he asked her if she would like to do something. I winked instinctively. She replied aptly, saying that she would like to buy something. 

I went ahead of myself, and Googled how to say "I love you". I knew it was coming sometime soon.

Eat. Drink. Do. Buy. I kept hoping for more intimacy with every lesson. He was always asking, and she was more than willing. I knew that soon, they will be a couple, and travel Antofagasta together. Take a Flugzeug (airplane) from the Flughafen (airport). Until I reached today's lesson. He asked her again if she would like to eat something at his place.

"No."

"At 8 pm, or at 9 pm?"

"No, not at 8 pm, and not at 9 pm. Certainly not." 

"You don't want to drink something at the hotel?"

"Yes, that's right. I do not want to eat anything, and I do not want to drink anything."

Wow, that was harsh! Surely I learnt a lot of no-words today. No, don't want, certainly not, not at 8 pm, and so on. But I wonder what happened to her.

My fictional love story is beginning to see some friction now. 

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Traveling is educational

I met some amazing strangers during a recent Scandinavian-Baltic trip, the kind of people who inspire me to travel more. An English teacher from Lincoln (England) who has been teaching in Korea and Poland, and has even been to Varanasi and the Kalighat temple in Kolkata (where he refused to get coerced into paying anything to the priest). We joked about having lived in the same city in two different countries, and he even suggested me some really nice hiking destinations around Latvia (which I did). A woman who gave me this amazing idea of making a day trip to Lithuania, because she did the same last night. A German student starting his masters, and an English teacher from Plymouth, England, who spent a day with me taking the train and going to a nearby town to hike. I spent a good eight hours with them, hiked, talked for hours, but cannot even remember their names right now. One of them asked me about the difference between Karma and Korma. I said, Korma is instant gratification, while the effects of Karma can take a while to kick in. And more travelers from Korea, China, Australia, and Lithuania, who are touring the world. I always make it a point to stay in hostels, because of the lively ambiance and the different kinds of people you can meet. Here, we have a living room where we cook together, play board games, eat breakfast, and share interesting information about what all we should see. We even take off our shoes and walk barefoot in the hostel. Interestingly, I have never seen a fellow Indian living in a hostel.

Of particular note is a quiet woman I met today, who is from Taiwan. I often watched her stick tickets and maps in her diary. Every day she went some place, she nicely used a pair of scissors and tape, and glued her memorabilia in her diary. We started talking, and she told me that she is on a 3-month long trip around the world, all the way from Taiwan to Iceland, mainland Europe, and ending in New Zealand. And just when you would assume that she is a millionaire to be able to afford this kind of a vacation, she told me two profound things. She is a nanny, who helps parents take care of children, one family at a time. So she works with a family until the kid turns three, travels in between, and then switches to the next family. To the person who recently wrote a caustic post about how traveling around the world is American privilege (because an American passport offers visa-free travel to many countries), I say that people who love to travel do so, without finding excuses in their passport. I don't know how much this Taiwanese lady earns, but I would not think that nannies are minting money in Taiwan. She travels with a teeny-tiny carry-on bag that has everything she needs for three months, because she does not want to spend money checking in bags. Back to the two profound things she told me,

Me: How do you save so much money to afford a three-month long trip around the world every year?

Taiwanese lady: I save all my money for the one thing I love. I have no other expensive interests like makeup, designer clothes, buying cars, and so on. 

And true to her words, she seemed very simple, and amicable to talk to.

Me: And how are you able to take off three months?

Taiwanese lady: It's my life. I get to decide how much time I need off, not my employer.

You know, it's okay if you are not a traveler, and like to stay at home and watch television. Your choice. But for someone like me who loves traveling, these people are my inspiration. A few days out of home, and I am already thinking of the long list of chores that await me when I get home. Grant writing, reviewing proposals, laundry, grocery, and other random assortments. I am already feeling a little homesick, missing the familiarity of my bed. I truly admire these people who are able to travel alone for months, and not necessarily tied to the idea of a job that offers little flexibility with traveling. They plan their jobs around their travels and personal life, and not the other way around.

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Schcolada and marmalada

I met the funniest 3 year old German dude recently. He didn't understand or speak any English. At first, he was very shy, but he gradually warmed up. When I said chocolate and marmalade, he burst out laughing (Google "English to German", and type "chocolate" and "marmalade" to listen to how these words sound in German).

When he was done laughing, he slowly enunciated every syllable of these words, the German way, as if he was teaching me to say it correctly. He wouldn't accept that I said it right too, just because he understood no English. And I totally humored him. His mom told him that I understood no German, but how does that matter? For the rest of the evening, he continued to chat with me non-stop in German, reading me stories from his storybooks, while I said those occasional "ja" and "nein" and "genau" (yes, no, exactly) as conversation fillers, with no idea about what he was telling me. He tried teaching me the names of animals and fruits. But the best part was a guy 1/11th my age laughing at me first, then teaching me how to say sho-co-la-da and mar-ma-la-da.

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Finding my Titanic

Life happens when you are busy looking for your ship. I land in Helsinki, and make a dash for the ferry terminal. I take a cab at some point, and meet the first Finnish guy. People often complain about cab drivers striking up conversations, but it is the other way around for me. I am infamous for chatting up with cab drivers (a trait I have inherited from my father), and why not? It is weird to sit inside a confined space with someone and pretend that they do not exist. Also, I take cabs usually when I am in new, unknown cities, and it is nice to get the perspective of a local person. 

So this nice guy takes me to my terminal, and even takes my suitcase up the stairs, which he needn't have. I go up to the counter to be told that the ferry has been cancelled due to bad weather (although the weather looked perfectly fine to me). The lady gives me the name of a few other companies, but none of those terminals are walking distance. I am thinking about the money I just spent on a seemingly wasted cab ride (Finland is very expensive by the way, and the meter starts from €9.20 and rises very quickly) when I see that my cab man has walked up the ticket counter. He was driving away when he heard that the ferry got cancelled, and came back to fetch me.

The guy puts my suitcase back (I stress on the suitcase again because it is a heavy one), and zooms to the new ferry terminal. He tells me that he will not charge me the base fare this time, but just charge me for the distance traveled. So my money problem is also resolved. No bargaining, no asking for tips (although I did give him one), no asking about nationality and all that. I do a mental happy dance. He drops me off and wishes me luck. I run to the ticket counter and luckily get a ticket for a 6:30 pm ferry (my earlier one was for 8 pm). Only this time, this is not a ferry. Holy cow, I just walk into the belly of a huge cruise ship that reminds me of the Titanic, one of the hugest I have seen (Type "Baltic Queen" and go to Google Images). I find myself a sunny spot by the deck, some free internet, and I am all set. I kick off my shoes, and finally put my feet up. 

I came back in my original ferry the next day, and that is when I felt the difference. No sunny deck, no free internet, much smaller, and we were crammed inside it like cattle. However, yesterday, they charged me €6.20 less for a journey that took an hour longer. The ship was so huge that we had trouble finding the exit. I saw an amazing sunset, an even better full moon, and after looking at luxury cruise ships from my home for a year, I finally got to take one, totally out of the blue.

By the way, a taxi is a taksi in Finland, and a takso in Estonia. Still looking for the country some people in my greater family visited. Because they call it teski. 

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Initial impressions of Riga

I came to Riga because I wanted to go somewhere I had never heard of before. After seeing Tallinn (capital of Estonia), I had somehow underestimated the size of the Latvian capital. My bad. It is huge, and buzzing with people (although I was told that it is pretty dead in winter). Tallinn, I had seen in a day. I am glad that I have more time for Riga.

Since I was too tired to explore anything on day 0 (no idea why, all I did was take a 1.5 hour flight; old age is surely catching up), I decided to walk around my hostel. This place is right by a six-point crossing, and blaring loudness. Traffic, live music, and what not. There is also a casino I can see from my room, its lights dazzling me, reminding me of Manhattan. Five minutes into coming here, I heard the familiar beats of the dholak playing outside. A big group of White Hare Krishna fans were singing, dancing, and chanting. Who would have thought this is the first thing I see in Latvia.

During prior travel research, I had seen a Pakistani restaurant, whose website was not updated after 2013. When I asked the receptionist, she gave me a dirty look, and handed me a list of the nearby Latvian buffets. Point accepted. When in Latvia, don't sniff around for biryani. Whenever I look up a new city, I look for "(name of city) famous biryani resraurant". Oh, well!

So I just walked around, went to a nice coffee place, chatted up with the young lady there, had some pina colada flavored Frappuccino, and looked at the shops. Tomorrow, I shall explore the city, although the weather says severe thunderstorms. If the weather is umbrella-worthy, though shall hear more of Riga. If not, though shall hear me whine here, right from the top deck of my bunk bed.

P.S.: This place is almost desi-free. Two hours of walking, and I saw only one desi (who is surely not a tourist, since most desis travel in large, rambunctious groups). Just saying.

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Stone-faced and pot-bellied

The bus from Germany reached Netherlands without the slightest hiccup. Still getting used to good things in life like unrestricted border movements, I was surprised once again when no one stopped us for passport and visa checks. However, the way back was a different story. 

About six hours (and two cities) into crossing the German border, somewhere close to the northern fringes, the bus pulled over at a desolate place. Soon, every piece of luggage was taken out of the belly of the bus and laid on the floor. A bunch of armed, uniformed men and sniffer dogs started checking every piece of luggage. Next, we were asked to get off the bus, five people at a time, and go through another round of thorough searches. Every bag went through an X-ray machine. A couple of people had their passports checked. The uniformed men, all tall and well-built, walked around with grim expressions. Ten minutes later, we were given the clearance and allowed to board the bus again. 

And I, still feeling giggly from last night's shenanigans, got on the bus with a little bit of an unsteady gait, thankful that whatever happened in Amsterdam stayed in Amsterdam, and I had the sense not to bring a souvenir back home.

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Mystery Chemistry

One of the things you will instantly notice about grandma is the energy, and the desire to live. When I went to meet her recently, she was nicely decked up in a white and pink sari and wore nail polish because I was visiting (grandma loves nail polish). She cooked some great lunch, and took a lot of pleasure in feeding me. And she told me a story that left me amused, rolling on the floor laughing, and appreciating her even more. She is a great storyteller, and is full of stories. 

Grandma was very sick a few months ago. Her systems were failing, and things did not look good. Once she recovered, she fully went on a diet, lost some 30 kilos, and got stronger and fitter. All her readings became normal. She was bedridden for a while but these days, she wakes up very early, climbs down the stairs from the fifth floor, and goes to the nearby lake to walk. This story is her account of what happened there one day, written in first person.

Grandma: Everyday I go walking, I meet so many people my age out for a walk. One day, I saw a gentleman out of the corner of my eyes. Tall, good looking, wearing nice intellectual glasses and smart walking shoes. I wondered who he is. As if reading my thoughts, he intercepted me and smiled. "Do you come here every day? I have seen you often", he asked. I nodded and smiled. "Do you have trouble with your knees?" he asked again. We struck up a conversation, and he said that he has sustained knee injuries too. Then, he asked if he can show me some knee exercises that has worked wonders for him. He did that, and after smiling and nodding, he took his own trail to walk some more. When he was done, he intercepted me again, bid me adieu, and said, "Bhalo thakben didibhai" (Take care, elder sister).

Grandma said this and burst out rolling on the floor laughing. And so did we.

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The traveler auntie

G’s mom us really cool. Smart, independent, vocal, no-nonsense. The kind who will love her family to death, but not be a doormat. 

We were once traveling in a crowded bus when a guy started to get naughty with me. She sensed it even without me telling her anything, and literally stared him down, coming and standing between us. She didn't say a word, just used her height to her advantage (she is a good few inches taller than I am), and scared that guy away with her overpowering presence. I have been calling her Chachi 420 ever since. When I had planned my first cross-country road trip from WA to VA, everyone asked me not to, alone woman and all that. She was the only one who said that she wants to come with me. She is as likely to go on a road trip with you as spend hours cooking up a storm for you, or even pick a stick and beat the crap out of people who might try to trouble you. 

When G and the kids (Baby Kalyani and Baby D) were visiting her in India, I was expecting that she might be slaving away all day, cooking their favorite things and giving them the same celebrity status my mom gives me. When I visit home, I literally do not move a finger. Things just keep coming to me. I know that it is not right, but I still do it. However, I was informed otherwise.

Looks like G is in charge of the household now, while aunt has gone on a trip. Not some family trip, or a visit to the family deity or a day trip. She has taken off to explore a part of India for a few days with her school buddies. 

I'd love to be like her when I am her age. 

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