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.

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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.

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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.

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Degree of Freedom

In profound hilarity, I am reminded of a scene from DDLJ. SRK is surrounded by the huge life size pictures on the wall, pictures of his forefathers who in their various stages of academic life, had failed in school, which in itself was an achievement. I don’t know why I am reminded of the scene though.

And then for the umpteenth number of time again, I open the envelope and look at the contents inside. I walked the graduation ceremony almost a year ago, but without a degree. Earlier this evening, I received my degree, after waiting almost a year. I read my name printed boldly on the degree. My second masters degree and my first US degree. I am reminded of those number of people I should be thanking otherwise – an advisor who gave me a hard time and literally made me choose between going to school or jumping off the building, parents who were dead against me leaving the city (and not just the country), a set of horrible people I met these last two years who added to the difficulties in life, and so on. And then there were friends, well wishers, motivators, who in their own way inspired and encouraged me. This is a special day indeed.

A degree is nothing more than a piece of paper, with as much credibility as a marriage or birth certificate. But this is the piece of paper that everyone is struggling for. I cannot remember a single chapter from the signal transduction pathway, but I have a degree to show that I know it all. There is finally some light at the end of the tunnel.

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Death and its Manifestations

All this while, I was under the impression that Charlie had died a natural death. That one fine morning, he was discovered breathing no longer. Today I came to know that Charlie was euthanized. He had an abnormally enlarged liver, water retention in the belly, had stopped eating or moving, and it was suggested that he be euthanized than suffer. And that got me thinking about a lot of related things about death.

I know this debate of death versus euthanasia is an old one. In fact the various manifestations of death- natural, accidental, suicide, euthanasia, abortion, come with their own set of ethical issues. Of course there is nothing to do for a person who dies naturally, or has an accident. But does a person have as much right to not live as he has the right to live? Is it ethical to end someone’s life who is already in a vegetative state and cannot make decisions of his own? Is it okay to give birth to a baby if one is not ready for it? I do not know the answers to these questions.

What I know is that it must have been really tough for G to decide to euthanize Charlie, making a decision to end someone’s life who you have loved dearly, who has been with you for years, even knowing that this would lessen the suffering. It must have been hard to hold him for the last time before giving him away, knowing that he will never be seen again. It is a depressing thought. I am sure it was a good decision to end Charlie’s pain. But if I was her, would I have the courage to do it? I do not know.

Death in all its manifestations is a concept that still remains fascinating to me. After all, it is more I do not know about than I know about.

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Classrooms and Beyond

Sometime in March this year, my kids wrote their ICSE board exams. If you’ve followed my blogs for years, these are my kids who I taught in school back in India a long lifetime ago. Office commute gives me approximately an hour to sit back and think of things, a luxury for me of course, and of late, I have been thinking of my life in India a lot. I was younger, and saw the world differently. I did want to come to the US, yes, but for as long as I worked in India, I thoroughly enjoyed interacting with the kids. I wish I was the one who gave them physics and chemistry lessons before they appeared for their boards.

Now, it is a different workplace I have. I do consulting in public health, which is a very simple way to put it. All I need to function is a computer, of course with the internet and MS office, and a phone. I do not interact with kids anymore, do not teach, and have no fun stories to tell people at the end of the day. I do like my job, especially in this economy, I better like my job. But it is a lot more brainwork and a lot less human interaction.

I’ve completed 5 months of my work here, and in this season of salary slashes and layoffs, I got a hike. I wasn’t really expecting it. For people who have been through the grilling process of applying for a work visa, you will know why today’s date is so important to me. Starting today, my application will be scrutinized by someone to decide if I should stay back to work. It is a disconcerting feeling.

From classrooms to consulting rooms, I have come a long way work-wise. I have learnt new skills and have been put through newer circumstances. My resume looks more voluminous now, with big words thrown here and there. I compare my resume from 4 years back and my resume now, and the stark contrast between the two is so apparent, not in terms of contents, but in terms of the format. No one here cares about father’s name and one’s sex in a resume.

Anyway, I hope that my children do well in their boards and pursue things of their own interest. I still remember the good teachers from my school days (and the bad ones as well) and hope that my children remember me fondly.

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In Memory Of Charlie

I am personally not a fan of pets. Seeing them in TV shows is fine, and I acknowledge that they need love and care, but I would personally never take care of a pet. It puts me in a dilemma when someone close I visit has a pet. My host and close friend had a fat black cat, and though my host had opened her arms and house to welcome me, I could not embrace the cat. Yes I’ve fed him, but I’ve shivered in shockprize, a combination of shock and surprise, every time the cat had accidentally brushed its fur on my legs. I heard stories about he losing his collar, and put up with sounds of he scratching surfaces whenever he was hungry. With time, we learnt to acknowledge each others presence in the house, but never really cared much about each other.

However, this post is written out of sadness. After a prolonged suffering due to liver illness, the cat passed away. He was an old cat and I have seen him from my Day 1 of stay here. In fact I saw him 3 days back when I was there at her place. But never did I think that its life had started to be counted in hours, and I would no longer see him.

This is just to say that black cat, fat cat, mad cat, ignoring cat, whatever you were, I will miss you. The house will definitely seem empty and different without you.

I am sorry for your loss, dear host.

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Cut Above The Rest

I am going to be very wary the next time a person who doesn’t understand my language holds a pair of scissors and points at me. All I had asked for was a little trimming of the locks that had grown so long that it fell all over my face. Just a little bit of shaping up without compromising with the length of it. Instead, it resulted in a massive 6 inches plus loss of my long hair. It took me two long years to grow it, two years of maintaining and combing and shampooing and oiling. And in a moment, it was gone.

I looked at the floor with all the hair that had recently been snipped and sighed sadly. It didn’t strike me that while I pointed at my face, I asked for the front of the hair, ONLY the front of it to have short hair. The rest of it could still be long and flowing and going way past my shoulders as usual. Now, I felt vulnerable, with my neck bare and exposed. That was the look I had way back in college a long lifetime ago.

“It’s just hair and it will grow”- I agree with what you say. But do I want to wait 2 more years to look the same? I can’t tie it, can’t make a ponytail, and wearing traditional Indian clothes is going to be a concern. All for some random unknown woman who had power in her hands and without thinking or asking me again, went snip snip.

You look cute. You look young. You look like Kajol in KKHH. You can wear more jeans and sweatshirts now. You may not look feminine, but you look smart. You look like a little puppy. I really like your new hair. You should straighten it.

People always have their own opinions. Not that it makes the transition any easier. I am still working on getting used to my new look. Every morning I walk in front of the mirror still sleepy, my eyes open wide awake at the unfamiliar person staring back at me. I look at the Dandiya and Durga puja pictures from last year and sigh.

I think it is going to take me a while to start liking myself in the mirror again.

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On Distended Bladders

Nothing feels more painful than bearing the pressure of a distended bladder. All the wrong things happen then, the bus ride gets bumpy, people elbow you accidentally, and passing by the lake watching the water takes forever, further aggravating matters. It takes a lot of will power, muscle power, and clenching power.

Nothing feels more blissful than letting go of the distended bladder. It is like piercing a pin through a balloon and watching it deflate slowly. The relief, the ecstasy, the letting go of clenched muscles while listening to your heartbeat- I am convinced that the involuntary moan sounds more authentic than an orgasmic one.

Just my 2 cents on the pangs of distended bladders.

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Cold Treatment

March 4, 2009

I find most people’s behavior in the US to be exaggerated and  melodramatic to the extent that it almost becomes obnoxiously comical. Talk about how your stupid kitty gulped down a bunch of carpet fur and got sick, or about how the man you were dating ditched you, and women will grab their chest and make a contorted facial expression, almost sinking to the floor saying “Oooo I am sooo sorry”. I mean, what is there to be sorry about a fat stupid glutton kitty eating fur or about a screwed up man who decided not to waste your time? 

People will get melodramatic for things as trivial as you getting on the wrong bus or your morning alarm not going off. It is nyakamo in its own way- ask any Bengali if you don’t know the word, I couldn’t come up with an apt translation, ooo I am soooo sorry (clenching my chest). 

You must be wondering what pissed me all of a sudden about the mannerisms of people. The move and the weather took a toll on me, not to mention my office colleague who was suspiciously sneezing for a while, and I caught one of the nastiest cold I can remember ever since I came here. It started with a choked voice and relapsed to get back to full-fledged chest congestion, sneezing, and a terrible migraine. While it was still benign last week, I was making myself some tea in the office kitchen while I coughed. This alerted my colleague, who asked me if I was doing fine. Showing her the bunch of Kleenex tissues I was holding, I told her how I thought I might be coming down with cold. 

This woman immediately flung her hand in the air with all her melodrama, made a funny face (only she thought it was funny), and exclaimed- oooo stay away from me, I don’t want to catch it. 

In India, this would be considered condescending. You don’t want to show that you put your interest and well-being before the person who is ill, even if you feel that way. What I am used to hearing when coming with a cold is- ahaare bechaari, kheyal rakhish (poor thing, take care of yourself) and not something to the effect of what she said. I understand that it is infectious, yet the first thing I would get a cold, I would derive great comfort holding my mom’s hand and going to sleep. Here, people would put you in an isolation room, especially if you have just travelled and arrived from India. 

People think India is infested with lice and rats and mosquitoes and viruses. Some believe that there is an Asian version of every disease, which you get when you travel to or from Asia. Ever heard of Asian chicken pox or Asian dermatitis? It is ridiculous people should believe such diseases even exist. So I decided to stay home on sick leave and went back to office only when I was done with most part of the flu. I still made it a point to carry disposable Kleenex tissues and not the Indian-style handkerchief to blow my nose. I was weak, had a terrible headache, and didn’t look that good. Instead of applauding me for not staying home for something as trivial as a flu, the girls in office again started moving their limbs and contorting their faces in a way that it would seem they have been electrocuted. It’s not that I was rubbing shoulders with anyone. I quietly stayed in my room, occasionally going to the kitchen to grab some tea. People dropped by to see how I was doing, and when they saw me sniffle as if a toad was stuck in my nose, acted a false run as if a mad dog was released to bite them in their you-know-where. Ooo--- stay away from me, I don’t want to catch a cold and miss work. That is what they told me. Frustrated, I just continued to work. I hoped they would spare me the melodrama and leave me alone instead of making me feel I had some STD. I wondered which was it that caused me more headache, my flu, or the paranoid melodrama it caused. It seems people have no faith in immunity, or the healing power of the body. 

sunshine.

Shifting Blues

What amazes me about shifting is the sheer amount of junk one is capable of accumulating over a period of time. I remember when I was new to this country and was happily buying stuff in a garage sale just because the concept of a garage sale was new to me and things were so dirt cheap, a wise friend of mine had rightfully remarked- Wait for a year and you will be amazed to see how much junk you accumulate in this country.

The proof lies in the fact that this is the third time I have shifted to a place on the pretext of having a bigger place so that all my things fit, while I should be thinking the other way round and cutting down on the junk I have instead of shifting to a bigger house every year to fit it all.

Greater spending power stimulates the greedy side of the brain, and you suddenly realize that you cannot do without a little private balcony to keep your plants, that you need a breakfast bar in your apartment, an elevator perhaps, and that the carpeting should look better. Ample reason to shift to a better, bigger, and a more expensive place. I know I could spare myself the cynicism since I am the culprit, yet I am unable to forget the fact that while I arrived here with 2 big suitcases 2 years ago, I needed 3 big suitcases just to fit my clothes this time. And I wouldn’t think I’d come as a shopaholic to someone who religiously monitors every sale in the city or mentions shopping as one of her passions in the social networking sites. For all the one dollar and 50 cents stuff I had crazily bought at these wonder dollar stores and wonder garage sales, I had to shell out more than 200 bucks to pay the movers I hired. Yeah movers, you heard me right. My mother is still recovering from the shock that a single person, barely 2 years in the country, has to hire movers to shift to a bigger place, perhaps to accumulate even more junk so that even this place looks smaller.

Anyhow, I have been ruthlessly trying to get rid of stuff, cane baskets I’ll never need, old rugs that don’t match the floor anymore, bulky furniture picked for free in the university areas because people just left them on the streets, and my old clothes from India that I don’t think will fit me ever again.

Time will tell how much more junk I collect in the next year or so. Like I said, it is ironic how some people suffer from scarcity while some people suffer from excess.

sunshine

Home

I have often lain in my bed, looking at the ceiling which is so familiar now. The walls, the window blinds, even the feel of the carpet under my feet feels so familiar. You could blindfold me and yet I could find every little thing you ask me in the kitchen. Or the bathroom. Or anyplace in the house. This is what happens when you live in a house for more than 2 years. When I leave for office in the morning, I lock my house subconsciously. I don’t have to look for the right keys or watch while the key is put into the door lock. I just do it out of habit. Similarly, I exactly know how much to turn the faucet to get the kind of hot water I like. Every switch and knob, every little thing I touch in the house is familiar to me. So many parties have been thrown here, so many important things have happened to me while I was in this house. I always loved the fact that there was this amazing view of the hills from the window and it was a 2 minute walk from the shopping mall. I don’t have to wait to think when someone asks me my address. I can often close my eyes and find my way in the house.

But then despite the things I have loved here, I have looked for better options. I have looked for better houses, just to get those little extra things that I do not get here. I have thought of shifting closer to my work place. I have thought of shifting to a bigger place so that I can entertain more people and have more space for myself. I have looked at other houses and have wondered if I should shift. With me earning, I can afford a little more, and you know how the things the heart craves for are endless. I started in the US in a shared housing, ended up having my own apartment without sharing, and now, I want more. Other houses have offered things different and better, sometimes a bigger kitchen to allure me, or that window facing the sunset, or a balcony where I can put some plants.

With time, a house transforms from being a structure of bricks and mortar, it becomes home. It is where you want to come back to and crash at the end of the day. It is where you want to start your day. With time, our homes become our identity. Despite my love for travel and my globe trotting expeditions, it always feels so good to put that key into the door and unlock it, to be greeted by the familiar smells of the home. I have looked at better houses, but have come home feeling guilty, as if my home is a friend personified and looking for better options would mean betraying my friend. I have wondered if the next tenant of this house would feel the same way about this house. And for more than 6 months, I have been in a dilemma. A part of me has wanted to shift to a better place with better amenities. A part of me has held me back to this place. It has told me that it is too much pain shifting. Told me that I belong to this place.

For more than 6 months, I looked at other homes and held back. I always came home feeling relieved that I decided not to shift. The familiarity of my home always welcomes me. Then one fine day, things happened, a decision was made, a deal was signed, and there it was. I’m going to be here for 3 more days. And instead of feeling happy about my new place, I feel guilty. I feel sad. I am reminded of the various important moments in my life this house has witnessed. My graduation. My first day at job. Unnecessary tension with my adviser. My home has always welcomed me and rejuvenated me.

I am leaving for a better place. And I refuse to admit that a house is merely a structure of bricks and mortar. I feel I am betraying a friend and leaving her for a better friend. I didn’t cry, but I have felt an extraordinary amount of sadness. I have been packing half heartedly. I don’t know why I even got into this whole house changing business in the very first place. On several occasions have I seen things I loved go away from me. This time, it was self-inflicted. I hope 6 months down the line I feel as attached to that place as I am to this one now. But right now, I suddenly don’t want to leave.

I feel miserable, and I just don’t know what to write more.

sunshine

Sartorial Irony

I was going through my old picture album where though astoundingly out of fashion, I still manage to look much thinner and younger. Truth be told, I would give anything to get back to that figure I had in India though mom used to make me eat right and work out even then. American food just ruined my system, and this lifestyle got me all out of shape and out of discipline. And herein lies the irony. In India, I had almost no money, lived in a conservative society, and lived with family with no access to the so called fashionable clothes. Now that I have the money and access to fashionable clothes and live in a society where I don’t have to answer to anyone about what I wear, I no longer have the figure to carry it.

This is one of the many things I have been procrastinating (along with buying that suitcase), but it’s high time I did something about the way I look now and the way I feel about myself. Am scared to call it a new year resolution because they usually remain till the first week after new year, but something needs to be done.

sunshine

A Suitcase In Time Saves –

Long long post with no promised anticlimactic end-

I am almost done with my packing for my trip to California tomorrow, though the weather predicts snow for the next many many hours, and the websites tell me dismal stories of flights getting cancelled and the airport being a pile of people and luggage going amuck. My friend predicts that I might not be able to make the trip at all, which though heartbreaking will not kill me. This week I took a lesson out of a small chapter and finally went shopping and got myself a nice red carry on suitcase. Given that the process was neither expensive not a time consuming ordeal, I wondered why I waited 2 years to do this.

Bringing those huge 2 suitcases from India like everyone does, I did not end up buying extra luggage for myself here. For the first few months, it was the conversion bug in my head, converting from USD to INR and deciding to get the suitcase on my next trip to India. The next few months, there was not much travelling to do, and then I got myself a big-hearted roommate to beg and borrow from and never had to look back to buy one again. I mean, it’s not every month that one travels, and it makes more sense to borrow than buy. Or that’s what I told myself.

My roommate became my ex-roommate, but old habits didn’t die. I planned a trip to Philadelphia, and asked her to come over for dinner. Dinner invitation would have stood anyway, suitcase or no suitcase, but I nevertheless asked her to get hers, and she willingly obliged. But there was a glitch. The suitcase had seen years of travel and was beginning to demand some servicing. One zip doesn’t function, but the other one works perfect- or so she said. The suitcase looked healthy and sturdy otherwise, I had 20 more hours before my flight took off, and what’s this not wanting to travel with a one-zip functioning suitcase? I should be fine.

And I was fine, during the entire course of my trip. The suitcase happily served me, carried the dozens of clothes I never ended up wearing, the bottles of perfumes I carried as gifts, and more. Happy, I started to shop there, now that all the gifts were given and there was so much space. I ended up going for a wine tasting tour, and ended up buying bottles of wine for the dinners I occasionally throw. This was after I located a store that sold women’s clothes for cheap, and had accumulated a loot of winter coats and jackets and what not. Wallet wise I wasn’t loaded anymore, but suitcase-wise, I was. Happy and satisfied with my loot, I started to pack on my way back.

Things were fine during the packing as well. The next morning, just before setting for the airport, I remembered that I had not packed my stockings, and unzipped the one-zip suitcase one final time to put in my stockings and make sure all was fine. And Mr. Murphy lurking in the corner like he always does, I watched with horror the only functional zip ripping itself apart, leaving my jaws as open with shock as the suitcase was.

I had 20 minutes to leave home, which was not enough time to buy myself another suitcase. This reduced my decision making and acting time to about 10 minutes, where I either had the option of trying to fix the zip, or unpack everything, take what I need the most in the small spare bag I was carrying, and catch that flight I knew was not going to be late today, of all the days when I needed that extra time. No prizes for guessing, wine bottles were discarded along with the other things I thought I could never part with. Every little thing I hated to part with that came out of that suitcase, I asked myself if I would carry it with me if my plane burst into pieces in the sky and I was falling downward into the ocean.

Finally, a lot of my stuff was discarded, and I carried whatever I could carry in that extra bag I had the sense to bring with me. I landed safe and sound, sans the one-zipped suitcase. My initial feeling of sorry changed to benign irritation when I called up my ex-roommate to apologize for her loss (of her suitcase), to be told that it was an old suitcase anyway and it would have collapsed any day. Perhaps she was trying to make me feel better and less guilty by sounding casual, but then, hey, the collapse happened while it was with me, and I had to leave more than half my loot behind me.

With time, I realized that my anger was well found, but was being hurled at the wrong person. I was the one guilty, procrastinating to take charge and buy myself a suitcase. It wasn’t the money, if I had the money to make cross country trips I also had the money to but myself a little bag. It wasn’t even about time, I waste my time enough everyday, the time I could spend organizing my life. It was just plain, unreasonable, baseless procrastination.

And it was just not about the suitcase. I soon made a list of all the things I had been procrastinating doing in life, not because of the lack of money or power or time or resources, but because sometime in life, I just decided to be plain lazy and procrastinate without reason. I am trying to work on those. But no, I am not showing you the list.

Tomorrow if snowing stops and my flight takes off, I’ll be eating my dinner in California. And now, I am the proud owner of a lovely looking gorgeous red suitcase that took me 2 years to buy, but still hasn’t made even the minutest of the dents in my pocket. It wasn’t the suitcase or the time or the money that was the problem. It was just me.

sunshine

White Winter

This year my winter is out of a Christmas greeting card. It has been snowing here non-stop, and I haven’t seen even one-tenth of this much snow the last 2 winters. In India, snow used to look very romantic in movies, with skinny women wearing flimsy clothes and jumping around. It looked so much fun making snowballs and hurling them at each other. But reality as always is far from the surreal. In reality, I haven’t seen myself wearing nice clothes and jumping around throwing snowballs at people and listening to Christmas carols while sipping coffee and eating chicken pakora in the evenings. Thanks to the snowstorm prediction before hand, I have brought tons of office work home, and am almost on the verge of having boils and sores in you-know-where, sitting on the couch all day and working on the laptop.

2 days back, we finally decided to get adventurous and venture to office, not just because we had work to bring home, but also because the weather seemed better. But this was 2 days back. On our way to office, we decided to stop at the nearby park and have some fun. Office was soon forgotten and we were jumping around and playing in the snow. Fresh snow being powdery, it is so much fun jumping on it, but equally painful and slippery to walk on it once it has melted and become sleet. And of course for all those people who always told me to learn to drive and buy a car, isn’t it great not having to clean up the car in the biting cold first thing in the morning?

Snow seemed fun and exciting initially, but now I am bored to death at home, working. I want to have a normal life again, be able to go out and meet people, walk around the streets, do grocery, have something other than chicken stew and hot chocolate, and finally, see something around me other than white. Yesterday I was looking out of my window, feeling low and depressed for some reason, and ironically craving for sunshine when I saw this very old couple holding hands and wading their way through the snow. I felt like an old person, sitting at home and watching the world go around me, too lazy and too cold to venture outside.

I think I have had enough of the snow. I have sent snow pictures home. I have stayed for days at home, wiling the snow to go away. I have had my share of white this year. And hence sunshine must set out, to California if nowhere else, just to get that sunshine and warmth again. I am done with my hibernation. I must set out to seek the sun.

sunshine