Mr. Paypal

Most of the times these days, I pay the price of unemployment. And sometimes, I do not pay the price of unemployment. Call it a social faux pas from a friend who didn’t mean bad. Let us call him Mr. Paypal.

It so happened that I was meeting this long lost friend, Mr. Paypal, for dinner. Conversation flowed smoothly (though uninterestingly) in between chomping food. Once we were done, the waiter promptly produced the check (or bill, whatever you say). Impulsively, I reached into my purse for my credit card. To which my friend rather said in a pitch a few degrees louder,

“Don’t even think of paying. Aren’t you unemployed? You need to save".

The sudden outburst definitely had a few desi heads turn in our direction, and me shifting rather uncomfortably. My initial reaction was to protest, not just at the act of paying for my meal, but also at the unfairness that Mr. Paypal has to scream out something so personal so loudly at a public dinner place so very crowded (and the crowd being desi made it worse). I was still able to pay for my meal, I wanted to protest. I did not.

I am sure my concerned friend didn’t mean to insult me or hurt my feelings. But it is funny how sometimes we vocalize things we would rather say in the mind. Aren’t we taught to not call a poor person poor, or a blind person blind? It is considered rude and insensitive, making fun of people’s miseries. On one hand, I was hurt and mildly offended at the (unintended) social faux pas. On the other hand, I agreed that Mr. Paypal was probably showing concern and was vocalizing something that was so obvious- that I should not be spending when I am not earning. It was an uncomfortable, yet a funny situation for sure. Surely he could have been more polished in his approach. Surely he could have kept his voice low. Or surely he could have paid for me and told me in addition that it was a pleasure to pay for my meals (though this is far from the truth).

It’s interesting how sometimes we blurt out the truth without malice, not realizing it could be a major faux pas. Thanks Mr. Paypal for the meal anyway. I know you didn’t mean anything bad.

sunshine

In Black and White

I met this friend of mine recently, telling her how bored I felt at times, to which she said,

“With the time you have these days, why don’t you write a book”?

I laughed it off as usual, thinking she was kidding. Writing a few blogs once in a while is fine, but a book? Later that night, I got thinking about it. What if I could really use my time writing a book? Would that work? What would I write about?

For years, I believed that I would grow up to be a writer of romantic fiction. I had grown up reading so many Mills n Boon (still do actually once in a while) that I knew the moment I held the pen, words would keep flowing. I thought I could write the same old stuff I read about a tall, well-built Italian dude falling in love with a plain Jane spinster material where sparks would fly and there would be undeniable chemistry. A few years ago, I grew out of the ambition of being a romantic fiction writer.

Coming back to the point, what would I write about if I wrote a book? I could write an autobiography, but then I don’t think I have lived half my life. So if I was planning to write something in the next few years, an autobiography would have to wait.

Instead, I could write about my childhood, since I have lived it all. Like the novel “First darling of the morning”.

I could write about the cultural divide between 2 different countries. Surely living in India and then the US will provide me enough substance. Like the “Namesake”.

I could write about all my travel experiences, given that I travel a lot. Like the novel “The ghost of Che” I have been trying to read for a while.

I could write about the field of public health I specialize in, and everything I have learnt till now. Like Robin Cook concocts fiction in the medical field, I am sure I could concoct something.

I could write a guide book to taking the GRE and the TOEFL.

I could write a stress management book to deal with unemployment and the visa hassles associated with it.

I could write about my teaching experiences from India.

I could write about the idiosyncrasy of the western world and the eastern world.

I could write about the struggles of everyday life, of learning how to cook and drive. Of learning strange accents and dealing with strange people.

Surely ideas are flowing in, now that I think about it.

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Weekdays and Weekends

It’s been a week of not going to office now. I somehow realize that the transition between weekdays and weekends is something for the working class in the US. In India, there was not much difference between the two, barring the fact that I went to school and later college in the weekdays, studying, and in weekends, I did the same at home. I will not even claim that weekends offered the luxury of sleeping late, given that I had math tuitions early in the morning. The teacher, in a bid to earn extra money, had scheduled classes at pretty weird hours of the day. Weekends also meant having more time to have meals at home, but that’s the extent to it.

When I worked in India, weekends did mean spending more time at home, but over time, it turned out to be boring. How much can one watch TV and entertain relatives at home? I would eagerly look forward to the Monday mornings when I could go to work again.

Things somewhat changed in the US. As a grad student, weekdays meant classes and weekends meant finishing homework, assignments, and studying for exams. There would be fewer people in the lab and you could spend the entire day without having to see the sun.

My really fun weekends started once I started to work. One of the things about transitioning from student life to work life meant I did not have to bring work home for the weekends. So while back in India father still went to office on Saturdays, I went on to do my own things here. Parties, shopping, dance clubs, hiking, anything not remotely related to work happened during the weekends. Work life demands a certain pattern of your attention where you have to be available 8 hours a day for 5 days, doing whatever you are asked to do (in contrast to research life where you did your own thing). It was good in a way (less responsibility, less exercising the mind) but things often got difficult by Wednesdays. Monday morning I would somehow drag myself to office. Tuesdays acceptance had set in and I knew another 4 backbreaking work days were ahead. Wednesdays often meant middle of the week. People would put up status messages like “After Mondays and Tuesdays, even the week says WTF” (WTF stands for WTF and also the other 3 days of the week). Thursdays were spent chanting “one more day, yes I can do it, one more day”. Fridays breezed through because you knew the next 2 days were yours for whatever you wanted to do. The office would empty by 4-5pm (depending on summer or winter). People would put up fancy status messages on Facebook like “Can’t wait for the weekend”, “Thank God it’s Friday”, and so on.

I have never been busier on the weekends. This summer, I haven’t been home a single weekend. I was either traveling or learning to drive. Instead of feeling rested, I’d go to office Monday morning feeling more tired. Theoretically weekends were meant for sleeping late, but it never happened to me. Even during inclement weather, it was mostly partying and socializing. How I loved my weekends. Starting Sunday evening, depression and tiredness (aka Monday morning blues) would set in. The cycle went on for more than a year.

This week has been disorienting, given that every day is a weekend now. Since the weather is not at its best self, given the rain and cold, I have been mostly indoors. It happened so many times I lost track of the day or the date. Even today, I did not realize it is Friday. I can totally see how the contrast between weekdays and weekends has faded for me and everyday seems like the same to me. I did read books, watch movies, hang out with friends and shopped, but I somehow felt like a bored wife of a rich man, directionless (the worse thing being neither a husband nor richness was in the picture). I frankly don’t miss my job, but miss being employed and engaged. I do have important assignments to finish, packing, selling, finishing deadlines, sorting my life, but am not really rushed. How I empathize with people who have lost their jobs.

Come tomorrow, the weekend will be yet another 2 days for me, of the same color and flavor, with nothing extraordinarily nice to look forward to. I pray that this is just a phase, just a break for me before I venture out into something more meaningful. These are the times I wish I could look into the future.

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Deeper (in) Thought

So this hypothetical person I was talking about yesterday popped up in my thoughts again during meditation. This time the trigger was a little more severe, and I was sure that unreciprocated signals do not take wings and fly to the people we want them to go to. We ourselves need to take a proactive step in order to untangle this web of emotions. I had this clear vision in my mind, and this surge of energy when I wanted to just go and do all the things I had procrastinated for days, months, and years. Unsaid things, unshared things, things that needed to be taken care of.

But then in parallel thoughts, I realized that the little problems and issues of our lives are lost in the broader frame of time or the broader perspective of the universe. In a universe where we are dealing with changes like planets changing shape and stars burning till they burn out, our wishes and desires are but as insignificant as a little molecule. In a timeframe measured in millions of years, our years of life (and the lesser years of happiness) are lost somewhere without trace. I realized how I had ignored the two things I was passionate about for years- astronomy and human physiology. There was a time when I read all I could about these two areas, not to get good marks or knowledge, but to be lost in the depth of these subjects.

So during the next few hours of meditation, my thoughts were again lost in issues of unsaid or unreciprocated feelings, astronomy, and the universe. I don’t quite realize how I kept flipping from one topic to the other. I guess meditation screws around a lot with your thought processes. But at the end of it, I was back to my question. Is it safer to not reveal feelings and opinions in the fear of rejection or a lack of reciprocation?

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Deep (in) Thought

Meditation gives you a surge of freedom of expression. It frees the mind of the barriers created by the mind itself.

During 2 hours of meditation this evening, this is all I thought about. Is it okay to reveal your feelings to someone not knowing if it will be reciprocated, or rather knowing it will not be reciprocated? One might argue that if signals have not come from both the sides, the feeling is perhaps not mutual, and it is wise to keep mum. Perhaps anything more than friendship would complicate things, and one would be putting friendship at stake. But then, it is not comforting to die not knowing if things could have been different, or if the feelings were mutual but latent. It is like running the risk of opening a box, not knowing the contents inside. The box might as well be empty, or maybe filled with all the goodness.

Of course one could come out of the emotional bondage and analyze things for what they are. One could go back chronologically and look for signals, any signal, even a slight one. Maybe the feelings were never mutual. Maybe the feelings were mutual, but well hidden. Maybe the feelings were not there initially, but needed a trigger, a sign, an indication to develop. Which brings us back to the original problem. One will never know until one asks.

And like a computer program (BASIC language I learnt in school), like a cascade mechanism, these thoughts wrapped themselves around my head again and again all the time I meditated.

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For the lack of a better word

I remember an incident from childhood when I was 9 or 10 years old. The big boss was supposed to visit us home. He was THE man in father’s office, some sort of the regional manager. I don’t see it these days, but inviting colleagues, especially the ones from the higher hierarchy was something people including my father practiced. While the home was spruced up and the best food was cooked, I was supposed to look neat, smile, and speak when asked to. Not that I particularly cared or looked forward to these meetings, but these “big bosses” were usually from one of the IIMs or XLRI, and it intrigued me to find out what did it take to become like one of these luminaries. On a different note, years later, I find that brand names like IIM, IIT, or MIT has kinda lost its charm for me.

I was always the one in my family known for my better English. The big boss turned out to be a big, obese man in a suit who sweated a lot. While father went in the kitchen to help mother with the food, I was asked to sit and chitchat with the big boss. Soon father summoned me inside and told me in Bengali to ask the big boss if he was feeling hot and wanted more breeze.

Now this has happened to be over the years. A thought goes in my head but when I am supposed to vocalize it, I just blank out. I seriously don’t know how to put the words together to make a coherent sentence. I looked at the big boss, clueless how to ask him in English if he need more breeze. I helplessly looked at the ceiling fan above me, hoping that he would get the clue. Words like “Fan, more or less, on or off, you want more air?” formed in my head, but I knew it was wrong English. Fan, more or less? You want air? I would have laughed (without malice) if someone had asked me that. The seconds seemed like hours and I wished someone would come to my rescue. The big boss got confused with my confused look. Helplessly, I pointed my finger towards the ceiling fan and arched my eyebrows twice. Sign language for the big boss? It was the funniest thing I have done.

Right at this moment, father entered the room and asked if the big boss was feeling hot and if the ceiling fan was helping. Inside, I wanted to shrink into a molecule and vanish. I wondered what the big boss made of a tiny girl pointing to the fan and arching her eyebrows.

And this has happened to be so many times. Just when I am expected to talk, I grope for the right word, desperately trying to come up with an alternative phrase that is still correct English. Last week I wanted to ask my friend when his girlfriend is graduating. Can you imagine I could not think of a simple word like “graduating”. After babbling for seconds, I ended up asking when she is passing out. The moment I said it, I realized how wrong it sounded. To which my friends replied grimly, “Passing out is fainting. Do you mean when she is graduating?”

My embarrassment knew no bounds.

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Disoriented

Friday was my last day in office. The weekend was terrible. I was all lachrymose and low spirited. Even the rain and cold didn’t help much. Someone gossiped to another person that my unemployment related status updates on Facebook are mostly to get some unnecessary sympathy and I should get a hold on myself. Like it usually happens in these girly conversations where the speaker always tries to extract a promise of “Don’t tell her”, word reached me sooner than expected. I was livid. Here I was dealing with this shit, and here I was being subjected to some serious moral policing.

Friday night I drove home alright, turned off the lights, and went to bed. Not that I could sleep. After hours of crying and sobbing, a friend was nice enough to take me out for dinner. I came home and cried more.

The same continued Saturday and Sunday. I was tired, grumpy, hungry, and irritable. I snapped a few times at a friend and rightfully got back some dose from him. It was a wrong idea to watch a depressing movie [Jail] and I ended up crying more. I don’t think I ate more than one meal.

Come Monday, I feel disoriented. I woke up at 7 as usual. Only there was no hurry this time. It’s amazing on how many occasions I have cursed myself about waking up early, dreamt of long vacations when I would sit idle at home and not do anything. When it happened, I was far from my dreamland.

I think this is my first day of unemployment ever in life. I mean bachelors led to masters, masters led to my teaching job, which led to US. US masters led to another job. I remember graduating on a Friday and joining the very next Monday. Lack of time was always the problem, never excess of it.

So I have spent all day cleaning my house, scrubbing, dusting, and moping. I realize there is no need to do that. But I need to keep my mind occupied, else I’d go crazy. Too many times the last few days I have been tempted to get my tickets for Florida. But traveling alone I realize is not my forte. I admire my friend who is just back from her 6 week long trip from India and Europe, all on her own. My childhood programming comes in my way of seeking bliss from traveling alone. “Eka eka jaabe na, bipod e pore jaabe” [Don’t venture out alone, you will be in trouble]. So said everyone I have ever known in my life.

I need to do something more meaningful. Try finding more jobs. Apply to more schools. Maybe get into a routine, develop a hobby, participate in an event. It’s insane to sit at home all day, staring at the grayness outside. I am not thinking straight enough to figure out what I should be doing to sort this state of inner chaos. But something has to be done soon.

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The Travel Itch

I suffer from a travel itch. I can (and do) spend hours fiddling with google maps and the various websites for booking flights online. I seriously suspect someone in office tracked the amount of google map surfing I do and fired me, masking it to be a lay off. When my boss summoned me to his office last Monday and told me that Friday will be my last day, one of my very first thoughts was, “Wow, I can really do some traveling before prices escalate during Christmas. Maybe even go to Europe before going back to India”. You get the picture, right? 

 Travel-wise, this year had been superb. Locally, I visited all the places I wanted to. Every week in summer was meant for hiking. And then, I fondly remember some long trips I want to recap. The first day of my year started with a trip to Los Angeles and San Diego. Universal studio, Disneyland, Hollywood, La Jolla beach, it was everything I could ask for. Seattle had recorded maximum snow and I was so glad to be out there, getting some sun in Southern California. February and March mostly saw me busy with my play performance, and moving to the new apartment. I think April was the same too. The main fun started in May. Come May, I think I went to a new place every weekend. I was in Hawaii, one of my dream destinations. Then I was in northern California, mainly San Francisco, Monterey Bay, and Big Sur. I think I was home for one weekend and then the last one I took off to the east coast. Philadelphia, Delaware, Washington DC, Shenandoah Valley, New York City, and Princeton. It was an amazing month for me. 

Starting June, I was mostly hiking in and around the state of Washington. Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, and those numerous drives. Seriously, if you ever consider living in the Pacific North West, you will get to see the most amazing mountains and rivers and scenery. The sheer beauty of this place compensates for all the rains. The July 4th weekend saw me on a road trip with 8 others to Yellowstone National Park and Grand Teton National Park. August saw me celebrating my birth day weekend at Olympic National Park and then Mount St. Helens. Come September, I was out on another road trip to Glacier National Park in Montana. In between, the one good thing I had learnt to do was drive. Come October, I had covered Mount Baker, Olympic National Park, going all the way up to the north western most tip of continental USA. The North Cascades National Park was another new place I drove to. I singlehandedly drove 2,000 miles in a week. 

By then, the news of my lay off had reached me, and my enthusiasm had somewhat dampened. Thanksgiving was a brief drive to Leavenworth. I was mostly busy applying for graduate school. Come December, I explored the Oregon coast a bit, with Cannon Beach. What next? I don’t know. There is Christmas and New Years. But airfares are crazy. I have been itching for a trip to Florida, have been so tempted to take that 10:25pm flight to Florida for the last 3 days now. But traveling alone to Florida really sounded depressing. Still knowing me, I will not be surprised if 2 mornings later, I find myself in Florida. I have been to 12 states this year, and 7 national parks, which is frankly not a lot. 

In the meantime, I saw this movie Dasvidaniyan and made a list of all the places I want to travel next year. Given my layoff, I don’t know if I have enough time or money. But I definitely want to go visit Florida, Hawaii (again), Alaska, Grand Canyon, the national parks in Utah, Crater national park in Oregon, and Niagara Falls. In the meantime, I can derive some vicarious pleasure from google maps. I think the only way to cure the travel itch is by traveling. 

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Changes

Tomorrow is my last day in office. I am on vacation till the end of December. After that, I go back to India.

Surely I didn’t plan it this way. I wished my job would extend a little longer. But 4 months of uncertainty was long enough. And I don’t have a legal and valid visa without a job. Hence, I am left with no other option but move back.

Years ago when I was having difficulty in adjusting to life in the US, I had told a friend that the dream of succeeding in the US is like a baby. I don’t know if my baby will live. I don’t know how long my dream will live. That was 3 years ago.

Sure it lived a while, long enough for me to complete my masters and work for a year. But the dream had to die.

Right now the impact of what is going to happen hasn’t hit me. Very mechanically, I am wrapping up my work in office, planning to sell of stuff, and looking at deals for India. But realization is going to hit soon. I might get into school again and come back. But that is all in the future, and the future frankly looks quite uncertain. Right now the only thing I know is that I am going to be very busy the next few weeks wrapping up my life here.
-
A chapter in my life will soon end.

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Test of Patience

I would never know the reason why admissions committee across the US decided that a masters degree from a US institution doesn’t exempt one from taking the TOEFL. One needs to have a bachelors degree as well as a masters degree from a US institution to be exempted from the TOEFL. What this means is that 21 years of my study in English, including the 2 years of masters in the US was not enough to convince people that I am well versed in English. The TOEFL scores expire every 2 years. Thus I was supposed to take the exam again.

My own alma mater told me they would reject my application unless a new TOEFL score was presented. This was when they had a copy of my almost perfect TOEFL score from 2005.

It was not so much the difficulty of the exam as it was the hassle of taking it again.

First, I was surprised to find that they had increased the fee to $170. Now that is a LOT of money to prove that you can understand English. Second, I didn’t find a single available date in my city for the next 4 months. This meant I had to drive to the nearest city that had an earlier date. The earlier date again turned out to be a 2 month wait. And the nearest city I could take it was in the neighboring state of Oregon, almost 200 miles or a 3 hour drive away. And the only time slot available was 7:30 in the morning.

You get the picture, right?

It wasn’t a test of my English. It was a test of my patience.

The pattern of the test was quite different from what I remembered the last time. First, there were now four sections instead of 3 – comprehension, listening, speaking, and writing. Second, the test seemed lengthier than it used to be. They gave me 5 passages in the comprehension alone, with 14 questions each. That sums up to 70 questions. The listening section had 3 passages with 17 questions each. That was 51 questions already. The speaking test was a new addition and had 6 passages. The writing section had 2 tasks, compared to the last time when there was 1. Difficulty-wise I don’t know, but more than that, it was an exhausting, five hour long exam. It started at 7:30 am and dragged until after noon.

And then they gave me two choices. Do you want to accept your score? Do you want to reject your score?
With a thudding heart, I clicked on the ACCEPT button.

Are you sure? It next asked me.

YES YES YES … I wanted to scream. I clicked on the YES button again.

Congratulations. You have successfully completed the test. Scores will be sent in 3 weeks.
What the …….

This isn’t a test of my English. This is a test of my patience.

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“Friend”ly Distinction

Today when so many people we barely know are “friends” on our social networking sites, I am reminded of an episode long time ago. I think I was in class 4 or 5. I knew a girl in my class who I rarely interacted with. She had her own set of friends, belonged to a different state, spoke a different language, and had nothing in common with me. We sat in opposite corners of the classroom. She was short and I was tall, and thus never even stood close to each other in those queues we made during the assembly. The only time I heard her name and her voice was when the teacher took the class attendance every morning and I heard her “present ma’am”.

It so happened that my father happened to know her father, which we discovered accidentally. My father had to go meet her father for some work and asked me if I would like to tag along and visit my friend. I was not very excited at the thought of it and hence decided to stay home.

The rest of the story, we heard from my father. He was at their place when my friend entered to say hi. My father smiled and asked her if she knew he was her school friend’s father. To which she smiled and said yes, and corrected my father saying “Although she is not a friend, she is a classmate”.

My father was very intrigued with the wisdom of a 11 year old. When I heard this, I was angry at first, but later realized that what she said was not to demean or insult me, she just spoke the truth. We must have barely spoken 3 times in school, sat at different corners, never shared or food, never hung out with the same set of friends, and had nothing in common.

Years later, I still appreciate the wisdom of what she said. We use the word “friend” in very general terms, referring to anyone we meet in the train, work with, go to school with, are neighbors with, or even study in the same class with. You go to a class with classmates, go to work with colleagues, and so on. Friend cannot be a generalized word used to describe classmates, colleagues, or contacts. Someone who is not a friend doesn’t necessarily have to be an enemy. But not everyone you are civil to and in good terms with is a friend.

On the same note, it would be interesting to have categories like classmates, colleagues, contacts, neighbors, relatives, etc. on these social networking sites. True, not everyone is a friend.

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The conversation I needed

It’s been more than 2 months and I am still looking for a job. It’s been frustrating, scary, and disappointing. The fact that I live alone in a huge house only added to my depression. Unexplainable, but I have had mood swings. I have cried myself to sleep. I have refused to answer phone calls from friends. I have snapped at friends when I need not have. I have tried to explain to myself that it is just a phase that shall pass. I have tried taking care of myself, almost as if I was another person taking care of me. My innards have experienced every raw emotion- pain, fear, agony, numbness, rejection, and more. I have tried to hold on and keep moving.

At some point, I decided not to give up, but apply to school again. One of the things I needed to do was to call my ex-colleague and school principal to request for recommendation letters. The first call never went through, and the second had so much background noise that nothing could be heard. It was the familiar noise of children in the school screaming. How I missed my other life back in Kolkata.

When the call finally went through, we talked for a long time. I told her how lost I felt here, how disoriented and depressed I was, unwanted in my job. I was amazed at how I had vocalized my fears for the first time, and that too to a person living half way across the globe with who I had shared a very formal and professional relationship.

“You were a very good teacher, and I know you will do well. You will find a job. And even if you don’t, come back. You will always have your job ready for you back here”.

These must have been the magic words I needed to hear, some kind of positive reinforcement, someone telling me I was good enough and more, that I am capable and worthy. Those were the magic words I had least expected from her. After that, I got a strength I did not have before but so very needed it.

I decided not to look back. I decided to apply to schools. If I had done it once, I can do it again. I still live on my own and feel depressed at times. Who wouldn’t? But with that, I feel a strength, a confidence from the knowledge that not all doors are closed for me. It’s amazing how a little bit of acceptance does wonders, and how strength and encouragement comes from the least expected places.

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To the random desi man

Dear random-person in the Indian store, 

I go to the store for a reason. I go there to buy the essentials I need, food items, good movies, sweets and candies, spices and vegetables. However, things have changed the last few visits. You see, I barely remember the first day I saw you. I try to stick to my shopping regime that consists of buying things, paying for it, smiling to the cashier and thanking her while she packs my stuff, lugging it to my car, and driving away. Sometimes I meet a friend of two I know, exchange a few pleasantries, and continue with my shopping. 

However I don’t think a store is a place to make random friendship. I know you are that random guy who organizes events in the city. I understand that for publicity, you will want to be in contact with as many people you can. The first day you shoved a flyer of some upcoming dance party in my hand. You also asked me if I was on Facebook and you would like to add me so that I was updated on any event. You see, if I am interested, I will find out about these events. I mumbled something non-sensical to you. You should have understood that I am not interested to add you, and was politely trying to avoid you. 

The next time I went to the store, you were there again. You asked me if I had looked you up on FB, and that you could not find me. I didn’t even remember your name from the last time. Why did you think I would look you up? And you were unable to find me for a reason. I do not add strangers. You shoved a paper with your name in my hands again, asking me to add you this time. I mumbled again. I wonder why you don’t get the cue. If I was interested, I would have asked you for your contact details. I came back and looked you up, you had some 800 friends on FB. I am sure not all of these are “friends” you grew up with, went to school with, or shared your personal life with. Most of them are innocent unsuspecting individuals you randomly pick at the store, shove some flyer into their hand, and urge them to add you. I wonder if this is a “desi meets desi in foreign country and instantly feels the connection” trait, because I feel no such connection with desis. I felt no connection with you. As a part of our upbringing, we are taught not to say a rude “NO” to anyone. In fact rude or not, we are taught to be nice to everyone. My mumbling and not encouraging you was a euphemistic “NO” from my side. 

The other day I was about to go to the shop again, I saw you inside and just slipped into some other store. You are now losing business, because of your meddling nature. You see, I cannot imagine any non-desi at the Safeway or Fred Meyer grocery store shoving a paper with his name in my hand, expecting me to add him on FB. It is considered unprofessional behavior. In any case, if I can bank on some extra-human waves reaching you, I would hope you get the message and not probe me further. Thank you. 

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Driving Dynamics

They pass you with speed, they change lanes in front of you without their indicators on. They honk when you slow down a bit, as if they need to catch the train to Mars in 5 minutes. They strum impatiently on their wheels as they wait at the traffic lights. The moment you flash your indicators for changing lanes, they speed up and drive past you. And then they wait for you to get into the lane while they slow down. They signal a thank you with their hands when you let them into their lane. They let you pass, they let you change lanes, and they slow down till you pick up speed. There are all kinds of people you encounter while driving. Studying the dynamics of human behavior while you drive is amazing. You don’t see any of these drivers, but just the way they drive, speed up, slow down, give you (or don’t give you) space can say so much about people. When I didn’t know how to drive, I never noticed these things. We were on our way to Philadelphia when my cousin remarked, “See this guy over there is about to change lanes and come in front of us”. Within seconds, he had done the same. The way the car in front of us wavered slightly told my cousin that the driver is indecisive as to which lane he should drive in. And then there are those stereotypes as to the person driving extremely slowly and blocking the other cars right during rush hours is either an old person, a woman, or a person from our neighboring country in the north (I did not make these stereotypes). The person making last moment, rash turns is definitely a woman, an old woman, or an old woman from that same neighboring country. Though I do not like to stereotype, it turns out to be true most of the time.

Once you are a little comfortable driving, you start to notice these dynamics of human interaction with each other. You can be categorized mean, close minded, or rash depending on whether you let others pass, slow down for others, or drive at your own whims and fancies. And what am I, if you are wondering, I would say I am kind to people most of the time, letting them pass, change lanes, or slow down without bullying them. The only time I get my kicks not letting people merge into my lane is when single drivers have been driving in a carpool lane unlawfully and desperately try to merge in after spotting a cop car ahead.

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Who moved my chicken again??

Part 1: Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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An Over Documented Life

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

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

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

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

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

Hawaii trip. 700 pictures. To be sorted later.

San Francisco trip. 200 pictures. Later.

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

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

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

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

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Publicly Transported

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

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

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

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

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

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Need For Speed

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

Unless you see lights flashing behind you of course.

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

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

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

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

And that was my first speeding ticket.

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

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

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

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

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Downsizing

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

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

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

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

Till next time.

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The Others

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

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

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

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

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