It was never about you, but the answer is still a NO

Prospective students who apply to multiple graduate schools in the US get a bunch of acceptances and rejections. I have been one such applicant who has received a bunch of rejects this year, and have a basic problem with the way the rejection letters are framed.

You see, rejection in the very first place is upsetting, be it from a boy friend, a job, or a school. You research about a school, spend money and time, and invest expectations waiting to be accepted. If you have applied somewhere, it is because you want to go there. But it is understandable that not all schools can admit every applicant. What annoys me is a stiff, non-customized response they write as a rejection letter. Here take a look at the edited version of one of these:

“Many factors go into the faculty's admissions recommendations. One thing is clear, however; the competitive climate surrounding admissions into the College of XXXX - with a high number of applications and a limited number of spots available - makes it impossible for the faculty to recommend admission for many strong candidates. I hope you will not see this decision as a permanent setback, but instead continue to take seriously your professional interests in the field of XXXX and continue pursuing your ambitions for a graduate degree.”

This is the usual story about how there were many applicants and hence many strong ones could not be admitted. This doesn’t say anything about the strength of your application. Rejection should be done in a way that it makes the person being rejected feel good about himself. This idea of many strong applicants being rejected is made to make the department or the school feel good about themselves. If I have spent some $90 and 8 hours researching and applying to your school, and another $80 ordering GRE scores, TOEFL scores, transcripts, recommendations and mailing them, I might as well demand an honest explanation for being rejected. I’d much rather have a rejection letter from XYZ that reads like “We regret to inform you that you did not make it to Harvard because your GPA wasn’t good enough, your professor screwed up your recommendations, you have spent too many years fooling around, and there have been much better applicants than you are” instead of the usual “many candidates applied and we had to reject many brilliant ones”. Sorry it doesn’t tell me anything about my potential as a Harvard applicant (just for example).

The same happened at job where the manager at the beginning was beating around the bush and refused to give me an honest answer. Later I came to know that we lost revenue through clients and it wasn’t the usual crap of me not being a good fit and all that.

Breakups, don’t even ask. I think a post-breakup explanation session must be mandated for everyone. No abuses or calling names. Just sit in peace and explain things. Stop bullshitting that I was never good enough for you and it wasn’t anything about you but it was about me. If you are breaking up because your mom is giving you a hard time and asking you to choose between the two, just let me know that you are a sissy.

The next time a hear a NO, I DEMAND an explanation that makes sense.

sunshine

Blog-Away

This has been by far the longest I have stayed away from my blog, almost risking myself the “most infrequent and dedication-less blogger” award of the year. A lot has happened ever since. After staying with G and subjecting myself to all the “andre-pandre” talk, and learning quite a bit of it in the process, my architect friend S who was leaving for India asked me to cat sit. So I moved to her house, close to my favorite lake, and the next few weeks went by cleaning kitty potty, running around the lake, reading, and deriving pleasure from the simplistic things in life. It was during one such session of my 2.8 mile jog that I get a call from the US immigration services, informing me that my visa (and my duration of stay) in the US has expired and I need to leave. Now every incident I describe here is worth a dozen blog posts, but I’ll be brief. I get myself a ticket to India, pack my bags, and in 8 days, I set out for India. That is roughly one-fourth the time I spent planning my trip to Hawaii.

So after three and a half years of my US stay, I am finally back to India since the last 48 hours. Make that another dozen worth of snobbish “US returned blogger finds India as dirty and as crowded as ever” blogs in just 2 days of my experiences here. I don’t have a fixed plan, a travel itinerary or a determined duration of stay per se, but as of now I am back to the city of joy. And no, I am not going around carrying mineral water bottles and wearing designer sunglasses to beat the heat. I have just refused step out of home.

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The Language of Andre Pandre

Part 2 is here.

No matter how much I made fun of the people below Madhya Pradesh who shall remain unnamed lest I am tagged a racist, fate ensured I live in close proximity to them. My ears could initially pick up nothing that sound different from andre-pandre, a language which people otherwise call Tamil, but these days, I am trying to train my otherwise linguistically challenged ears to understand bits and pieces of Tamil.

Baby Kalyani is getting her first lessons in Tamil too, but she, with a total of 4 teeth, 2 above and 2 below, barely speaks anything coherent. So I made a list of the key words and literally rattafied them (like some say, learnt them by heart). Now whenever G converses andre-pandre, I recognize it to be more than andre-pandre, picking up certain key words here and there.

Fluent in 3 Indian languages and English, I had long forgotten my initial lessons when mother would have made me repeat words after her and taught me the syntax and grammar of a language. I find myself a kid again, learning the basics of a language because it drove me insane, living in a house full of people and not understanding a word of what they said.

So I started with learning that “ongo” added to a verb made it a sign of respect (like Telugu people add andi to respect others, no matter how scandalous it sounds). So “poh” means go and “pongo” means please go. Also “wah’ means come and “wango” means please come. You have to excuse my spellings here, since I spell things exactly the way I hear them. I tried adding words of my own that rhymed with pongo and wango, like tango and mango, but it seems it makes no sense in Tamil. I would only think if you were to call a man with respect, you would call him mango. Forgive my PJs here, they only grow worse as I approach senility.

Then I learnt some more verbs that would see me through the day. “Saapad” is to eat, something I remembered by rhyming it with papad. “Papad Saapad” is eat a papad. Eating had to be followed by drinking, which funnily enough is called “kudi”. So while G asked me to “kudi”, I blushed thinking she is complementing me to be a sohni kudi (a young and beautiful girl in Punjabi). Now since I was wondering what exactly to drink, I learnt that “tanni” is water and “pal” (Like the Bengali actor Taposh Pal) is milk. So tanni kudi, pal kudi, and sohni kudi are the 3 similar sounding phrases I know these days.

Of course the quintessential Bong that I am, eating and drinking had to be followed by shitting. This again in Tamil is kakka, a Bengali equivalent of kaka, the uncle. When I learnt this, I thought of all my uncleswith their sad faces at having been called shit, and silently asked them to forgive me. Life will never be the same again, especially every time I meet an uncle of mine, and try addressing him. Sighs !!!

I picked up other basic words, like “kaartaal” for morning, and “sayankaal” for evening. “Aama” is consenting, with “amma-appa” are mom and dad. “Appa inge” is where is father, to which a happy baby Kalyani smiles and whispers “fisshhh”, meaning office. Since the whereabouts of the father was not important to me, I substituted appa with other words. “Mottai inge” was where is the bald head, which I remembered from the term “matha motta” in Bengali, meaning a dim witted, brainless person. Matha or bald head by default in Tamil means “mottai”. All mathas are mota. But I am not making fun of anyone. I am merely trying to learn the language through associations.

After “mottai”, “kaad” had to mean ear, mook had to mean “nose” (while I would think it means mouth). “Kaad” reminded me of “kadal” meaning love, I had learnt during my teens when like all foolish teenagers, I had resolved to learn how to say the word in every language. “Rhomba” means big, or a lot, a word that always reminds me of a rhombus from geometry classes. Then there is “pinnadi” and “munnadi”, one meaning the front and the other meaning the rear, though I don’t know which one exactly means what.

There are many food dishes that all end with “al”…. aviyal, poriyal, thuvayal, nariyal, and many more. Okay, not the last one, but one of these days I have to ask G the reason behind such culinary nomenclature. And then I have randomly learnt some stuff. Pongo Kulingo is please go take a bath, something to which baby Kalyani cracks up and smiles a toothless, gummy smile the moment I tell her. It is possible it sounds funny, the way I speak Tamil. And then I keep telling G how my room looks like a couppa thoti (dustbin).

Little words. Baby steps. I like the progress I am making every day, a few words here and there. These days not all the things people say around me sound alien, or andre-pandre-ish. I am picking up little words here and there, so that I know if G is bitching about another female friend on the phone, cribbing about how the other friend has no sense of potty-training the baby, or how the other friend she doesn’t care about was showing off big time on her trip to Florida.

But other than the few words I understand, the rest all still sounds like andre-pandre.

sunshine

Part 2 is here.

Living Throes- A New Chapter

Being unemployed brought with it a lot of transitions. While I wanted to stay here long enough to find myself a job or a substitute engagement, paying bills and rent became somewhat of a challenge. I struggled with the idea of temporarily moving with someone after my lease expired. It was a difficult decision- letting go of your independence, your space and privacy, something the US teaches you. Back in India, I hardly cared about living under the same roof with my parents, sibling, and relatives who visited us too frequently to be called visitors. Yet here even the thought of sharing someone else’s space made me think again, not just in terms of someone encroaching my space, but also in terms I encroaching their space.

The first hurdle came in finding someone I would like enough to stay with. I approached a few friends and finally I moved in with G and her family, who were more than happy to host me. The next hurdle was to physically move from my apartment. The stress of moving is often underestimated. It started with selling off my furniture, getting rid of things I did not need, and packing the rest into boxes. Every stage of moving is such a Herculean task that I could write chapters about it. Earlier this month, I finally said adieu to my apartment and moved in with G. It seems like living out of suitcases. All my belongings are stacked in boxes in their garage. I look at the boxes and sigh – for all the stuff I accumulated in 3 years and had a pretty functional home going for me, it seems as if my life has been dismantled and stored in boxes.

In the meantime while I wait in anticipation for some news everyday, maybe an admit from a school, life has been quite different ever since I moved here. Her 16-month-old baby Kalyani keeps me busy, and I am observing and learning so much from being with the little one. Last Sunday when I finally moved out of my apartment, I was inconsolable. Packing and cleaning had seeped me out of my energy. As I said a final goodbye to my apartment, I knew I was stepping into a life of uncertainty and quasi-homelessness. Not that G or her family has ever made me feel unwelcome, but just the thought of leaving your apartment, your space was scary. Everything took a while to get used to- the different bed, the different door knobs, the smell of the house, the feel of carpet beneath my feet.

Sunday evening I called my friend who lives in Kirkland and howled on the phone. I had no reason to cry [I should have been happy on the contrary that someone was nice enough to let me stay at their place]. I felt like a little baby who has started going to school. I felt vulnerable, miserable, and insecure. Deep down I had this thought of feeling like a homeless.

However things started to fall into place soon. I got used to living in a new household. I started with making myself useful and helping in simple things like taking care of baby Kalyani, unloading the dishwasher, and so on. But it does feel great to have company, to share your morning tea with someone, to have a partner for gym, and of course a baby to smile at you and keep you on your toes. I am getting used to the idiosyncrasies and the food habits of a Tamil household. Not that I understand much of what they converse.

That has been my life so far- getting used to the changes, waiting forever in dilemma, praying I get an admit from a decent school, and waiting in a limbo. It’s not the best of the situations to be in, but in a way, I am lucky that I still have a house to live in and people to care for me. The nice little things people do for you during your hard times really remain as blessings with you. Let’s see what life has to offer after this.

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Scar(r)y Vegetable Story

My friend G has a granny, like every friend, and every human in general does. G’s granny is different though. She seems to be the enlightened one, knowledgeable about things around her, and always full of examples and anecdotes from life.

She explained to G long back how the marriage market works. It’s like a buyer in the busy vegetable market. The earlier you went there, the better the supply of vegetables was. Crisp, fresh, green, nutritious, healthy vegetables, no puns intended. The later you went in the day, the more the chances you ended up with rotten vegetables, not fit to be consumed except by the flies. So the earlier you decided to tie the knot, the better you had your chances of finding the person of your choice. The older you got, the lesser your choices were. All that remained in the unmarried market were scarred, rotten vegetables.

I kept listening to G’s granny’s words of wisdom, with a scary image forming in my head. I was in a vegetable’s market, much later in the day, where there were hardly any vegetables left. The ones that were there were the rejected ones. Was that what I’d end up buying? Or would I go home vegetable-less?

Then I had an even more scary image in my head. Someone was sifting through the vegetables later in the day. I was one of the rotting vegetables.

Bummer !!!

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FREE Works

I was trying to get rid of my TV and entertainment center for months. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but with me having to move, there was no way I could carry a TV with me. It was a nice 24” flat screen TV, with blah blah blah features as if I understood the features), that sat on a nice, classy entertainment center. Not the random free stuff you find abandoned on streets near the university.

2 months ago, I put an ad on craigslist. A few responded and showed interest, but no one showed up. People wrote to me asking about this and that, the features, the color, the dimensions, and incomprehensible terms (for me) like it having RCA jacks for video game hooks up, etc. Not knowing what to do, I reduced the price drastically. Still nothing worked. I kept getting emails with people asking for the same stuff I had already mentioned in the ad. Yet no one bought it. I was giving away my TV and entertainment center for $35 now (which was nothing compared to the original price), yet nothing worked. Even posted it on the Microsoft site and my apartment’s notice board. An apartment-mate finally showed up, checked it out, made me play the TV to make sure it works, told me he will be back with the money, and never came back.

I looked at my TV in sadness, feeling attached every bit, not wanting to part with it, yet knowing I do not have the means to carry it with me. My TV felt like one of those dark skinned girls in the fair and lovely ads that failed to secure a husband and felt unwanted. I wondered what was wrong.

For 2 weeks, I further reduced the price to $20. Still nothing happened.

Then my friend gave me an idea to donate it to the salvation army. She told me to schedule an appointment on the phone so that they could come pick it up. Sounded great to me. I knew I will not get a price for my TV, but at least it would go for some good purpose. I called them to schedule an appointment. They gave me a waiting time so long I knew right away I did not have that much time. Here I was donating my TV for free, yet no one wanted to come take it. Even salvation army option didn’t work.

Then I put an ad on craigslist, but this time in the “free stuff” section. By now, I was pretty sure that my TV was staying with me. If people didn’t buy it for $20, if the salvation army didn’t pick it soon enough for free, why would things be any different now?

So I put an ad again during the evening. And something just changed.

By night, I had 25 emails responding to my “Free TV”. Everyone wanted to come grab it as soon as possible. Now they didn’t care about the dimensions or the features of the TV. One guy even emailed me in a language script (probably Chinese) I did not understand. Another one scribbled me an email is haste and did not check what he wrote, so that when I read it, it was “Hi I want to get you free…”. No one wanted me to deliver it, no one asked questions. I replied to everyone telling that I did not care who took it, whoever came first could get it.

I was in deep sleep when the phone rang. I picked it up with a groggy voiced “hello” when the person on the other side of the line told me he is all ready to get my TV. I squinted at the bedside clock. It was 6:30 am in the morning, and pitch dark outside. Who would wake up in this cold weather and be set to fetch a TV so early because it was for free?

Within minutes, a tall, thin, lanky, bespectacled guy (who looked like a cross between Sheldon’s body and Leonard’s face from the Big Bang Theory) was smiling at me at the doorstep. He didn’t even want to check if the TV worked. Seeing his frame, I wondered if he could carry it all by himself. Within minutes, my TV and entertainment center was out of the door. It seemed he worked in a hurry, lest I change my mind and decide not to give him the TV for free. He didn’t ask for help or assistance, didn’t ask to be escorted out of the door. I would be amazed at someone who could pick it up all on his own.

I closed the door and went back to complete my half-finished sleep. My TV is gone now. I’m glad it found a home, and now that I think about the last few months when I desperately tried to sell it and lost my sleep in the process, the protocol all seems so clear to me. All I had to do it was to give it away for free.

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Face(book)ing Dilemma

I joined Facebook (FB) with the hope that the more the number of friends I connect to, the happier I’d be. I couldn’t be more wrong. The more the number of friends I connect to, the unhappier I am. Reason? You tell me why.

The world of FB is somewhat surreal and far removed from reality. It is like the “Golden Age” during Shakespearan times when everything was hunky dory, women had the perfect figure even when gyms didn’t exist, the economy of a country didn’t look as emaciated as it does today (ironically in the land of hopes and promises), children finished their homework on time and didn’t fuss over food, the “Shylockian” airline industry didn’t make you pay for every pound of luggage you carried, and the husband was not a survivor of the wife’s PMS depression multiple times a month. However in the real world, flab tires show from the most embarrasing places no matter how much you discipline your taste buds, dignified women like me have occasional thoughts about marrying a man for his riches and a green card (and the baldness, wrinkles, and lack of youth that comes with it) as a desperate measure of coping with unemployment, the airline industry messes up your baggage during the honeymoon, you as a man are denied sex because you delayed throwing the trash by two days, and Baba Ravi, Ram, Contentmentnanda (a hypothetical name for all the yogi yoga-babas who create miracles) make deep holes in your pocket, charging you hundreds of dollars, only to ask you to control your breathing, keep expectations low, and adopt pain and suffering as a means of happiness in life.

I firmly believe that the photo updates and the status updates on FB are a skewed misrepresentation of actual life, broadcasting and showcasing the best while your real life maybe far from even better than what it was 10 years ago. I see this friend’s picture in a new year party, looking stunningly beautiful in a red dress, all drunk and happy, surrounded by dudes and chicks, making me envy her socializing skills. I see the status update of my friend change from “single” to “engaged” and “married” and fume. Some of my friends have 700 + friends on FB. I don’t even think I know that many people in real life. Come December, I suffer from immense psychological pressure and chronic depression from the sheer update of the wedding pics or the anniversary pics, a sad reminder of something I must do too because even before I know, I will be menopausal and saying bye bye to my youth. I see these friends of mine holding cute little babies out of a Johnson’s soap advertisement and wonder if genetics will play a role in making my baby look so cute. And then there are pictures of the guy at the convocation who recently finished his PhD and got a 120k job offer at the silicon valley. There are updates of couples honeymooning and parasailing in Hawaii, people buying million dollar homes, hugely prego women being pampered at baby showers, girls sitting on piles of empty gift boxes they claim to have received for Valentines Day, friends cooking the best of food, and people giggling and laughing and having fun.

Every one of these characters on FB seem so happy, content, gifted, well-toned, married, employed, and thrilled about life.

Everyone on FB also seem to know someone who is famous.

You suddenly realize with depressing alacrity that people around you are PhDs, graduating, working, gymming, marrying, procreating, buying homes, throwing house warming parties, taking scuba diving lessons, eating fish tandoori, taking their parents to visit the Grand Canyon, buying Audis, passing their exams with flying colors, getting into MIT, performing in dance shows, dressing up for Halloween parties, developing six packs, touring Europe, and starting companies.

This is surreal reality. People are putting up their best to show everything that is good while shoving the “not-so-good” parts of their life deep down. This is not a true representation of the people surrounding me. If it is, then something is very wrong with my stuck life where every little thing I want is achieved after great struggle.

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Horn OK Please

This is a weird situation. I learnt how to drive, gained a couple thousand miles of driving experience, but didn’t learn how to honk. Now if you lived in India, you wouldn’t believe me. In fact I wouldn’t believe myself. Unlike here, honking in India isn’t considered rude or uncourteous. It is a part of the driving ritual. The “Horn OK Please” sign is painted colorfully behind trucks and other large vehicles so that they know you are there when you pass them, lest they ruthlessly crush the teeny weeny scooter that you are driving. Over the years, my auditory senses have habituated to the silence of driving here, so much so that every time I call mother in India and she happens to be outside, the sheer traffic noise and the unbearable honking makes me hang up and call back when she is home. I know I sound like one of those spoilt NRIs who wrinkle their nose at everything when they go home, drink pani puri water from mineral water bottles, scoff at the dust and dirt, but do nothing about it. I don’t want to sound like one of them, but the noise is unbearable nevertheless.

I drove for 6 months straight without having to honk. But earlier this month, I became a victim of hazardous driving on two occasions. During the first one, the women (ah, why does it have to be a woman?) nicely took a right turn without seeing me, and came right in front of my lane without indicators. She had no idea I was driving right behind her. The second time, someone decided to change lanes at the last moment without indication. No idea if it was a woman again.

Much to my horror, I found myself groping for the horn on both occasions, but could not find it. Theoretically I know where the horn is located. But I guess my horn reflexes had still not developed well, and my car horn in particular is a little stiff and needs to be pressed really hard. On both occasions I was devastated, groping for the horn and not finding it. It felt like a situation where a person told you harsh words without reason and you suddenly found that you have momentarily lost your speech abilities. You want to open your mouth, protest, let the person know that you will not take shit, but you are mute. Same thing here, I wanted to signal the person but had to let her go. She didn’t even realize she had done something wrong. I on the other hand was left shaken.

So today I was waiting at the traffic lights when I found a car pull behind me. He tried to pass me from the right, thinking there were two lanes. Ordinarily I would have increased my speed, but here I let him pass me and come in front of me (it was still somewhat safe to do so), hit the honk button, and nicely honked for a full 5 seconds. Of course this was a benign mistake compared to the last two, and I could have let him go. The streets were broad, the traffic was light, and no one was driving for anything more than 30 mph. But I had to let go of my honk virginity sometime.

Ahh, the pleasure of honking for the first time. And now I know I no longer suffer from the “I am so dumb that I cannot even honk” syndrome. It felt as blissful as it did when I had learnt to use the skipping rope, boil an egg perfectly, or had learnt to bike for the first time.

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Home Alone

It is difficult to admit and talk about one’s personal problems or lacking openly, publicly, in front of a bunch of readers the writer doesn’t know. I have one such problem that for the last few months has worried me.

I like to call myself a fairly independent, smart and decisive woman, a person who can take important decisions and is responsible enough. What this means is that perhaps if you take me to a party and throw me amongst a bunch of strangers, chances are fair that I will be able to make decent conversation and carry myself well. I will not shy myself from the group and lock myself in a room. Nor would I get drunk and let my guard down amongst strangers. If you didn’t get my point, let me know and I shall praise myself some more.

On a different note, I never really wished for a layoff, but always told myself that if I ever get a break or an extended vacation, I would travel. I always have a mental list of places I want to go to. I told myself it doesn’t matter if my friends were busy and could not accompany me. I’d still backpack, stuff my camera and other things, and set on my own.

Perhaps the notion of traveling alone sounded more exciting than the thrill of actually doing it.

For I have been home the last 5-6 weeks. But I haven’t been able to let myself visit the nearby beach alone, let alone trot around the world. Every now and then, I find myself desperately asking people if they want to go on a trip. I am ready to organize the trip and put in the hard work, but I just find myself incapable of hopping onto a plane, renting a car, and visit the places I have always wanted to.

Worse, I hear these lame voices in my head- Wait till the weather gets better. What if my car breaks down? I have never even changed flat tires. What if I am attacked by a bunch of goons? Traveling alone is not fun.

I know that this is the time to travel, since once I get back to school/work, there will never be enough time. I have always wanted to see Florida, the Utah national parks, Grand Canyon, Colorado, Europe, and a lot more. Yet all I do these days is borrow travel books from the library and read them voraciously. By now, I am sure I know about everything there is to see in the US. But this is all theoretical knowledge gained inside the house, reading books.

I want to ask you a few questions. Have you ever traveled alone? Were you scared? Did you feel lonely? Did you feel conscious that the world is staring at you and wondering why you do not have company? Have you gotten into trouble? Do you have tips for the things to keep in mind while traveling alone?

I will greatly appreciate your input, and anything that helps me get rid of my fear of traveling alone.

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Money Matters

House cleaning is boring. Culling through the clutter is even more boring. You go through tons of papers and magazines, wondering how you have so much paperwork in the first place. Books, magazines, bills you wonder if you paid, credit card companies congratulating you because you qualified for their premium credit card membership offer (even though you have never heard of the company and have no intention of doing business with them), discount coupons for Macy’s where you know nothing you like is going to fit you, traders trying to sell you insurance, cars, even dates, and so on. The list is endless.

Yet what has to be done has to be done. Reluctantly, I started cleaning through all the paperwork. An hour of frustrating hard work later, I found a bunch of sealed envelopes that I started to tear off one by one, not even needing to look at the contents inside. Internet bills, paid utility bills, discount coupons for travel cruises to Alaska (it’s January dude !!!!). My eyes fell on a particular sealed envelope from a person very close to me. The envelope was not hand written, and had a very business-like feel to it. I opened the seal, only to discover to my delight a $300 check inside it.

How did the check even get in between Alaska cruise brochures? It was dated about 4 months ago. Jogging my memory, I realized the check was given to me 4 months ago, and I had forgotten all about it. Somehow I always thought I had deposited the check. I called up Mr. Surprise Check to confirm if the money was deposited 4 months ago and if I was suffering from an optical illusion of seeing money around me. It seemed I had never deposited the check !!!!

At a distance, I saw my heavily bespectacled mother looming over me with a stern expression, “I told you to be more careful with your money beta. How can you have check lying in between useless documents? There are people in countries dying of poverty !!”

Mother has a habit of referencing everything I do wrong or everything I forget to do to link it to the underprivileged people who do not have the basic amenities in life. For special effects, she converts the dollars into India rupee to make it sound all the more serious. She has a standard currency converter in her head where every dollar, no matter its value in the current market, is worth 50 rupees.

I just saw her scowling at me. 15,000 rupees?

Guiltily yet thrilled, I rushed to the bank to deposit it. I remembered the times when I had accidentally found a ten rupee note tucked somewhere in between the pages of books, unforgotten. Not that I have a habit of keeping money here and there and forget about it. But there is something great about discovering a $300 check first thing in the morning.

Now I pray I get back those $200 cash I had left somewhere months ago and could never find it again.

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City with a Gender

I must admit this idea was given by my friend during a conversation while driving through Philadelphia downtown. I am merely wording what has been told to me, which I thought was very interesting.

A city is like a living being with a gender. The bigger and busier the city, the more emphasized the stark difference in the gender is.

The city is a male in the mornings. Busy, powerful, strong. Think of the noise. Action. The hustle and bustle. Traffic snarls. People commuting to their work place. Dust and dirt. Sweat and hard work. Concrete. There is something masculine about the activities denoting power, business, and strength. Action is the very sinew of the city during the daytime.

The city is a female during the evening. Calm, rested, beautiful, bright, and shining. The lights of the tall downtown buildings like jewelry reflected beautifully in the water. It seems the city is all decked up, ready to go to an evening party. Softer compared to the day. More beautiful, more peaceful.

Strength, power, and action being the main attribute during the day.

Beauty, softness, and calm being the main attribute at night.

Some people would have objections with the stark gender differentiations here, but I thought this was a very interesting observation. Men in general are strong and women in general are softer and petite. I have never really seen inanimate objects as living beings with certain characteristics, but come to think of it, it does make a lot of sense.

What do you think?

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Out-Numbered

I just realized that the increasing numbers in my car odometer give me as much joy and satisfaction as the increasing number on my blogometer. For both record how much I have come along and have traveled in my journey.

Often I compare driving and blogging as two feats, two achievements I have. A driver for 5 months and a blogger for a little less than 5 years, both were started with a lot of skepticism, during times of personal crisis. While I have driven for about 8,000 miles, I have had some 3/10^th of a million viewers . Of course these numbers are in approximation, but to me they symbolize personal growth and experience gained in life.

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A Class Apart

New year brought with it something good for me after all – an opportunity to teach a class at the local university. It so happened that these people were looking for a guest lecturer to teach a single class on the concepts of air pollution. Given that I am happy to teach anytime (provided I know the concepts), and with all the time I have these days, I was more than willing to pitch in.

So here I was teaching a class after almost 3.5 years. And it was different. First, it was not my school back in India, and this was just one class. This was my first ever teaching experience in the US, even if it was just one class for an hour. The kids were not really kids, they were undergraduate students who don’t really scream and shout and do funny things in class (like my kids back in Kolkata used to). Air pollution is somewhat vague a topic and one could babble for months. So I had to carefully make my slides, knowing where to draw the line so that the students didn’t doze off right after the lunch break, and being extra-prepared for the Q&A session. Overall, things went well.

I realized that even after all these years, I really enjoy teaching, going to a class prepared with content to talk about. Perhaps the year will bring much more with it, more opportunities, more classes, more chances to get back my rightful place in the industry. Till then, I am ready to bask in the glory of whatever little opportunities I get to do things useful, and things I enjoy doing.

sunshine

On A Musical Note

I have been experimenting with my time, doing the things I have wanted to but never did so far. Yesterday I started my classical vocal weekly lessons. A friend of mine who gives music lessons agreed to teach me. It has been one of the better things I have done for myself in a long time.

The sight of the harmonium opened floodgates of memories from childhood. My (late) grandfather (dadu) was a classical singer and used to riyaaz (practice) every evening. Ma insisted I learn from him, but even as a 6 year old, I used to insist that dadu teach me Bollywood songs and not classical music. I was just a naughty kid, avoiding the chore of sitting quietly and singing. Dadu had said listening is half learning, so what if I did not sing with him. Whenever I was ready for music, I would come back to it.

My teacher told me the same thing yesterday, and insisted I take one class and then just sit and listen for another higher level class. Because listening was half learning.

When dadu passed away, the riyaaz stopped and the harmonium was put away. However years later, ma started learning classical music, and the riyaaz culture started again.

The 2 hours of riyaaz yesterday transported me to a different world. It gave me goose bumps, reminding me of all those childhood evening and my dadu. Sure my rusty voice cracked at the lower notes and I had a difficult time singing and holding on to my breath at the same time. I think I croaked like a frog at times, especially since I can sing higher notes but not lower notes. But the whole atmosphere, the music of the harmonium, the sa-re-ga-ma, the aaroh and the avaroh was amazing. Once again, I developed a deep sense of respect for the singers. I have sung hindi movie songs in gatherings, but classical singing is of a totally different level. Like ma said, if the classical base is strong, sure you could sing any song of the world.

I wondered how the permutation and combination of the 7 notes (sa-re-ga-ma-pa-dha-ni) could produce so many songs and music notes. I was never told the difference between singing from the throat and singing from the belly before. And it was true, that one could choose to sing from the throat or from the belly. I regretted the fact that I have not used my time so far in the pursuit of music. Sure I like to sing and sing in tune, but I could have bettered myself with all the practice. Anyway, it’s never too late.

If there is something you have wanted to do for a while but have been postponing due to a demanding job, an inflexible spouse, or difficult in-laws, I’d strongly recommend you to go do it. Music is a gift I’ve received from both sides of my family. All I had to do was brush up my basics (and my froggy voice) a little bit, and I was up there singing and enjoying every bit of it. If there is a gift you have but haven’t developed it, you should go do it. Unlike people who say life is short and you’d die without doing things you wanted to, I say life is so long that you’d actually live to regret the things you wanted to do but didn’t do.

sunshine

Zooming into the new year

Eventually, I got fed up of the Facebook updates of what people did for the new year, answering questions about what I was planning to do. I hate the pressure of having to do something on every occasion, and then to announce it publicly.

I spent my new year eve in a pub, much to my chagrin. It’s just that I figured out last moment most of my friends had ditched me and gone somewhere, the remaining did not pick up their phones, and I still had the option of joining a few friends in a pub or sitting home sad while I read more Facebook updates of what people did.

I was all the more pissed because 12/31 happened to be my last day of employment, and the last day of having a work permit thereof. I was going to be a jobless, penniless, illegal alien the next day.

I figured I could either whine and get upset, especially at my friend who ditched me last moment and fled to the east coast to meet his sister, or go out and enjoy myself.

I wish I had stayed at home.

My new year started with one of the most profound realizations. Pubs, clubs, and bars are not for me. Like my friend, although in a state of stupor, correctly pointed out that if in a pub, it is best to get drunk, else the noise, the people, the loud music, and the craziness gets too much to handle in a sane, sober, un-inebriated self. Alcohol mellows down the senses and makes the chaos more bearable. Point taken.

But then, it is a different experience sitting sober amidst a crowd of intoxicated people and watching them. Of my many observations, I discovered that most people in nightclubs here wear black. And they wear everything. Backless. Sideless. Almost topless. Usually bottomless. People wear funky hats and garlands for earrings. And with the strangest of clothes and accessories, men and women gyrate in the strangest ways to the tune of music and alcohol, in their “high on hormones” state. Hips gyrate, legs go up and down, the spine bends a good 180 degrees. Imagine these people doing funny dance moves in broad daylight, without the music, at their home. It would look hilarious.

I soon realized that most people here would wish for easy sex, but would be happy with anything less too. A non-casual hug that lingers a few seconds more, random people shaking my hands and using the loud music as an excuse to come close to my ears and speak, as if they had something interesting to say. While people laughed and smiled and tried to start conversation, I put on my most grumpy look, frowning eyebrows and not wanting to make any contact. For special “gloomy” effects, I had refused to wear my contact lenses and wore my black rimmed grandfather glasses instead. A guy, whom I later learnt was gay, went around kissing girls on the forehead, blessing them like some kind of sadhu baba. 

I squirmed and frowned, acting difficult and refusing every offer of a drink. How I wish I was in the warm confines of my cozy home, reading a book. I waited a little more and then went to the patio to watch the Space Needle fireworks. It was a cold and rainy night. The fireworks seemed the only incentive for me, the one right thing that happened during the evening of wrongs, so what if it lasted exactly 7 minutes? I hugged my friends, made my new year resolutions (which I usually do not follow beyond the second week of January), and prepared to go home. Finding a cab would be hard; we had walked quite a bit in the rain and cold earlier, unable to find parking. Wish more people would stay home eating turkey instead of venturing out.

We were prepared to leave when my drunk friends started a bout of Hindi movie songs on the streets, to our amusement and to the confusion of the non-desi crowd. I wish I was drunk and in oblivion as well instead of waiting for a cab outside in the cold. I was never happier to reach home and get inside my comforter.

Thus started my new year, in a crowded bar with drinks splashed all on the floor, in the middle of drunk people shaking booties, watching fireworks in the rain, and wishing I had put on my black backless party dress instead of wearing jeans. I don’t belong to this world of pub hoppers. I don’t think I am ever going to a pub anytime this year. And if I do, I am surely getting drunk.

Happy new year everyone.

sunshine

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.

sunshine

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.

sunshine

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.

sunshine