Picture Imperfect

Beauty sometimes lies in the little imperfection of things around us. It is more of a philosophical thinking, and whenever I think of beauty and imperfection, I think of Shrek and Fiona. I think of the moon, with the craters. I think of the little blemishes that have marred my otherwise perfect life. I think of a little girl giggling, mindless that a few milk teeth are missing. I think of the wrinkles that make my grandmother so beautiful. I think of a progress report card of a genius with a few red lines indicating failed subjects.

Often, we are made to believe that perfect is beautiful. Normal is nice. Aberrations are bad. We place nominal adjectives to a lot of things- Good, bad, ugly, beautiful, perfect, and imperfect. Who defines these parameters? Do they change with time and context? Is it more relative and less absolute? Is it okay to shun something because we do not understand it, and embrace something because we believe in it? What is wrong with a few imperfections, a few failures, a few heartbreaks in life anyway?

This picture I took yesterday is testimony to the fact that beauty sometimes lies in the little imperfection of things around us. I was struggling to get some shots of flying birds from a ferry that was in motion, undulating and wobbling as it made its way along the ocean near North Carolina. The birds flew in a group, often parallel to the ferry, and at the same speed. This made me wonder if the birds were not really in motion, but were suspended mid-air. They were perhaps seagulls with a red beak, I am not so good at identifying birds. So I zoomed in against the western sky with the setting sun, trying to get some shots of the birds. If you see the picture closely, a part of the left wing got cut out. I instantly fell in love with this picture. Do not miss the golden glow at the tip of the right wing.

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Honey, you heard of HONY?

I absolutely love art projects. I love little excerpts of real stories from the lives of people. There is something very endearing about pictures of common people, with their common dreams and common lives. They do not come with the boredom of seeing something that is staged or artificial. Humans of New York (HONY) is all of them.

Last year this time, I was all into Postsecret, an online community where anonymous people sent in creative postcards with their secrets. I had read almost all the books published by Postsecret. Somehow, things mellowed for me. Once in a while I still love a weekly secret for all its boldness, spunk, and honesty. But overall, things mellowed.

HONY is different. I look forward to seeing the pictures everyday and more than that, reading little excerpts that seem so apt. HONY is an art project I absolutely love. It makes me wish for two things- first, that I lived in New York City and was featured in HONY, and second, that I started my own art project wherever I live. Come to think of it, I would love an art project like this based on people of Kolkata. A priest praying at the Dakshineshwar Kali temple. A couple holding hands in Millennium Park. An office commuter hurrying to take the train near Fairlie Place. A tourist looking at the Howrah Bridge and admiring it. An art connoisseur waiting for his friends in Nandan. The retail stores of Burrabazar. The glitz of Camac Street. Puppy love blooming in front of schools. Thousands of stories unfolding right in front on our eyes, stories of common people, their common lives, and the extraordinarily beautiful tales that weaves out of it.

For once, I will not be upset if someone in Kolkata, or Bombay, or New Delhi for that matter gets inspired from this and start their own project. I would love to see it all.

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Getting on the treadmill again

Blogging, working out, doing a PhD, or anything else for that matter is an effort of regular, planned practice. The analogy I often use is that of running on an electronic treadmill. Electronic and not manual because you do not supply the power to the treadmill. Now when you step off the treadmill, the treadmill is still running. And that is what makes it hard to get back on it. You need to catch up, match up the velocity, and get going. This is what happens when you stop going to the gym abruptly. It takes so much effort to get back to routine. And that is what has happened to my blog recently. When I wrote regularly, I felt motivated to write regularly. Once the cycle was broken, it was hard to get back. Writing for me is not about a game of numbers, about how many posts I can spew monthly, and how many comments I can garner. For me, it was more of a spiritual exercise, something akin to meditating, an effort to make sense of the numerous things around me and document them. Clearly, I have moved on to different pastures. I have been busy with work, writing papers, traveling, partying, taking photographs, and doing numerous other things. It is not that I forgot about my blog. But every time I tried to write, I felt that inertia, that resistance, the same resistance you face when you try to get back on that treadmill that is already in motion. I have often come home too tired, and while earlier I would readily hop on to writing my journals, now I want to read a book or watch a movie. Anyway, this should not be a rant post. So hello everyone. Isn’t it ironic that I have to be welcomed back in my own writing space? I am back with lots of exciting stories about how wonderful life has been recently. And more than anything, I am excited to be able to start writing again.

P.S.: My lower spine has recovered well.

P.P.S.: Thank you for all those who wrote to me, and apologies to all those I did not reply back.

P.P.P.S.: I hate the new look of blogger. It takes too much effort to navigate my way around. Same thoughts when Gmail forced me to adopt the new look.

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Subtle Satire

Nothing gives me a kick as strong as satire does. Simple, short and sweet, and most importantly, to the point. This is why the Bengali movie “Bhooter Bhobishyot” (the future of the past) is my favorite movie currently. Every line is loaded with pun, satire, and double meanings based on contemporary issues. I admit that it is hard to get the reference if you do not understand the language, but try it nevertheless.

I was chatting with my friend and he said something (probably without even realizing it) that was bang on, to the point. Short, beautifully delivered, and not so nice, but dripping with truth. The conversation went like this:

T: When are you visiting me in Boston?
Me: No time. I need to graduate first, find myself a job. 
T: You sound like D (our common friend who is always thinking four years ahead).
Me: Seriously. For a change, I am thinking of applying for jobs in India as well.
T: eessshhh .... Why do you want to go abroad?

Mostly of you will probably not get why the last line touched a chord somewhere deep down. In case it makes sense, people like me who have made a life in two countries perhaps live with a mistaken sense of identity, torn between the two worlds. Has India become abroad for me? I really hope not.

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Back Calculation

I owe a big thank you to everyone who sent me wishes, emailed me, messaged me, and called me. I was expecting some flowers too, but no hard feelings, really. Nothing has changed much the last few days, but for the fact that I have turned out to be more grumpy and sour than ever. I thought of sharing a few updates with all of you.

1. The doctor asked me to rest and be on medication for the next 2 months. Physiotherapy will start after that. The dollars I will have to shell out of my pocket (even after partial insurance coverage) makes me wish I get well before physiotherapy starts. There is a reason I am not missing popping nine painkillers a day. Yes you heard me right.

2. I could finally afford to watch four movies in a row this Saturday. What else do you do when you are in bed all day? Ek main aur ek tu (thumbs down), Paan Singh Tomar (thumbs up), Midnight in Paris (thumbs down), and Agneepath (thumbs up).

3. I loved Agneepath (my roommate did not). I loved the visuals. I loved the Banyan tree. I loved Hrithik (I am not a big fan of him otherwise). And I loved the music.

4. We did a lot of roommate bonding this weekend. We went for groceries together. She drove me around, helped me with the groceries, and made sure I do not have to lift weights. We spent the entire Saturday chatting and watching movies. She got me medicines, and helped me climb the stairs. Although an illusion, I have been feeling like a princess of late.

5. I have not had to worry about cooking. My friends have visited me and given me food that will last me weeks. Paneer. Chicken. Shrimp. Rajma. Gobi. You just name it.

6. I have started to use my favorite red crutches (bought from Munich) once again. I would not exactly say that I was hoping to use it someday, but well, since all this happened, I thought I might as well get through this with style.

7. My herniated spine came with a flu and a 48 hour sneezing bout for free.

8. My advisor gave me his parking permit for the week. This means I can now drive to school and park on campus.

9. Father said I should move back to India. America is not a place to suffer alone. I have decided to avoid talking to him until my back hurts less and my sanity is restored.

10. Now that I am in bed most of the time I am home, all I do is read and make virtual travel plans. I have already decided to go visit Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, Greece, Spain, and Croatia this year. Such random plans help me cope with my pain.

11. I am terrified I will never be able to run around with my camera, dance, or go hiking and backpacking again. I had a long list- Peru, Bolivia, Mexico, Greece, Croatia, Venezuela, and many more.

12. With all the bed rest, I am finally beginning to get some ideas about my thesis. These ideas are nascent and far from being crystallized. However, I am realizing that the best way to get creative ideas is to lie down in bed all day and do nothing.

13. My sense of humor has gone to the dogs. Whenever I am asked, “What happened?”, I am considering coming up with innovative names for my herniated disc- Brokeback Mountain, Qamariya Lachke Re, Langda Tyagi, and so on.

14. I hope I survive the cross-country flight to Seattle in 2 weeks, given that I have been instructed not to sit at a stretch for more than 30 minutes.

15. The doctor refused to write me a doctor’s letter. She was concerned I might use that letter to my advantage and not finish my assignments on time. I am hardly surprised that she is Indian.

16. I watched Kahaani last week. I am puking out of sheer nostalgia. Oh Calcutta, how I miss thee !

17. I have never missed Zumba more. I think I might wail in pity some more and watch Agneepath again, much to the horror of my roommate.

Thank you everyone for your wishes, free food, advice on losing weight and staying fit, paneer, chicken, and shrimp curry, and for keeping me entertained through my suffering.

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Back Breaking Experience

Last week this time, my life was great. I just did not realize how great it was. I drove, walked, danced, hopped on to the bus, and sprinted down the stairs of my townhome without realizing how blessed one must be to be able to do these without experiencing any pain. Last week this time, the issues ailing me revolved around learning to use logistic versus multinomial regression model, finishing the deadlines for the semester, and planning my Canada itinerary. When my back felt a little stiff, I blamed it on my two-hour long drive to Washington D.C. In the excitement about preparing for my conference presentation, I almost ignored the pain that had started to invade parts of my lower back. That afternoon, I lifted the laundry basket multiple times and loaded and unloaded stuff from my car in a bid to finish off the pending chores before I left for the conference. Something quite did not feel right in my back, and I blamed it on a faulty sleeping position or a sagging mattress and moved on. The bed I sleep on is anything but sagging by the way.

With every passing day, my pain intensified and manifested itself in scary ways. I would go to sleep praying that things would be fine the next day, but come morning, I saw myself unable to spring into action. I would spend quite some time tossing, turning, and wincing in pain. By the time I was presenting at the conference, the pain had shifted to the right side of my body, extending all the way to the back of my knees. I noticed I had started to drag my feet. As I boarded the 7 am flight this morning, I was a mess. The pain had started to make me feverish and nauseated. I had three short flights ahead of me, which meant a lot of boarding, deplaning, lifting heavy luggage, and hurting myself more. The first thing I did after landing back was to call the doctor and make an appointment. I had suffered so much pain during those eight hours of my flight that I could no longer walk without a limp, and was about to faint.

A herniated spinal disc is what they diagnosed, something akin to a slip-disc. The vertebral column gets dislocated, causing immense pressure and pain in the adjoining nerve. I had never associated a herniated spinal disc with a thirty year old woman who between gymming, dancing, driving, and running around, had led a perfectly normal and active life. I can neither go to the gym, nor dance anymore. In fact, every time I walk, I am in so much pain that I consider using my arms and crawling on my belly instead, just like army men under cover do in war movies.

Thankfully, the doctor did not think I would need surgery. She thinks that with rest, medicines, and physiotherapy, I should be fine in a few months. Which brings me to my second worst fear of living alone in the US (the first one being death of any member of my family and me being unable to take a flight back in time to see them). I am not even getting into the student health insurance issues, and the thought of how much I have to cough for my physiotherapy deductible and co-pay alone makes me think of the wisdom someone had put in saying, “If you don’t want to get bankrupt paying medical bills in America, make sure that you are not poor and you never fall sick”. Surely it is a concern that has been plaguing and stoking my worst fears. Living in the US for the last five years has only been possible because I chose the life of an independent person. I cooked my food, did my dishes and laundry, cleaned my home, drove myself to wherever I needed to be at, and never depended on anyone to run my life for me. This mandated that my limbs and my brain functioned properly. I do not live with my parents anymore, and in the unlikely event that I injured myself, there is no one to take care of me.

The demons of your worst fears nudge you and nag you to death when you are confined to the bed, writhing in pain and unable to function well. For the first time, I can genuinely feel the panic of the endless possibilities of unpleasant consequences awaiting me if I ever hurt myself and cannot function properly. I have never craved for my old, seemingly boring but comfortably normal life more, a life where I lifted heavy grocery from Krogers, went Zumba dancing three days a week, drove 500 miles to Rochester without blinking an eyelid, climbed stairs in haste, sometimes two steps at a time, and sat through classes for six hours a day. I can no longer do these seemingly ordinary things anymore.

In a state of helplessness mixed with panic, I asked the doctor if she thought I had bone cancer or arthritis. At some point in life, I developed a deep-seated fear for these two, afraid that I might die of one of these someday. My grandmother suffered through arthritis, and I have seen so many people, some considerably young, losing their lives to cancer. The doctor assured me that it was neither. Suddenly, perspectives have changed and graying hair is not an issue for me anymore. I used to count the number of grey hairs I got first thing in the morning every day, but my spinal cord gave me a perspective that half a dozen hardly visible graying hairs could not. I don’t care if I wake up with a mop of grey hair. I just want this back breaking pain to go away.

My doctor comes with a sense of humor. She said that I will be fine and gymming soon, although, if I was thinking of making a career out of weight lifting, I should probably give up that idea now.

I write this post and dedicate it to the benefits of good health we enjoy, something which we so often overlook and take for granted. Flu and fevers do not scare me. My twisted ligament in Italy did not scare me. But my spine worries me. For this is not a fracture incident borne out of an active lifestyle of running around. It is but the heralding of the disturbing realization that the body is no better than a machine, and with age, wear, and tear, it is deteriorating, and will require more effort in maintenance and servicing than I had anticipated before. At 5:30 in the morning, as I still struggle to fall asleep due to pain, I know that I would give anything to get back to my normal, active, pain-free, and sedative-less life again.

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So now I need to talk?

As I go over my presentation slides once again, the realization of what I got myself into slowly dawns on me. I am presenting thrice, at two national conferences this year. And I am in no mood for merrymaking. I am in the second year of my doctoral program, the scintillating achievements of my seniors weighing down my shoulders heavily. Last summer when I wrote these proposals, it was more an exercise of self-assessment, to see where I stand, to find out if I can write convincingly and visit a few new places in the process. The proposals got through, and suddenly, it became serious business. I have spent a good stressful amount of the last few weeks polishing off the papers, making my presentation slides, and generally mulling over what to say in front of an audience who stare at you expectantly. I know I will fumble, race through my talk, even stammer. For public speaking is not my forte. Give me a pen and I can write you a novel. Give me a camera and I will give you a year’s worth of pictures. But the microphone makes me nervous. Standing up there, listening to my own voice, seeing all those stalwarts in the field, knowing that my adviser is tucked away somewhere in the crowd, listening to me inconspicuously, lest I become nervous. There will be questions and clarifications, there will be sighs and deep breaths, and there would be awkward silences. I have spent half a day last Saturday, picking up a formal suit in black and white that cost me three-and-a-half days worth my salary. Then there would be flights boarded, classes missed, and more work piled up as I spent the next three days at a conference. I think of all this, as I go over my slides once again, one final time, just to make sure that not even a comma or a punctuation mark is missing.

What have I got myself into?

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Post-Mortem of a Post

I am interested to know, what exactly goes behind the success of a post, from a strictly academic point of view of course. Measuring the “success” of a post is not that relative or abstract when there are defined indicators. For example, the number of comments, the number of tweets, or the number of “Likes” on Facebook are some indicators that define the success of the post, not to mention the content of the comments. I have a few theories, but I do not know if they work.

Content Theory

I would think the content resonated with most people who read it. Barring a few who did not like my post, most agreed that they identified themselves in a similar situation. I am somewhat hesitant with this theory, because in the past, I have written many posts that people identified with. None of those got as much attention as this one did. In fact, this is not even one of my better written posts. I have written much better posts in the past. I have even written about similar content, of the whole alienation experience when you live in a different country. So is it content after all?

Platform Theory

The forum is undoubtedly a well-written, popular and a widely acclaimed blog. With thousands of readers, I am sure this post was bound to get some attention. So is it the fact that it was presented to a wider audience? I do not know.

Theory of Critical Mass

It could be possible that there is a critical mass of readers and more importantly, sharers for every post. I do not know what that critical mass is, but when it crosses that critical mass, it spreads like wildfire perhaps? When 2-3 people read something and share, chances are more that it would be a dying flame lost even before it has spread a significant number of times. However, when 200-300 people are sharing the same thing, the chances of it being lost or dying becomes significantly lower. Perhaps it is not content or platform alone, but a phenomenon of crossing that critical mass? I don’t really know.

Help me think of other factors that could lead to the success of a post. I know there are measurement biases and confounding factors involved here (for example, having or not having friends who network widely, and who spread the word). Still, there has to be something underlying, maybe singly, or maybe a combination of factors, that determine the popularity of a post. I have written travelogues with much time and effort that have done reasonably well in the past. However, on a bored Monday morning, in between listening to class lecture and introspecting about the value of taking that class, I had ended up writing a short post on why Portugal is an amazing country to visit. That post had become an instant hit, got widely circulated, showed up on travel websites of Portugal, was instantly loved by the Portuguese community, and currently stands at close to 400 “likes” on Facebook. No one really knows what worked right with that post, and when I tried emulating that formula again, things did not work. A hastily scribbled account of a country had produced an effect that carefully crafted travelogues that failed to create. In any case, given that the shelf life of a post is not much, maybe days, maybe weeks, I am currently basking in the glory of finally having written something that has gained the readership I have always dreamed of. Trust me, modesty and everything aside, it is an awesome feeling.

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Writing Right

The good thing and the bad things about good writing is that there are no such concrete rules out there that can guide you through the process. Sure there are rules for grammar and punctuation, and some basic commandments, for example, clarity, precision, and so on. But these are merely guidelines, and are not formulaic. Although this means academic writers are often lost in blind alleys of words and sentences, not knowing how to navigate their way through the writing process, it also means there is more room for someone to be experimental and creative. Writing blogs or fiction is something, where one has more freedom to ramble on, engaging the reader in the rich intricacies of the language or word play. However, academic writing is different. People write with a purpose, and for a target audience who most of the time are busy, and do not have the time to deal with wordplay. If an academic paper has not caught my attention in the first five lines, chances are less that I will give it the rest of my time. I will skim through it and move on with life.

What do you do as an academic writer under the circumstances? Brevity helps, and so does clarity, but more than that, what helps most is style. A good piece of writing is something that arouses a question in the reader’s mind, and then goes on to answer it in the subsequent lines and paragraphs. You need to help the reader navigate through your thoughts and processes so that by the time they are done reading your paper, they have found almost every question answered within the paper. What we do in the research world might be complicated, but we need to master the art of putting the most complicated things in the simplistic way possible, because our reader has no time or energy to sail with us in our journeys of complications.

How one makes the reader navigate through the questions and answers them in the article is something I do not know. There is no formula to it and it is an endeavor that comes with time and mastery over one’s field. Writing is both a science and an art. It is like anything else, for example, playing a piano or cooking. You start by playing by the rules, and once you have mastered the rules, you play with your instinct. All this fluffy talk aside, I have realized that it is best to keep your target reader in mind when you write. What questions I would have if I were the reader? For example, if I wrote a few sentences about why red is my second favorite color, there should be a mention of what is my first favorite color, because that is what the reader is thinking when he reads about red. Simple and logical writing is often a product of clarity of thought, and not a way to undermine the reader’s lack of knowledge and understanding. In fact, good writing is like doing math. Every piece of your writing is logically connected to one another, and one piece leads to the other.

So how do you learn all this, given years of programming, thanks to good old Calcutta University, where the marks you score is directly proportional to the number of pages you fill up with garbage, and where the best answers score somewhere between 65-75%? Well, you simply unlearn your past learning, and relearn your art and science of writing. You read what good writers in your field write, you learn from your adviser (assuming he is a convincing writer), and most importantly, you write and ask for feedback.

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(Statistically) Significant Thoughts

The good old days are gone when Monte Carlo meant colorful sweater and pullover ads on television, or even resorts and casinos in Las Vegas. These days, Monte Carlo only means dry computational algorithms and statistical simulations I am expected to master, but am clueless about !

While studying for an exam on Item Response Theory, I Googled for Raju's Beta Reliability Analysis, something almost analogous to Cronbach’s alpha. The responses startled me for a second. I had forgotten that Anil Kapoor in the movie Beta (1992) was also called Raju. Some humor in between the monotony of studying stats.

Reminds me of this post from last year …

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Of Predictors and Outcomes

My fellow graduate student from the department is a statistician at heart. That is the language she understands without any difficulty. Not so articulate while talking about things in general, she could go on and on if you ask her to talk about statistics. When she reads a paper, she skips the first few pages and dives right into the methodology. The last time she did a class presentation on factor analysis, she went on and on, with great gusto, and excitedly showed us slides of a bunch of codes she had written. She swears by statistical methods. I fail to see how statistics would excite someone so much, but I guess that is what people feel when I tell them about a lot of things I do. She even wore a hat once that had the symbol of “theta-hat” printed on it (the term “hat” is used to represent some estimated value of a variable). The list of things she does that show her passion for stats is endless.

I was out for a few days, almost bed-ridden due to a viral infection attack. My face hurt, my voice hurt, and my entire body hurt. When I came back to work, she asked me where I was. I told her I had suffered an ear infection. She frowned at me, clearly trying to articulate her next question. Remember, I said she is not very good at articulating non-stats stuff. I guess she wanted to ask me how it affected me, or how much pain I have been in. She looked dead serious when she asked me,

“So what was the outcome?”

I smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. Perhaps characters like Sheldon Coopers are borne inspired by reality.

(Footnote: If you did not get the subtle reference, she was referring to an “outcome variable” of my ear infection. If you were a bio-geek, you might have called it a “somatic response”. Do I do it too? Yes, sometimes, at a delta level. Wonder if you noticed I just used the word “footnote” and “delta”.)

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Expecting Less

My best friend from high school did not tell me she was expecting until she was six months into her pregnancy. That too happened during a conversation when I insisted she come visit me for a few days, since I did not have time to take off from work and travel three thousand miles to go see her, and she had to let me know she has been advised against traveling. I congratulated her and said all the right things I have no personal experience about myself (hope you are feeling well, hope you are not to scared, etc.). Yet in a certain way, I felt distanced. This is not because I have not embarked on the marriage-leading-to-family bandwagon myself. This was because despite being close friends, it took so long for me to know.

As a person interested in learning about human behavior and motivations (because this is what I research about, although from a different perspective and with a different population), I started thinking of the various factors that would have made her decide against sharing the news earlier. I know from personal experience that a lot of women do not share their news of pregnancy, do not buy clothes or toys for the baby until it is born, or do not like their friends photographing pictures of their babies. Although I do not get the point, I respect their decision and leave them alone. It might have been that. For me, it would be nothing short of good news like passing your PhD dissertation, getting a job, or buying a house. Since I would not hesitate to share such good news, again, I failed to see her point. My mother had a different take on it, a cultural and gender perspective perhaps, although in an absurd way. She said my friend must have been “shy” to share the news. Although I know what she means by being shy, it is a ridiculous concept for someone who is exactly my age, lives in the same society, and is of a similar mental makeup. I do not know if there are other reasons, but my most plausible explanation so far is the following-

With time, we tend to hang out with similar groups, and resonate with people who are similar to us. I sense she would have shared the news earlier if I had a baby myself, was expecting, or was at least married. Ever noticed that married people mostly tend to hang out with other married people, graduate students tend to hang out with other graduate students, and Bengali people tend to hang out with other Bengali people? There is a common ground, a common theme underlying all these instances, be it commonality in culture, language, marital status, or stages in your career. If this is the case, it is not good news for me. All it means is that yet another friend moves on with their life. When we grew up together and were great friends, we had common themes binding us. We were in the same class, studied the same subjects, took tuitions together, lived in the same neighborhood, and had the same friend circle. Now, we do not really have anything in common anymore.

I am too old to make new friends based on commonality (for example, single women in their thirties interested in academics, writing, and discussing the specifications of the camera they use. Imagine the odds of finding one in my town?). And it seems I do not fit into certain existing circles anymore. Which boils down to pretty much what I do in my free time anyway- play online scrabble (alone), read books (alone), watch movies (alone), and congratulate my friends during those occasional phone calls when they tell me they are getting married the next day, or having a baby over the weekend.

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Des-Pair

The pair had remained together for almost four years now. Then, in a series of commonplace events, they were separated. Not once, but twice in a span of twenty four hours. Unfortunately, the second time, there was no opportunity for reunion.

The first evening, they were dining at a restaurant. It was not until she reached for the car door, fastened the seatbelt, and drove off that she realized one of her gloves was missing. Black and leathered, she loved it for years because of the way it fit snugly. The woolen ones usually did not endure rain or snow, but this one did, and she held on to it for years. She told him the moment she realized the right one was missing. He had instantly swerved the car and driven back to the restaurant they had dined at not even an hour ago. She was grateful, although she kept it to herself. Once there, she went inside looking for it, and the server told her that he had found nothing. They looked in the parking lot and the nearby streets as well. He even went out of the way looking for it in the freezing wintry night. But her black glove seemed to have disappeared in the darkness. Disheartened and cold, she drove back. It was while locking the car door that he had the insight to look inside the car. It was particularly dark, and she was thrilled when he had emerged from her side of the car holding her right glove. She had dropped it in the car and never found it.

The next evening, he had taken her around New York City, showing her places he liked. She had never really cared for the city, but she liked what she saw on that cold wintry evening. The city was shrouded in white after the snowstorm, and she was surprised to see that people moved on with their life despite the chilly winds and the freezing weather. The city definitely had a personality, people dressed fashionably, and during the few hours they walked, she was amazed to see hundreds of varieties of black winter coats, jackets, and boots. They walked in the snow, enjoyed some great food, warmed up to some aromatic coffee at one of the local coffee joints, and it was soon time to say goodbye even before she was ready to leave. The subway was somewhat crowded, and she saw the train enter the station at a distance. In a hurry, she subconsciously ungloved her right hand to pull out the ticket from her handbag in haste. It was not until the train started that she realized her right hand was bare. They were about to say goodbye, but she had looked at him helplessly, and the next moment, they had gotten off the train at the next station. It was not possible to get into the other side of the platform that easily, so they climbed back the stairs, got outside the freezing streets, waited for the traffic signal, crossed the road amongst the slush of water and ice puddles, found another subway outlet, and had made their way to the station, this time in an opposite direction. The train arrived, they boarded it, got off the next station, got outside, crossed the streets, and after about twenty minutes of taking trains and crossing streets, they were back at the point where she thought she lost her glove. Only, there was no glove to be found this time. They looked everywhere, on the platform, near the ticket swiping machine, even in the trash cans. He asked the lady at the ticket counter if someone had dropped off a missing glove. Only there was no finding it this time. She was feeling guilty for getting him late, and thankful for all the effort he had taken. She got fresh tickets and boarded the next train, holding on to her lone glove now.

The incident evoked her philosophical thoughts on her journey back home. Losing something that belonged to you was always saddening, no matter how inexpensive it was. However, the pain was somewhat worse when you lost something you had in pairs. A lot of memories get embedded in the process of possessing things, and of course there is this guilt associated with losing things, voices in your head blaming you for being careless, voices of your parents, teachers, and elders reprimanding you every time you lost a pen or a penny. But more than the guilt of being careless, it was the sadness evoked out of seeing a pair separated. She held on to the other glove, which was now useless to her. She would soon replace it with a new pair, and knowing her, she would not have the heart to throw the old one away. It would probably sit in her cupboard for the next few years, not having a use. She often misplaced her eye liners and eye pencils, but she never felt guilty about them. However, every time she misplaced an earring, she felt horrible about it. It was the pain that came with the separation of a pair. She wondered where her other pair was now, perhaps brazening the ice and being stomped over by people somewhere on the streets.

Sometimes, it is easier to get over the loss of something just by being single, compared to the pain and distress of losing something as a pair. No matter how well you move on to do great things in life on your own, make new bonds, see new places, and attain new heights, your other half always takes with them a little bit of you, of your memories, and of your life, leaving you a little empty inside, and forever reminding you that life would perhaps been a little different, maybe in a good way or in a bad way, if fate had not connived in a series of events to separate you. Your losses as a pair always outweigh your individual losses. Looking back, she could have perhaps been more careful with her glove. She could perhaps have not removed it. She could perhaps have not cared about missing the train, taking her own sweet time to ensure she was holding on to everything she possessed. In retrospective theory, you can replay the events as many ways as you want to. In practice, you just move on with your losses, your pains, and nothing more but a handful of perspectives.

sunshine

Not eve(red)dy

Driving after a while becomes second nature. You do it subconsciously, just like walking to the department every morning, multitasking while talking on the phone, or giving directions to your home. When you are new to driving, you are always alert, looking for the faint signs, every change in traffic light even from a distance, of pedestrians crossing, or changing speed limits, or slowing down signs, even birds flying or cars passing you. With time, you learn to relax while driving, your seat starts to recline more, you begin to brake and accelerate without remembering it, and you sometimes drive to the nearby grocery store, not even remembering what you saw on the road. You brake to a red light instinctively, slow down sub-consciously, without even aware of doing it. Perhaps that is when one needs to be worried.

Although driving has transformed from an uncomfortable to a comfortable and now to a relaxing task for me, I have never taken it lightly. I still indicate while changing lanes, slow down while taking a U-turn, or look for cars in the blind sight while changing lanes. It so happened that my friend pinged me one night when I was about to go to bed. It was almost midnight, and he asked if he could get a ride back home. He had missed the last bus. Although sleepy, I left to pick him up and drop him home. I knew the roads, hence did not take my GPS. I took the right turns, picked him up, chatted with him while driving, and dropped him home. And on my way back, I did the most horrible thing I have done in my driving history. I jumped a red light.

I knew it instantly I did it. I was tired, sleepy, and I still wonder how I did it. I have never jumped a red light, and never hope to do it again. The consequences could be disastrous if it was not for a cold wintry December night when the streets were deserted. I had never experienced this, but the moment I realized I had jumped the red light, my first instinct was to brake and drive back to the signal in reverse motion. Horrible and fatal mistake. Never try to go back if you have accidentally jumped a red light.

I came home feeling sick and dizzy. Every time I replayed the situation in my head, I felt nauseous. I could have been hit sideways by an oncoming vehicle. I could have had other people in my car. I could have been dead. Not only had I endangered myself, I had also endangered oncoming traffic. I have never considered myself as a traffic hazard, and although it was a lucky escape, I felt horrible.

Driving is as much a privilege as a responsibility. Whenever I hear horror stories about cars hitting and slamming into each other, or pass by cars in an accident with the blinking blue light of the police and the ambulance, I always thank myself that I was not one of them. I could have been one of them, with or without my fault. Jumping a red light was scary, and I hope it never happens again.

sunshine

Staying Hungry, Staying Wise

New year is the time when the world goes high on making resolutions. I read somewhere that “A new year’s resolution lasts as long as the first week of January”. Truer words were never spoken. While Facebook is replete with updates from people who resolve to lose weight, be tolerant to fellow-desis from the Bay Area, spend less time Facebooking (ironically announcing it on Facebook), strive to find a higher truth (whatever that means), cut down on spending in shopping, or waste less time listening to Kolaveri di, I wonder how many of these resolutions actually attain fruition. This gives an interesting glimpse into human behavior, where some invisible force throughout the world not only makes us guilty for our actions (or the lack of it), but also makes us announce publicly a list of all the things we will probably never do.

I do not make new year resolutions. I make resolutions, not just during the new year though. Last summer, I made a resolution to cut down on eating outside. I had to make a sudden trip to India because my father was ill, and I had to save for the trip. Not eating out was my only serious resolution, and it was hard. It was hard not because I am a big fan of eating out, but because these days, eating out is a major form of socialization. We have all the time to stalk people and stay abreast of gossip, but we do not have the time to invest into cutting, chopping, and cooking. I did not stop eating out altogether, I just reduced it to once a week, then once in two weeks, until I reached a stage where I rarely wanted to eat out. I started with saying no to outside meets, but yes to potlucks at home. I continued it with making less frequent visits to Chipotle and Starbucks (I used to frequent them every alternate day). I started skipping get-togethers, and with each dinner meet missed, the peer pressure of making it to the next one got worse. I would order a glass of water at the coffee shop if that was my only option. It was about saving money. It was about taking a little step toward a healthy lifestyle. But most importantly, it was taking a major step toward self-disciplining yourself, and sticking to that. I feel I cared more about money when I did not earn it. I started to hang out with people in smaller groups. I would call them up, asking if I can come over for dinner, and always bring a dish or two to share. Every time I went out, I made sure I had some yoghurt or bananas with me. I started rewarding myself by buying things I am passionate about (for example, office supplies and photography gear). I have eaten out once at Chipotle, and have been to Starbucks once since summer. That is more than six months. We went for a little trip on new year, and I had packed some bananas and yoghurt in case we got hungry after the hike. I mentally congratulated myself when I could convince my friend to not eat out, and we came home to enjoy two courses of chicken curry, shrimp curry, and some lentils, all prepared at home. This morning, I put some time into chopping vegetables and making an omelet and some coffee for my friend, rather than head to ihop.

I am not going to start telling you the advantages of not eating out. It works great for me, but that might not be your calling. It works for me because I save money, plan my food supplies better, restrict my socializing (if socializing is equivalent to eating outside), feel less guilty about eating unhealthy, and afford the best quality stuff (the best quality of organic food is still cheaper than eating outside). Most importantly, I feel I have a say in deciding my life, about which get-togethers I want to go to, and which I want to avoid. I like the power of being able to say no. I spend more time cooking for friends at home, and hang out with people who spend time cooking for me. When I was in Calcutta, I ate at home every day. I might not know what food in Oh Calcutta or Mainland China tastes like, but I sure know how good it feels when my mother, grandmother, father, and even my neighbor aunt put in the time and effort to cook something I enjoy.

Since this was not a new year resolution, it did not die by the end of the first week of January. I still have to work on disciplining myself in sleeping earlier, working out everyday, reading and writing more regularly, or keeping myself motivated through the rest of my doctoral study. However, minimizing eating out is a resolution I am going to observe for life. I am going to eat out only when either the food or the company is compelling enough for me, or when I know I am going to die for the lack of food.

sunshine