Learning Along The Way

A Bengali Winter

2012-01-04T14:01:00.000-08:00

Winter holds special meaning for a Bengali, very unique to him. A true Bengali values winter dearly, exposed as he is to a long sweaty summer.
The very thought of winter brings warmth. I grew up in Kolkata where we looked forward to the time when schools would shut down briefly and we would wait for "BoroDin" (Big Day) ,or Xmas. It is very common to call Christmas as Xmas. As a kid, when schools shut down during winter, I would go into hibernation.
Very like "Kumbhokorno", the giant brother of "Raavan", I would fall into delightful slumber, waking up only at the summons of meals. Munching baked, steamed, boiled, fried, deep-fried, delicacies I would ponder upon world peace, and such. Every Bengali ponders 95% of their time. If you catch a Bong, staring into nothingness, stand back! He is on the verge of a momentous discovery of his own. And perchance if you spot a Bengali with food in hand, mouth open, gaping in wonder at the air ahead of his nose, you know you have inadvertently fallen into the space-time continuum of a Baby Einstein. We tend to force ourselves as friend, philosophers, guides to unsuspecting friends and continually strive to come up with catchier remarks that will boggle the listener's minds.
I am one such person. On that far gone wintry day in Kolkata, munching a chocolate Monginis cake with a side of "Joynogorer Moyaa (special sweet balls from a place called Joy Nagar)" and "Puli Peethey" (sweet rice dumplings with syrup) I had come up with reasons for our love for Winter.
Well, really why do we love Winter so much and what does it mean for a Bong? I am one sample and it is a far fetched idea to extrapolate me and my observations into an entire community of people, but guess what that's what I am going to do.

The love for winter time is deep rooted in a Bengali's veins. It begins with waking up, feeling warm under the "Kaatha" stitched quilts and smiling at the bright shining sun. A hot chai never tastes better than in winter. Wearing the brightest and over sized sweater a Bengali ventures out. Wait! Before he can step out he steps back. The one clothing item a Bengali never leaves behind in winter, is his monkey cap. This ubiquitous cap in Kolkata, is just like the armor for Spartans in that crazy movie 300. The cap comes in various colors. Females prefer it in red while males settle for black or brown. The cap covers everything except the eyes and cheeks. The nose and the mouth are optionally visible. Every cold kid walks the street, looking (un)cool. Me and my sister did the same and have to this day retained our monkey cap and its legacy. As the Bengali Babu steps out dressed in sweater, dhoti, monkey cap, and an umbrella, he feels like a King. The umbrella serves multiple purposes in a Bengali's life. When not tucked under the armpits, it protects the precious head of a Bong against rain and sun, poke people in the queue to move ahead, act as a walking stick, but most of all, it is like the scepter of a king, establishing his imperial authority.
Winter time is magical. Cakes and baking aromas feel the corridors between the adjoined apartments. Neighbors squabble over superior cake recipes. When I was growing up, we had neither the baking oven nor the microwave oven. But my mother wasn't daunted. Armed with a pressure cooker, she set out to conquer the world of cakes. Her first effort involved packing sand into the bottom of the cooker and settling a flour mixture in a pan inside. We waited with bated breath as whistles blew. As the four of us huddled to watch, the cooker cover was removed. There, sitting cozily in the sand was our first fluffy home made cake. I shall never forget the joy of eating a cake that fresh. With ovens in my apartment and cakes that I have made a zillion times, the magic never recreated itself.

Christmas was a foreign concept until I heard about Santa Claus. I was in third standard then. This plump jolly old man in red and white uniform, distributed gifts to great kids on the Eve of Christmas. Buoyed by our newly acquired knowledge, we mentioned it to our mother, repeatedly. We believed it and somehow coming from the teacher's mouth, made it difficult to even disbelieve. I found out that stockings were required before anything could be gotten from this Santa Claus fellow. We had no stockings, chimney or fireplace, so our school socks went on top of our mosquito net that Christmas Eve. My mother ogled in disbelief. I looked up at my socks wondering what goodies would fill them up.
Waking up next morning, I looked up. Wrapped in Bengali newspaper, there was something on top. I pummeled and woke my sister up. As we both scrambled out of our bed, I reached for the gift. The smelly socks had not been touched. (I figured Santa Claus wasn't very giving when it came to smelly socks!)

Unwrapping like a maniac, we found our Christmas gift. It was a pair of Badminton rackets and shuttle cocks! More than delight, I was astounded! Santa Claus really existed! We brought the flat down, yelling for our parents to come and look. Once they were up, we rambled on and on in amazement, happiness and faith for Santa Claus, oozing from every word we spoke. I still recall my dad's remark to my mom (which I had ignored on that day), "Wow! They really bought this Santa Claus idea, huh?"

School friends, teachers, apartment bullies and neighbors were the next to know about our Santa Claus visit. Needless to say they tried poisoning our belief with logic and rationality. They finally won three years later.

It is the gifting idea, albeit foreign, but great that a Bengali likes about winter. Then there is the famous cake from the corner bakery shop. My favorite is Monginis and then my mother's office cafeteria. My mom bought fruit cakes from her canteen several times for us. Every Bengali buys the cake and the "moyaa" together for his family. A little bit of Christmas with a little bit of tradition. The holidays mean television shows filled with Uttam Kumar's movies or Shahrukh's prancing. And the end of the year synopsis which a Bengali remembers, revises and quizzes his neighbors on. Who died? Who won what? Whose record was broken?

I have found the Bengalis to be the most voracious reader. And a season of winter holidays translate into quilt, tea and a book/newspaper. My dad settled into his chair early in the morning with his newspapers and wouldn't budge until he had gone through every page. In winter, we would do the same. And then pick up a book and start reading till we dozed off into sleep. Every Bengali reads and sleeps to see what he has just read, come to life in his dreams. I am no different.

A hot sweaty summer is never as conducive to happy hours of reading as a warm cozy winter. We never had heaters, so colorful quilts with unique stitching adorned our beds. The workers knitted and sowed overtime for this month. Bengali grandmothers would be found sitting on rocking chairs on the terrace, during an afternoon, knitting sweaters for the little ones. The winter afternoons meant sitting in sunshine. It also meant running to the terrace with oranges,ludo game and a mat ("shotronji"). It meant supervision by mom and playing for us. Every time I smacked my sis in a game, I received an immediate counter smack from my mom. It was frustrating but that's how I learned world peace.

This winter I did much the same. Acted the Santa, ate a bunch of oranges in heat and bunch of sweets, played a game of Ludo with anyone willing, read a bunch of books, pondered upon world problems and felt ready to take on the world. New ideas formed seeds in my mind and like every pontificating Bengali, I am now on the look out for one whom to deliver my sermons! Happy Winter!

Always On

2011-11-17T22:06:00.000-08:00

The generation of connectivity has taken over. We are always on.

Not many moons ago, I was a disconnected outlier. Growing up, I never had a PC or a Mac. I didn't touch a keyboard until my fifth standard. I recall my very first encounter with a computer. A real one. It was a hot Saturday afternoon and my mom had taken the day off. To have some fun together, the three of us - me, my sister and mom got out to be at Birla Museum. This is one ubiquitous museum in Kolkata. Schools plan field trips there, parents try to kindle the scientific spark in their disagreeing wards in this place, a mathematically bent individual finds himself at home here and in general visiting this Science and Technology Museum is a sure sign to show off to your neighbors about your superior intellect and choices. We found ourselves at the ticketing booth without any preconceived notions.

Once in, we headed straight for the most crowded area. The idea among Bengalis is that, if one Bengali found it worth queuing up for, it probably was worth the other Bengali's time. My mom dragged us both into a long line of standing individuals and kids. People waddled about, without much hurry. Munching peanuts and talking with a mouthful, our neighbor in queue spotted us and dropped his question.

" Ki? Compootaar dekhtey esheychhen bujhi?"
[ Did you guys come to see the Coompootaar ? ]

A moment elapsed before we made out what he said. We nodded without comprehension. My mom looked at us and said knowledgeably to the enquirer,
" Yes. My daughters have always been strong in science and I thought why not treat them with a visit to the Computer thing?"

The man smiled broadly and looked at us as affectionately as a stranger could.
" That is very good. Push them hard and you might even have Marie and Curie at your home. Heehee!" He laughed at his own obnoxious joke.

The line moved slowly. There were two huge cream colored boxes that looked like mini television sets, with a huge protrusion on its back. There were two operators seated in front of each one. They were formally attired and acted very important. As we neared the hallowed room, we saw everyone taking off their shoes. It was mandatory for the health of the computers. It was much later in my undergrad, that this rule was repealed.Thanks to the massive amount of shoe thievery and swapping, prevalent among shoe-conscious undergrads at BITS.

Once in, we waited with bated breath to near the computers. Time was limited. Only five minutes per interaction. I waited for my turn.

" Who is going to play?" asked the bespectacled operator as we neared him. My mother pushed me ahead as an answer.

The man scanned me from head to toe and asked in a patronizing tone, " Have you seen one before?"
I nodded my head from side to side to indicate a negative.

He expected nothing else. He went straight into his well rehearsed monologue.

" This is the latest computer. The computer was first invented as a gigantic calculator by Charles Babbage. "

He looked at me sternly when I giggled at the name. I was thinking in rhymes and cabbage seemed so appropriate.
When I smothered my inept frivolity, he launched back into his speech.

" From then to now, the computer has been radically miniaturized and now looks like this machine. Take a good look", he said sweeping his hand like a magician showing off his best trick with pride, " this device is so powerful and yet so compact. It does calculations in a jiffy, and has nifty games "
I ogled at it hard. It looked like a gigantic TV, we had at home and although it didn't play games with me, it showed images in color. This thing was all about black and white.
It sounded amazing to me that the device would play with me. Till then all I had was my twin. Although she was fun, there were severe limitations to her gaming capabilities. Like for instance, there was no way she would play with me a game of Chess if she lost twice. Or if I smacked her hard for winning (which rarely occurred, of course), she would make so much ruckus that all gaming notions would be swiftly dispelled.

I took one more step closer to the machine.
The bespectacled wise man, smiled broadly.
" This one is made by IBM - International Business Machines and is called Lexmark. I have loaded a great game on it - Paratrooper! You can play it for 3 minutes!"

I was delighted. I inched close to the keyboard. There was a joystick (I found the name later), that the man operated to demonstrate how to play the game. My imagination ran wild when I laid my eyes on the monitor.

The black screen was dotted with white tiny helicopters.There was a small canon firing bombs at the helicopters and at the descending parachutes of men. Every time it hit something, the score increased. The fireworks that went off, with every hit was amazing. It was all in black and white but I saw how unique this "Compootaar" was. The image could be out of any low budget war movie, but in this one, I could change the script as I liked. I controlled the destinies of these parachuting soldiers. I eagerly grabbed the joy stick from the operator and tried to control the fate of the game.
Needless to say, I was a complete failure.

Coordinating a real hardware with a virtual canon on the screen, required more dexterity than I thought. Soon, the parachutes and helicopters overwhelmed my tiny canon. I had missed way more than I had hit. My score plummeted and my canon was hit by a mega bomb from some descending soldier. The game was over.

Confident that she would do way better, my sister approached the machine. She had listened and looked on intently when the operator was explaining things to me.
The moment the joystick came into her palm, my sister dominated. The canon fired balls, I never knew it had. The parachutes and people fell from the sky in vast numbers. Her three minutes were over, but her performance made the bespectacled gentleman, urge her to continue. For the next seven minutes my sister thrashed the life out of Paratroopers. She made the highest score and the operator delightfully clapped his hands together and remarked,

"Darun darun ( Awesome) !!! Well done! You have the highest score I have ever seen! Very well done!" My sister and my mother beamed brightly, just as my face darkened.

Bengalis, if they spot a spark, tend to pontificate. The operator had spotted the Ultimate Gamer of tomorrow and just had to give his share of advice to my mom.

"You are a very lucky mother. "Your THIS daughter" , pointing carefully at my sister and avoiding me altogether, "Has a rare gift". Trust me, this computer will become our future and in that future your daughter will rule. You should let her be near computers more often. If you can, come regularly to our Science Lab and Science Sessions. She will gain a lot of knowledge and experience there."

Almost as an afterthought he added, looking at me, squinting his eyes doubtfully,
"She can come too...."

My mother went into a gushing bout of joyous emotions. When she was done, we left the queue, with interested bystanders peering at my sister as some mini celebrity. I gave them all my perfected dirty look.

My mother took the suggestion seriously. The very next year we enrolled in their three month Summer Computer Camp. At the end of the session, my sister bagged the first prize and 15K rupees. We had learnt all about BASIC and LOGO, two currently ancient languages. That was just the beginning.

At school, Computer Science became a regular class. Drawing pictures, learning to code and to appreciate ALU, playing "Prince of Persia", I grew up with the wonder of Computers. BITS, Pilani had its own email forum, and for the first time, I used "pine" and created my first email account. Sending and receiving email became an insatiable addiction. Unlike an IPhone, that updates your inbox rather rapidly, finding a new email in an inbox was like undertaking a pilgrimage, in BITS. From the far flung hostel, one had to cycle twenty minutes to reach the IPC (Institute Processing Centre), leave his or her shoes outside,( praying to find them when they came out),and wait in line as the inching queue of eager students waited for a vacant device. Finally when you grabbed one, and held your breath as the inbox opened, one found, "No New Mails!" At the height of frustration, I have heard of students who emailed themselves just to see the euphoric line, "You've Got Mail!"

From BITS to UCLA, where Internet was created, my discovery of Computers and what they can achieve kept expanding. Engrossed in the study of semiconductors, I thoroughly appreciated Moore's law. The gigantic television sized computer of Kolkata shrunk drastically to a mini palm held device, and with every progress the computer made, it sucked in its users like a whirlpool's vortex. That leads me to my profound title.

An IPhone made staying connected and being followed infinitely easy. So much of our lives are public property. Within our individual social circles, we roam as celebrities. Much of our information is online. I have googled myself several times, and with every search the body of knowledge available, increases. I have noticed the phenomenon transform into an addiction. Staying away from the world wide web is like being a fish out of water. I have lived three months of my life without Internet and TV in this very Silicon Valley. That, even to myself is a great feat. My Chinese friend, finds herself updating her status, thoughts, whereabouts, fears, likes and personality like an open web page. Access is open to every one who cares. She is always on. Her clan is growing rapidly around me.

I miss those delightful nights in Kolkata, when power shut down. When every gadget was turned off. The sky was void of light pollution and stars shone brightly. There were no beeps, alarms, vibrations or ring tones.Men and women could be off the grid, and enjoy being there. It is impossible to imagine it now.

I wonder what is next. Now I delight in having the power to switch my IPhone off. I delight in having at least the option to hide away from the circles that seek me, occasionally. Will that right be there in the future? I wonder to myself, if "Always On" is just a sedge way for being "Never Off".

Maybe 2012 will reveal more, who know?

Childhood Obesity

2011-10-04T17:22:00.000-07:00

It is of much concern now in US. Every third program on NPR and on television seems to be about fat kids unable to frolic. A depth of reasons and repercussions are provided for this growing obesity pandemic. I wonder where all these reporters and columnists were, when I was growing up.

In Kolkata, during my years of growing up (and sideways), no one made a hullabaloo about childhood obesity. The thinking of a Bengali parent was different. Take for example, Mrs. Bose, Bomba's mother (the son's name has been disclosed to reveal his true identity). She firmly believed in the merits of a well-fed son.

"My Bomba is damn strong. It looks chubby but in reality he is muscular. He is just too young to sprout the right triceps. And he works so hard! So many Math problems he solves in a day - where will he get nourishment from if not from Rosogollas ?"

Bomba was growing up to live and love sweets. His breakfast, lunch and dinner had high refined-sugar contents. Added to that was the Bengali lifestyle. He was a sedentary good student. The longer he sat, the more assignments he completed, and the better grades he got. This meant his parents pushed him to sit longer. Playing outside was banished. To fulfill his need for fun, Mrs. Bose supplied an unending array of snacks, delivered directly to his desk. The vicious cycle of sit-n-eat, had Bomba entrenched in its grips.

I wasn't much unlike Bomba. My mother (over)fed us. Aside from breakfast in the morning we had two rounds of snacks. The lunch boxes we carried, overflowed with food. A side box was created to hold our deserts. Evenings meant snacking more and the snacks ended with full course dinner. Dawdling to school, coaching classes, and completing home works, left us lazy and lethargic. I remember sleeping being our favorite past time. "Physical Training" classes became Physical Torture at school.

The results were obvious. I became fatter and greedier.

My sister was always thinner than me. Set against my backdrop, she was proclaimed thin! It was on a relative scale, but soon people forgot the relativity and started accepting her as thin and me as fat. It boosted her morals and lowered mine.

Soon my classmates held a classroom Fat-Pageantry Contest. I was declared the unanimous winner. When my class teacher found out, she hid her giggle without much success and said, " At least you are first in this category!"

My sadness on being the "Baby Elephant" grew until my mother became concerned.
One fine Friday evening, she dragged me to a pediatrician.

The middle-aged doctor, looked up from his heavy glasses at me and then glanced at my mother. My mom began without a preamble.

"Arrey, take a good look at my daughter, Doctor. For some unknown reason she has become a little plump. But I would have thought nothing of it if my daughter did not mention that she was being called names at school. That is affecting her - mentally and physically. She seems to have lost some appetite. I did speak to her teacher to reprimand her naughty classmates. But I don't know what else to do - help!"

I twiddled my fat thumbs together, while my mom went about her monologue. Every doctor's visit was the same. My mother assumed she was the ultimate authority on my condition and gave me no chance to answer any questions. Any of doctor's incumbent queries were deftly fielded by her, so that I became a mute spectator to my plight.
Some docs didn't approve of this behavior. They would unceremoniously brush aside her comments and say,
"Arrey apni thamun toh! Ekey boltey din! Ma...bolo toh tomar ki hoyeche?"
["Why don't you stop? Let her speak. Dear, why don't you tell me what happened?"]

This time, the doctor listened to my mom, with complete attention. When she finished, he asked her,

"What do you feed her?"

My mother smiled broadly.

"Well, I try to be a good mother, but not always do I succeed. I make sure she gets all the nutrients in one meal or next. The list is not very long, for example, today, I made Chocolate Complan, Sabudana Khichdi for breakfast, for lunch I gave her a box of shrimp chowmein, sondesh, an apple, in the evening we are planning to have dosa for snacks and fish curry, dal, rice for dinner!"

The doctor ogled his eyes out.
"Orey Baba! Are you kidding me? Your daughter eats all this on a daily basis and yet managed to get through my chamber door! That's a miracle!"

My mother's face fell.

The doctor went out detailing a strict quarter diet plan for me. Basically everything I ate was cut into quarter portions. I thought to myself, "How am I going to live through this starvation?" I didn't have to. My mother discarded the doctor's advice as being unnecessarily cruel.

My childhood obesity did not get eradicated in my childhood. When I reached high school, my mother suddenly decided to enroll us in swimming classes. Every day for two years we went for forty minutes of water splashing. That did it! I went from "baby elephant" to "healthy" in a year. The rest of the body fat was lost during board exams results week.

The idea of a Bengali family to force feed every child in the name of care, might have had something to do with the obesity I saw around myself. With changing times and "Zero Sizes", parents have become less forceful. In fact, my mother has taken onto this generation pretty well. When I had returned home for the first time from US, she welcomed me in the airport arrival with a shocked gasp,

"Eeeshhh! Ki mutki hoye gechhis!" [ Oh! How fat you have become!"]

It was difficult for me to gobble the Bengali goodies after that, but my mother redeemed herself by offering me third and fourth helpings, insistently.

All those children struggling to deal with peer slim pressure would have had a better time in Kolkata. Their peers would seldom be slim. When something is in majority, it stops being questioned. Hardly anyone gave their super stout son a second glance and said, "This kid eats too much!" It was always, "My son comes from well-fed family!"

Drawing Skills

2011-09-27T13:25:00.000-07:00

When I was four years old, my sister suddenly sprouted drawing talents. She would pick up a magazine, and draw the girl on the front cover with ease and similitude that had my parents beaming. My mother would hold the art in her hands and remark,

" Ahh! Ki sundor ekechhey! Baah!" ["Ohh! So prettily drawn! Wow!]

Once she set it down, lovingly following it with her eyes, I would snatch it up to take a look. To be honest, it was indeed well done. For a girl my age, I surely didn't expect it from her. I was reluctant to admit my real sentiments.

" The nose is bloated!" , was all I said.

Steadily her drawings grew. Her talent sucked me in too. Even though I was a jealous spectator in the beginning, I soon became a peer artist. Together we would lay down our Camel pastel colors on the floor on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Our parents would be at work and we would be entrusted to our youngest aunt. She wasn't much into baby sitting as she was into cooking. It was very easy to find her spending the entire day in the kitchen - simply enjoying herself and her culinary escapades.
One of us would come up with the idea. It would invariably be me.

From childhood, I had been distinguished from my identical twin as the naughty one. I had broken more rules and blamed it on her than she could ever have. I had concealed the real story more often than my conscientious sibling, who broke down at the slightest frown from my mother. In short, I was more of a menace than her.

" Let's paint on the living room wall," I would say excitedly.

" It has the perfect shade of blue since the last time it got painted. We won't have to use the sky blue crayon at all!"
As if that was reason enough to get into this venture head first.

My sister wasn't moved. She wasn't exactly sure but in an undefined way, she felt it was wrong. Her conscience was forming at a much faster pace than mine. My undue zeal was not enough to drag her into it. I could have done it alone. But there is safety in numbers. You know, herd mentality. It is so much easier to say, " Enu started it, 'coz she is the artist!". My sister had already been unanimously acknowledged to travel far with her talents, so there was a high probability, she would get away, and with her, I would too.

" You drew that mountain scenary so well in class today. I think you should try it on a bigger canvas. It would look excellent. I would help you too!", I kept cajoling her. She finally gave in.

Armed with our crayons, we huddled close to the wall. Squatting on the floor, we set about painting a picture of something extraordinary.

Everytime I began a painting (to this day) , I have a vision of the final picture. That day, as I held the black color poised in my hand, I saw a village. The chimney was blowing smoke and near the fence guarding the hut, were two young boys, flying a multicolored kite. The birds flew along with the kite as the boys rejoiced in its lofty heights. A water pump served a beautiful belle with her water needs. She wore a red skirt, hitched up to her ankle, as she balanced two pots on her waist and her head. She had the most beautiful big eyes ever. Not far away, sat a man, observing this village routine. It had all been chalked out, in my mind's eye.

When I completed my work, a good hour later, my sister looked over her shoulder and remarked,

" Hee hee...what is that? a crooked cow?"

I frowned. There was no cow in the scene. Definitely not crooked. She assumed I didn't hear her from my puzzled silence. She decided to scoot over to my side and better explain herself.

" I meant this thing here, in front of the smoking train. Oooh! you seem to have got one velociraptor flying on a string - that's neat! Is that Jurassic Park? There are so many trees...", she trailed off, trying to decode my drawing. At this point, normal lily-livered seven year olds would have broken out into high pitched outbursts. I was strong. I simply smacked my sister on her head. She conformed to the norm and within two seconds, her cries roused the neighborhood. The rest is history. The village scene became the worst drawing I ever drew, just from the consequences itself.

Our repeated attempts on painting the living room wall caught our parent's attention. Punishments weren't enough to deter us ( definitely not me) so they came up with a better plan. Thanks to Mrs. Ghosh. She lived in the flat below.

One Sunday afternoon, she came visiting. She wanted sugar, but stayed over for tea, snacks and appetizers. Throughout her stay, she commented on the sad plight of the house.

" It looks horrible!" she said undisguisedly. She rebelled against the good guest rules.
" They ruined your painting job. And you guys paid so much for those Asian paints people, no? My Boombaa would never do that. He listens to my every word." She paused, beaming to an audience who weren't feeling as good about letting her stay.
" You know what? My Boombaa's classmate was as rowdy as your twins. His parents tried everything and then they put him in school. The drawing school! There's one in our neighborhood - Chitramukul. Why don't you take these two there?"

My parents saw the merit in her proposal, soon after she departed. My dad was made in charge of dragging us down there and getting us enrolled. Promptly on Sunday, at 9 am, we held our dad's hand on either side and made our way to "Chitramukul". The classes started right away. The head master was a balding beaming guy, who greeted us by pinching our chubby cheeks!

" They are in good hands, Mr. Chattopadhyay." He said with unnerving confidence.
" Just come back to collect them at 11".
With great relief and over alarcrity, my dad ran back home, abandoning us in a strange school.

Seven years later, we bid good bye to our drawing alma mater. It was the best artistic years of my life. There were no dearth of things to draw, techniques to learn, styles to try and instructors to admire. Amongst these budding artists, I felt alive. My sister outshone me in the classes and competitions. She would collect all the first prizes, while I came a close second. At regular school, we were soon recognized as good painters. We participated and nurtured our talents, on canvases and easles, far bigger than the living room wall. The beaming headmaster would continue smiling at us. He kept encouraging us, as he did his every student.

It was a small establishment. The instructors were poorly paid and the students came from various backgrounds. Several couldn't afford to pay the fees. But Chitramukul catered to one and all. It was a common ground for people, passionate about painting. I saw a boy, unable to afford palattes and yet painted such breathtaking scenaries. I was amazed at my lack of talents in their midst. I had the best brushes, palettes, drawing paper and colors - yet my picture would never come alive like his did.
For seven years we nurtured our skills and bettered it.

Colors still make me weak. Walking into Michaels or Joann's has me wandering like a child in Disneyland. Filled with joy - expecting something miraculous round the corner. I always end up buying colors and sketch books. On some weekends, when my laundry and vacuuming are done, I open my book. Spreading out my pastels, I pause.
This time, the village scene is clearer.
But as I paint it, I know my sister cannot just walk over and mock it. A part of me leaves the picture incomplete. On my next India trip, I will finish it, in her presence. Let's see if she will still see the crooked cow in the pretty damsel!

Retirement!

2011-09-23T15:18:00.000-07:00

My Dad just retired. He has always been an ambitious person. He aimed high. Depending on who you spoke with my Dad came out as a man of many talents or none at all.
If you spoke with my mom and asked her, like an interviewer, what my Dad did, her response would be something like this:

"Who? My husband? What is this about? Is he in trouble? Are we in trouble? ...oh he is not...that's good to know! Phew! I have always warned him with dire consequences, but I never meant them. [ A broad smile ] My husband works hard. Very very hard. For his job. He runs around every day listening and obeying his superiors and (mis) guiding his juniors. At home, he mostly sleeps, wakes up to eat and falls back to sleep again. Sigh!"
At this point, the interviewer would probably move the mike away because the train of monologue is dangerously similar to a overworked wife's outburst. And that is no longer entertaining.
The next person to be asked would be us. Me and my sister. Perhaps, the interviewer would swing the microphone between our faces, not knowing if it makes any difference. After all we look alike - could we possibly have different opinions about our dad?
Depending on what our ages were at the time of the interview, our opinion about our dad would vary.

Age three: "Bloooh..boo..booo..hee heee"

Age six: "Bapiiiiiiiii is bhalo (good)!"

Age twelve: "I think my dad writes to us less. He needs to write more. I also think he makes my mother cry when he leaves and laugh when he is back. He works and works but not at home. I love my mother."

Age twenty-four: "My dad has taken care of his professional life very well. He is very ambitious and has made personal sacrifices to ensure his progress in the corporate ladder. It meant great places for us to visit, great education, good food, comfortable life but less of my dad's presence. I wish he was around more often. I enjoy talking to him. He has so many stories to tell. I miss him."

Age NOW: "Bapi is there now...but we have left home."

If the interviewer would pause there for a moment, perhaps he could discern the sadness in our voices. When we most wanted our dad around, he was missing. Now when I speak to him every day, I realize what I have missed.

His coworkers, peers and superiors admired, idolized, and patronized him. He was an ideal worker. He worked like it was his personal mission to make the company succeed. He zeal for getting more business, coming up with strategies and visions was amazing. As a result he was forever busy and travelling. I knew very little of his achievements ...until now.

Just a few days ago, my dad called me up. He wanted to know the recipe for chappati (Indian bread). Ever since he retired, he had been on a mission to lose weight. To his credit, he has already lost 16 pounds and 6 inches off his waistline! In addition to walking about and yoga twice a day, groceries, fixing the home and following my mother's instructions, he now wants to implement dietary changes. Using the power of Google vested in him, he has unearthed the hitherto unknown benefits of "whole wheat roti" over rice. In a Bengali household, "rotis" have always been an unloved step sister to the universally adored "rice" as staple diet. Since my mother refused to make him the chappatis (except on weekends), he has taken it onto himself to make them.

While giving him the instructions, I found myself amazed. I have had recipe downloads from my mother, but this was the first time my dad thought of me as a source of information. My father was never a fan of my cooking. In his words,
"It is neither Bengali, nor good."

Me and my sister had both been very distressed at the thought of our father retiring. My mother was slightly concerned, but not too much, because she would still be getting away to her work place to escape just in case my dad became too difficult to handle in his retired state. I could not comprehend my father sitting at home. He had always been so involved with his work, every minute, that the utter absence of it was terrifying. I worried he would slowly depress himself into a state of loneliness. All his power and influence would disappear with his bygone position.

I conspired with my sister and got his resume made. It was then that I realized the length and breadth of his professional achievement. He had been a success - in ways that I can only dream to be in my current nondescript position. Along with his resume,his Linked in profile was also created. The idea was to get him another job. No matter how much my dad wanted to retire, we did not want to let him.

The day came and went by. My dad was an official retiree. Much to our amazement, he got himself busy. Every time we brought up job hunting, he would silence us with his list of to-dos and chores. Apparently there was no dearth of work at home, under my mother's direction. He has started making a lesser fuss about every thing he cooks - because he cooks often now. Once my mother is off to work, he is left behind fending for himself. Much like us, he relies on "bread omelet" and "Maggi" on his lazy afternoons.

I feel closer to him now. All my life, I have spoken to my mother, every single day. My dad, irregularly. Now it is reversed. We share culinary mishaps and tips to avoid burning food while he realizes there is a wealth of knowledge to share. He unravels tales on life, work, astrology, fate, youth, interviews, blunders during our telephonic conversations.

I smile and laugh when he complains about hauling heavy grocery bags, rickety tin boxes that serve as commuter buses, the ruckus people causes in the name of reform and the general irritation he feels settling down to Kolkata. (California has become his first love followed by Mumbai!) I make a mental note to find my dad a job in US.

He always held the belief/philosophy that a person has a predefined job that they have to complete before they pass onto the next world. Since he retired, my dad tells me,

"I have completed what I came to this world to do." Before I can interrupt anxiously, he continues,
" That is why I do my remaining tasks (assigned by your mom) very very slowly!"
It amazes me how my dad finds humor in the irony of being "done" and having nothing more to do.

As both of us struggle with our professional and retired lives, we find a common place to share, to crib, to complain and to joke.

But above all, I rediscover my far away father! :)

The Magic of Movies and what if you made one...

2011-07-26T12:17:00.001-07:00

In 2010 we launched ourselves into a serious project - movie making. We had a story, and a script that converted the story into dialogues and we had found experienced volunteers willing to give not just time and effort, but their 1000$ equipments as well. Movie making could not have been any more of a reality.

The story was from one of my older blog posts- Americaan Courthouse. Additional punch lines were included to make it entertaining and a script was readied. Ads were placed in craigslist for actors and they were found. Talent is overflowing in this bay area and waiting to be showcased. I decided to get the title role of the Bengali female caught by a cop for red light violation and faced with the difficult task of a court visit, something parents and culture had warned her to stay away from.

Rehearsals happened only twice - all the involved people were day time engineers in the valley and couldn't give more than weekends for this project. The project called for enormous project management skills - it was infinitely tougher to motivate and influence people who were simply volunteering. There was no money to be made. Except for YouTube fame, there was very little reward. It was lucky that everyone was equally driven.

From the stands, movies are alluring. An unsuspecting audience is easily consumed by the magic of the movie. He sees each scene in a seamless manner as if it was all done in a day. The story engulfs him and of course no one chronicles the real struggle of making something this magical. The actors of the industry always appeared as beautiful stars to me. I assumed they loved enacting their parts and their passion was the driving factor. ( Of course I must not forget the big bucks they made)

When we started the project, no one was going to pay us. In fact being the producers, we had to pay for renting locations, cars, and supplying food to the actors and volunteers. Food was the very least we could give these people working for free.

I memorized my lines, all the monologues, with expressions I thought fit. I chose my own costumes and did my own makeup. We had a volunteer managing Continuity and Script Accuracy. He noted down the costume details of every actor in case we had to shoot the same scene at a later date. He was also the most annoying person when you missed a word here and there. He was sure to bring it up, just when you thought you were capable of an Oscar.

Eight days, Four Saturday and Sundays for nine hours each day, the shooting lasted. Honestly if you loved acting, like I did, once you were through this rigors, all love was sure to take flight. Every scene were shot from three different angles and repeated between Standard and High Definition cameras, because we had two directors for this movie! At the end, only one of them stuck till the end with the same notions. And God forbid, if one of the actors even belched, the whole thing had to be done all over again! Because cameras don't lie. To my agony, in multiple actor scenes, one of us was sure to grin at the wrong moment in this comedy-drama (dramedy) movie.

The thing that enthralled me was the the process. Just as it was frustrating, it was equally exciting to see people come together to create the first motion picture we could all feel proud of. This movie obviously made me realize that effort is never directly proportional to the final outcome. I loved playing the distraught Bengali girl saddled with friends with mind boggling ideas for escaping a traffic ticket. The actors became friendlier and friendlier as we all stumbled through our lines and followed our hapless director's instructions. The camera man, lights man and sound guy had the worst plight. They had to hold the camera, light and boomer mikes throughout the nine hours, each day. At the end of shooting they had developed lean bicep muscles!

The onlookers for our outdoor shoots were few. Americans aren't as interested in independent movies as Indians are, be it a nondescript one. In India you are a celebrity if you are holding a video camera with a bunch of crew, shooting anything. Bystanders would clamour to get into the frame and look upon you with utmost awe, scratching their heads to recall, where they might have seen you. If you per chance need to use some one's shop to shoot your scene, he would offer it to you delightfully and might even serve hot tea! But california's south bay is completely different. We needed a Coach shop as one of our locales. When we approached them, we were very courteously refused. Frowning in irritation at our insistence, they gave us several forms and names of departments to appeal to, before we could so much as near their shop with a camera in hand. Our indomitable director,angered by this opposition, decided to resort to guerrilla shooting techniques! He had to drop his plan when no one joined him.

The shooting was a minuscule part of movie making. Four full weekends later, thoroughly exhausted, we came close to giving up. But most important work awaited. We needed to find an editor. Among the people who acted voluntarily, we found an experienced British guy, who volunteered his services. Reels were provided to him and coordination had to be done. When the director was shooting, he had a vision. But when the editor sat down to edit, his vision was sure to be different. A common ground had to be set before the movie made any sense.

Our editor decided to take off on a world tour, leaving our movie lying on his editing board. No work was done for five months. It took eight months before the first video draft was ready. Needless to say it came out way different from what we had in mind. Seven revisions later, it was close to what we wanted to see in the movie, true to the script. And then it was posted! On YouTube.

Every time I look at it, I recall the hardworking men and women who toiled to make it a reality. I am reminded of the amateur acting skills and some mature acting from people whose day jobs make them code and design. I am reminded of myself and my naivety in front of the camera. But most of all I see freshness- in every one's eyes. It's a dream to make a movie and being able to translate that to reality, deserves applause.
Despite the movie's nondescript YouTube life, I am proud. It feels great to create the Magic of Movies!

Americaan Courthouse:
http://m.youtube.com/index?desktop_uri=%2F&gl=US#/watch?v=A1kpjtLVZIg

The Bengali Cook

2011-07-23T12:15:00.001-07:00

One thing Indians love is eating. When you love eating, cooking good food automatically becomes important. (Eating out was considered more of a luxury when I was growing up...not so much now)

In Kolkata,surrounded by working mothers and fathers, the burden of cooking still fell on my mother. My dad approached the problem in his own way. He knew how to make everything but chose not to do so, unless pushed to a corner. He was cornered more often than he liked. Holding a transferable job made him easily susceptible to living long periods of time in distant locations without us. He learnt to cook by necessity.

My mother tried her tactics to get him to cook at home, when he came around staying with us in Kolkata, after yet another transfer. On some Sunday afternoon, when she was least interested in making any food, she would try to train my dad tactically.

"You know how to make the the khichdi, right? Just put a few vegetables, just the way you used to make while in Maharashtra and make it no? Even the kids like it that way." She smiled genuinely, with hope and advance appreciation. [Khichdi is a dish prepared of rice, lentils and vegetables all boiled together with spices]

My dad was a wise man. Domestic happiness was important to him, but not at the cost of his own. He was lazy,and loved his couch, his newspaper, his two-time tea and his sleep. Down below this just mentioned list, lay his family, his kids, and his deep concern about their future.

My dad peered over his newspaper.
"Khichdi? Why? There is no food left from lunch?"

"No", said my mother, gradually losing her smile.

"Hm mm...I think Khichdi is not what I like. Not too good for my stomach.I don't want khichdi. So what's the point of making it?"

My dad was right- only in his own way. He didn't assume anyone's preference mattered more than his own and why make something that he wouldn't be able to enjoy?

My mother didn't see his point. She saw his laziness. She scrunched her eyebrows together.

"What would you like to eat then?"

My dad smiled broadly. He loved this question.

"How about that "mocha ghonto", with "methi saag vada", and "chingri machher malaikari? A little white rice with it would go very well." [The items listed are traditional Bengali dishes. Mocha ghonto is a way of preparing banana blossom, methi saag vada is deep fried balls of a bitter leaf and chingri machher malaikari is shrimps in coconut gravy.]

My mother smiled, even as her eyes almost rolled over in disbelief.

"Sure, I think we all would like those. Why don't you start making these one by one?"

My dad felt slightly trapped. Just slightly.

"But I don't know how...", he said believably.

"Don't you worry, I am here. I will guide you through it. Let's begin."

My mother stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. My father looked at us in dismay. We had been mute spectators of this scene. Our inputs were never sought in these matters. I gave a smile. So did my sister. We meant no harm.

My dad made a face at us. Murmuring under his breadth he said,

"These two daughters are their mother's disciples! Never taking my side! Humph!", he said angrily.

Thus uttering, he neatly folded his newspaper, following the crease lines closely, placed it on the exact same spot on the table where he placed it a zillion times before, , got hold of his manly wrap-around ("lungi") and followed my mother into the kitchen.

The dinner we ate later was , as my dad put it, "Entirely his effort." That was very different from what really happened. My mom cut cleaned and fried the vegetables, my dad looked on. My mom de-frosted the shrimps, prepared the coconut gravy with spices while my dad used a ladle to twirl it all together-twice. The rice was his only genuine effort. The pressure cooker made his work easy. Tired from all the supervision, he vented his anger on us.

"Why don't you two help out in the kitchen? Why do we have to do everything even after we have daughters? That too two of them? You should help out from tomorrow- follow my footsteps."

We smiled as before.We were following his footsteps.

Bengali cooking, like every other cuisine, has an art and heart to it. You relish and enjoy the simple flavors slowly. The cook revels in joy when you take longer to finish your plate. I have seen such variety in the very same dish. My father and my mother were from two different kinds of Bengali backgrounds. The East and the West. ("Bati" and "Ghoti" respectively) Their cooking styles and recipes were different. Factor in the cook's skills and you have way too many things influencing one dish.

As a child, I enjoyed my grandmother's, more than my mother's , more than my dad's. Whenever my dad was asked to make anything , all on his own, we had a difficult time. We were obedient and mostly hungry so no fuss was made on our part. My dad however tended to make a humongous deal whenever he cooked. We ran into neighbors and family friends occasionally, where my father would begin a sentence with, " It was raining the other day when I made the khichdi." It was an exaggeration but my dad was widely admired as a helping hubby, father and cook.

I have seen the real Bengali cooks. They are called "Moharaj"(The Emperor of the Kitchen). They are males, usually pot-bellied, humorous and extremely adept in blending spices and melting hearts with their mouth watering preparations. Technical term in Hindi is "Bawarchi".

I met one not so long ago. During my sister's wedding, we hired a Moharaj to handle the cooking while my mother and the other women busied themselves in "Satya Narayan Puja" ( Worship of Lord Krishna). He was prolific. In one hour he had seven dishes under control. When we all sat down to eat, he single handedly served all of us.

"Oh babu ,eat slowly...let your tongue then your soul relish the taste."
He asked of me, as I tried chomping down my food all at once.

I smiled. He treated the adults like children, taking utmost care to ensure we tasted all his dishes and enjoyed them. Sitting like a patriarch he oversaw our moves. Every time any of us asked for a second helping, he beamed. It was pure bliss for him. He never ate with us. In his own words,

"The happiness to cook and feed were far greater than eating food."

From "shorshe illish" (mustard salmon), "aloo bhaja" (potato fries), "arhar daal with machher matha" (Lentils with fish head), "aatop chaal" (rice), "mangsher jhol" (meat curry) and "payesh" (rice puding), every dish tasted better than the last. I ate with my fingers. Eating with hand is the traditional way of enjoying Bengali food.We are a tactile bunch. "Kobji dubiya khaawa", or eating with your elbows inserted is an expression of deep appreciation of food.[Don't take it literally -it is just an expression]

When Moharaaj urged me to eat some more, I was beyond full.

"Aar kheley ebaar potol tulbo!" I said gathering my steel plate. [ "If I eat any more I might just die"]

Maharaj looked disappointed.I guess he assumed I was capable of consuming endlessly. Perhaps my size beguiled him.

The meal finally came to an end. Smiling with hands folded, Maharaj collected his fees from my mother. As he left, he said, "Don't forget me for your other daughter's wedding."

I never saw him again.

I cook too. Nearly not as much nor as well as did my grandmothers, my mother, my aunts and the legendary cooks I ate from. I cook in my way - with mild hint of Bengal in the dishes I prepare. It would be a misnomer to call me a Bengali cook.
The cuisines that I enjoyed once, have not come alive in my kitchen. Only when my mother was visiting, did I feel an old aroma, taste coming back. It brought back memories of food served on freshly cut banana leaves, with earthen bowls of five dishes and dessert, served on the floor as we sat on "satranjis" (mats). It reminded me of the cooks who served them - with utmost love and care. The look of happiness on receiving appreciation- be it in a burp, slurp or spotless plates. Memories that remain forever, waiting to be recreated, in a small utilitarian kitchen in California.

"One day," I say to myself,"I will grow up to be a Bengali cook."

Moving Out Moving In Moving Up Moving On

2011-02-13T21:20:00.000-08:00

In my life, I have moved a lot. Moved out, moved in, moved up and moved on. Each movement was significant. Each taught me a discrete lesson.

Growing up in Kolkata, we did not move much. Our school was a priority and hence my working mother decided to stick to Kolkata with us and her extended family, rather than following my dad all over India.Thus we stayed put. It was only when we got admission into BITS, Pilani that the first movement came about.

It was a small step for every other student but a giant one for us. Being over protected all our lives, moving out was a big deal. Not just that, living a life without parental supervision, was even bigger. While some of our fellow students looked at us jealously for having each other, we convinced them of our unique miserable plight. Being from the same family with 99% same genetic makeup, me and my sister only enhanced each other's sorrow. Home-sickness was magnified and fear of failure doubled. While one cried, the other woefully joined in! I can safely say, that my first year at BITS was the most depressive one.

Moving out for the first time, we packed everything humanely possible. Gigantic luggage's (everything duplicated) were stowed away in the puny room allotted to us. Fortunately, we became each other's roommates again. Just like home, we shared our space in BITS too. Needless to say, adjusting with a sister as roommate didn't teach me much. No one forgives you like your own family does.

BITS taught me a little bit about living alone. The rest was learnt in America.
In comparison, moving to BITS paled into insignificance.

With three suitcases packed, carrying pin-to-plane, I left homeland. This time it was serious. There would be no warden, no mess food, no food parcels or the quarterly visits from my mom and dad. This time, I had no sister. I was truly alone. And utterly miserable. I recall spending the better part of my Singapore Airlines flight crying. And the rest, I don't recall.

UCLA meant adjustments. I moved into a tiny apartment that was shared by more people than I liked it to be. I moved in with girls coming from all parts of India and one from UK. Each of us brought an unique tale to share. While sharing our space, we shared a part of our souls too. It was the beginning of the realization that not all roommates are mates to room with. Of course there were altercations. Sometimes you gave in and sometimes you held out. Nothing made you a winner.

It was the first time I actually learnt new things - about myself and about roommates.
My first cooking endeavor was lauded by my roommates as was my first culinary disaster criticized. I learnt making "Dosas" from scratch from a girl from Andhra, I learnt kneading the dough for "Paranthas" from a girl from Punjab, I learnt about "Crumpets" from my British roommate and above all I learnt to accept sharing with strangers.
Every roommate was a different story. As each one moved in, we got to know each other and as each of us moved out, we realized, not all separations were sad.

When professional life started, priorities changed. My accommodation was spacious and filled with me and just one roommate. I had the resource to have a better living. More space for oneself doesn't always translate into better roommate relationships. I was a new comer to living in Bay Area and fairly dependent in the initial months. As I learnt, I made mistakes and had some successes. My first roommate was an introvert lady. She was always proper. I admired her from a distance - because she maintained one constantly with me. We shared only common spaces and interacted through post-its. Conversation was overrated in the apartment. It lasted as long as it did and then we both moved on.
The next girl was much more talkative and sharing. We gelled well. It was fun watching movies, going to dinners, coffees with her. We were both busy and every time we met we shared something interesting. I enjoyed her company. Her personal life caught up with her and the roommate-ship ended. The next move was filled with highs and lows.

The first few months were an high.We bonded. She had very interesting tales to share. We made and shared food, tea, movies and gossips. We went on a shopping spree together. Gradually changes crept in. Her personal and professional disturbances rocked our sanguine boat. Things went from bad to worse. The transformation was drastic. Days became tougher. When I had first moved in I had thought to myself, that this was an upgrade. It really was. The apartment itself, the community, location, amenities, the roommate were all better than any I had before. I had to correct myself. From "moved up" I slowly "moved down".

For every thing that falls apart,people are not always at fault. Circumstances can drive individuals crazy. But at those moments of deepest troubles, one's worth is tested. Every relationship, however trivial, goes through it. Some fail and some bind forever. Ours were the former kind.
We moved out in separate directions, all for the better.

I soon acquired a roommate of the permanent nature. For better or for worse, my roommate and I are sealed into a pact of seven lives together. I tend to think, that the journey of moving, with its different shades have left me wise. All my previously learnt lessons have made me an attractive roommate material. I managed to convince my boyfriend to become my husband and move into my life. Till I hear anything to the contrary I am sticking to my super awesomeness!

Saraswati Puja

2011-02-10T21:27:00.000-08:00

On February 8th my part of India celebrated Saraswati Puja. I had no idea about it until my mother called me up the night before.

"So where are you?", she asked without the "hello" greeting. My mother seldom followed the norm. She was an exception. I recall her calling her distant aunts after a very long time and as soon as the ringing stopped and someone said "hello", she would come up with the most innovative introductory lines. Like:

"Arrey, have you finished eating yet?", if it was somewhere near lunch or dinner time. When asked with such genuine concern about one's eating habits, one tends to mellow down. They inevitably ended up saying, "Yes, I just did. But who is calling?". Then my mother would divulge her real identity and quickly apologize for being incommunicado for this long.

Other times:

"Oh ho ! I have been meaning to call you for such a long time dear but my kids give me no respite! (Utter nonsense). But I had to call you today. Just couldn't stop thinking of you Jhumpa di", my mother finally breathed.
Jhumpa di on the other hand would have been rendered speechless at this unbridled affection from a hardly in-touch relation. Jhumpa di would end up saying,
"Arrey...not a problem, no! You are my sister - why would I mind. Tell me what's up?" It was not entirely true that Jhumpa di or similarly placed Bengali women didn't mind. They minded and they minded very much. But they mastered the art of hiding their anger and expressing their love.

After I clarified my geographical location to my mom, she went on to tell me about Saraswati Puja celebrations. There were none. Not in Mumbai, where she lived. But it was a holiday in Kolkata and she knew if she was there, it would be one restful day for her. She reminded me of a long forgotten Saraswati vandana. Her words took me to a time and place, when I was growing up.

Saraswati Devi is the goddess of learning and education. She sits poised like a lady on her pet vehicle - the Swan, carrying a "Veena" or ancient Indian's version of guitar. She looks very pretty and smiles upon all those feverishly praying students on the verge of their exams.
Saraswati Puja is also known as "Basant Panchami" . "Basant" stands for yellow. Most of my friends used to turn up in various shades of yellow and orange on this day.

When I was in Kolkata, my school celebrated Saraswati Puja every year. As girls, we dressed up in Sari and reached the class. That was a day to formally look nice, walk with an affected gait and absorb the admiring gazes of the onlookers. I recall blushing my way to the school bus stop, magnifying my sari-clad beauty manifold. Once in school, I ceased to be as important. There were always prettier looking girls, wearing perfectly wrapped saris. Once all your friends ogled and complimented each other, it was time for Anjaali. (It meant worshipping the Goddess along with the priest and offering flowers at the end of the recital of mantras). Books were submitted to be worshipped too. The subject that I dreaded most was always at the top of my list to place at the feet of the Goddess. I was convinced once her big toe or pinky touched the edges of my book, my lack of understanding would be replaced by profound wisdom.

I chanted my mantras and offered my heart filled love to Goddess Saraswati. Being in Kolkata, I knew that doing well in life only implied doing well in school. Before every exam I would not forget repeating her name, hoping she would magically make my grader lenient or miraculously give me an easier exam. It was all in the mind of the devotee.

Saraswati Puja also meant no studies for one whole day. My mother had warned us that we so much as scribbled anything, we stood a good chance of forgetting all acquired knowledge! It was an awesome deal! It was a fully endorsed break from school work! As children we couldn't ask for more. I have seen the happiest faces in school only on Saraswati Puja!

Evenings were meant to be enjoyed with "khichudi" (dish prepared from boiling rice, lentils and vegetables with spices) and deep fried potatoes. It was easily made meal thoroughly enjoyed by all Bong community on this day.

In BITS, there was a Saraswati temple in campus. It was always crowded on the morning of the comprehensive exams. To avoid rush hours, I paid my homage during the mid terms, hoping she would remember her long time devotee towards the end of the semester as well.

It UCLA there was no Goddess Saraswati but there were exams. And when there are exams, her blessings are a pre-requisite. I recall murmuring her devotional mantras before the start of every three hour paper. I hoped that even if I was in a foreign land, the Goddess could make the journey on her Swan, and patronize me if I remembered her.

Now there are no tests, no assignments no exams. Office life does not demand you to appear for these. When my mother repeated those mantras oh phone, I couldn't help noticing my negligence towards the Goddess of my childhood. She had become my sole faith and belief during my growing years. In the absence of motivation, I had stopped remembering her. Pretty selfish, I thought to myself.

I have managed to salvage a few of the hymns and mantras from my childhood. Just reciting them, makes me feel like a child. A flood of memories sweep through me and I almost yearn to sit down and write a time bound exam. Like many things in life, examinations are the least appreciated gifts. In those hours, they test and better an individual. Failures become pillars for enhancements and successes are appreciated enormously.

This mantra is a dedication to the Goddess who helped me build my career:

Joyo joyo debi
Chora choro shaare
Kucho juggey shoubhito
Muktaa haarey
Bhogoboti bharoti
Debi nomostutey!

Being Uncool

2011-02-01T21:42:00.000-08:00

Like every Bengali, I have an opinion about it. It does not matter whether I was/is/will be uncool but as long as I have Bengali blood flowing in me, I shall remain opinionated about it.

When I was in school, I recall hearing about states of energy. Hot,and cold had temperature definitions. Cooling was a process to attain a colder state. And if one was too cool, they could be frozen! Newton's law of cooling was also memorized by me. It said that the greater the difference between a hot object and its surroundings, the faster would be its rate of cooling. That was science. What I am heading for is social science.

Being a bookworm has its disadvantages. It was easy to miss out on worldly nuances. But I managed to offset it with a great sense of observation. The idea of being "cool" or "hip" did not set in until we were twelve to fourteen years of age. Things started changing slowly but surely around me. I started noticing things. Like caterpillars moulted into colorful butterflies, the children around me started taking form and shape into good-looking teenage girls. For the first time, we met each other on normal school days and noticed how pretty we looked. It was almost amazing to see the transformation.

"You look nice today!" became more and more commonly heard in class rooms and corridors.
I saw well waxed shapely legs and beautifully threaded eye brows. I saw accessories sprouting semi-hidden within the folds of blue school uniform. Girls started twisting the definition of acceptable jewelry within school premises. More girls ran for bathroom breaks in between lectures to "powder their nose". At this point I wish to clarify that I went to all-girls institution all through my school days. But the co-ed coaching classes and all-boys' school was always close by.
I heard small talk that no longer reminded me of childhood.

"Rahul came to tuition class the other day", giggled classmate A to her friend.
"Did he see you?", asked her friend B.
"I definitely think he did. I saw him stealing a look. I was dressed in my new red top and I am sure he would have seen how nice it looked on me." class mate A gloated.
"Some thing's cooking, huh?", classmate B asked mischievously.
"I sure hope so," said classmate A wistfully.

I was never part of these discussions. That's when the idea of social temperatures came into play. Room temperature individuals were not welcome in happening zones. You had to be in one extreme or the other. You could be "hot" or you could be "cool" but nothing in between. To attain these temperature ranges there are no fixed guidelines. Some of my friends who make fun of my Bong roots, tend to think that it can't be too difficult to attain cool status in Kolkata. I must say they are hopelessly wrong.

I agree that the stereotypical notion firmly held for decades consider Bengalis and fashion apart. Bengalis have always been the creative lot. And yes, fully opinionated as well. They have been known to be pretty too - by their sheer number of female leads in Bollywood industry. But Bengalis are fashion conscious- in their own way.

To begin with, wearing Shantiniketan style kurtas (long shirt), adorned with a lopsided 'jhola' (bag) for men is considered bohemian. Women wear a lot of unique jewelry made from clay, wood and metal. Gariahat in Kolkata is a long stretch of road hogged by hawkers peddling their ware.From hairpin to clothes, they have everything to make you look cool.

Over the years, definition of "cool" has evolved in Bengal. Beauty was considered the biggest asset and the more you had it, the cooler you were. In Rabindranath's, Sarat Chandra's compositions a beautiful Bengali woman had to be demure, plump, with long hair and an elephantine gait! "Gajagamini" was the word for it. Being plump was ancient impoverished India's definition for good looks. Things have drastically changed now - at least among the younger generations.
I remember on one of my recent trips back home, I had managed to lose a few pounds. When I reached home, my parents and my neighbors unanimously commented, "Ah ha ha! Poor thing! Her health has gone for a toss. She used to be so healthy, no?" They nodded their heads in sympathy.
"I recall her to be the fattest kid in the block. My son, Bumba, had once been shoved by her. He took two whole days to recover from the jolt. I wonder if the Chatterjees are hiding something..", one of our over-friendly neighbor chipped in.
Among my friends, the response was far better. They wanted to know all my secret diets, workout regimens and my esteemed opinion about how they should go about shedding their extra kilos. Being thin was being cool.

When I landed in the US, I was amazed by the change in attire. Wearing more than one top was fashionable. They called it layering. In Kolkata, when I wore two shirts together, I was called a clown! Shops were selling highly priced faded clothes! Faded was in. My friends bought torn faded spotted jeans and flaunted them about. I didn't buy any. I was absolutely certain that if I showed up home with any of those, my parents would gladly hand it over to the indigent!

I adapted slowly. Letting go of the long printed cotton kurta for the paper thin t-shirt. Wearing contrasting colors one over the other, matching it with weirdly shaped earrings, bracelets and ringlets. My Indian grad mates looked at me with approval and surprise. My parents blamed it all on "Aamericaa's Kaalture!"

As an engineer in bay area, it is quite common to be uncool. Once you clarify your occupation, every non-techie understands why you are this way. At work wearing jeans and a nondescript T-shirt is commonplace. If by chance, you appear in a dress or formal wear, it raises suspicions about your inevitable career switch. Your manager might even stop by to ask which company you went interviewing for! Scenario changes completely if you work for HR.

I have come to accept my temperature zone. I have seen both sides of the cool quotient and seen how being "cool", itself keeps changing. Like Vanessa Hudgens says, "Being cool is being your own self, not doing something that someone else is telling you to do."

Mission Peak Hike

2011-01-29T19:48:00.000-08:00

There is some myth and some legend behind this hike. From the time I remember it, I have been intrigued by the lore that surrounds it.

The first time I heard about it was from a colleague at work.
She wanted to hike there with me on a Saturday morning. It was three years ago. Like every early morning plan on a weekend, this one also met with an untimely death.But the plan had begun with a lot of aplomb. My colleague told me of the extremely arduous nature of the hike. She also mentioned that one of her bucket list items was to reach the peak. Not having been there I had no idea what the peak held. Obviously with everything unknown, my imagination ran amok. I imagined the best.

The peak was grand, perhaps with a view unparalleled. Perhaps there were shops, selling 'vada pao' and spiced 'chai'! Greeting all who made it to the top with flower garlands? Maybe there were singers and dancers?

She also said, "Once we reach the peak, we can sit and eat 'paranthas'. I will take them with me, for you too!"
Alas! Our Paranthas-on-the-Peak plan never fructified.

Two years passed and Mission Peak became a long forgotten tale.

Last year, my super hiker friend mentioned it to me. If I were to meet him, we had to hike. His favorite was Mission Peak. He had been to Mission Peak more times than he could remember.
Once he had mentioned, "I go to Mission Peak on every full moon day - to see the moon", he explained.
I thought of telling him, "But the moon is visible from below too, you know..."

This time the hike was scheduled in the evening on a weekday. There was no escape. We met and the hike started.
There are four benches on the way - each of them symbolize one milestone in the hike. It tells you your progress and lets you know how much there is. The distance isn't great but its the elevation change that kills. I realized the best way to the top was to forget the journey. Talking was the way to go. As we kept climbing, I started gulping large breaths of air which prevented me from speaking. My hiker friend continued with his stories nonchalantly. For him it was a cakewalk. For me it was Mount Everest. I had never really hiked anywhere in Kolkata. I walked a tremendous lot but did not climb about. It is tough to climb on a flat terrain. The most I have climbed were stairs to our top floor flat. I have also never heard of a Bengali mountaineer.
It never made it to the top ten Bengali ambition list. Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary were names we memorized but never imitated. I always thought that climbing and hiking were unnecessary ways of inflicting self-pain. My views radically changed once I reached Bay Area.

Panting and puffing, I made it the top with several breaks in between. My friend remained patient and resolute beside me. He admired my determination to reach the top. Once there, I hung onto the single pole there was and demanded my photo. It was a proof of my breaking the myth. The Mission to the Peak was finally accomplished.

I went several times post my conquest but only made to the benches. Sitting on the benches, dangling my feet, I chatted away happily with whoever accompanied me there. Reaching the summit was not on my agenda.

Today morning I joined an expedition to Mission Peak. Accompanying me were some pros and some freshers. I was in between.Once we started, two of us was always ahead of the rest. One of them was me. It was a beautifully cloudy day to climb. It was also very crowded. I kept running into familiar faces. It was fun to motivate the newcomers with the idea of benches. Sighting a bench was an occasion for celebration.
On the way, one of us took a restricted short cut. An uncle-ji spotted her.

He saw me watching the law-breaker and said, "She will get a ticket from the police. They are everywhere today. It costs 73 dollars!"
I didn't know what to say. I thought to myself, "What if she can afford it?"

Gazing at the high altitude views of the bay and singing encouraging and out-of-tune Bollywood songs, we made it to the top. As usual, all of us clasped on the pole and demanded photo-proofs of their achievement. There was a queue at the peak! People stood in line to get a mugshot with the pole! We stood enjoying the view and munching our well deserved snacks. It was a moment of greatness for me. Climbing is not in my genes and I feel extra proud when I think of bragging about it to my Bengali clan.

The way back was tougher on the knees but less strenuous. We gossiped our way to the parking lot and rushed to the nearest buffet available.I have a feeling I over-compensated for the calories I burnt.

But the myth has been broken. Mission Peak no longer remains a mysterious zone. But it does retain its charm. It is definitely worth the next hike and some more after that. :)

Letters from Bapi

2011-01-21T14:37:00.001-08:00

I have grown up calling my dad, Bapi. It's a name of endearment. It is unique and different, (in my head at least). It lies somewhere in popularity charts, in between "Pitaashri" and "Pops".
I remember, one fine afternoon, playing in front of my dad. It was a jumping-walking game and it made a lot of noise. I was entertaining myself in the absence of my sister and my mother. My dad looked up from his newspaper and squinted his brows together.He probably wondered to himself, "How does she make so much noise single- handedly?" He never asked me to stop. My father has always been lenient on both of us. I was three or four at that time.
I stopped my prancing and gave my father a good long stare. I screwed up my brows like him and thought deeply. Then I asked the question.
"Who are you?"
He looked at me shocked. He recovered soon and then introduced himself.
"I am your father. You can call me Bapi". He answered solemnly.
From then on, I called my dad by that name.

I remember him being away on trips a lot. Once when he was assigned to pick us up from the school bus stop, the conductor of the bus didn't recognize him. My mother was the usual face he was accustomed to see. To ensure he didn't hand over two kindergarten kids to a stranger he asked us, " Do you know him?"
I took a good look at my father and said, "No".

My school bus drove away as my father stared at us in bewilderment and disbelief.
What happened next is history. It suffices to say that I was never made to forget this incident.

My dad had a transferrable job. His job was the reason he was away from us for long periods of time. He has traveled all over India and in recent years all over the world. His job took him to little known cities of India. He stayed for a an average of three years in places like Thiruvananthapuram (south) to Rajnandgao (north) to Cuttack (east) and several places in between. During all those periods of his absence he wrote letters.

The letters came in a square yellow envelope with two or three colorful stamps attached. The postmark showed the date and the place he wrote it from. It changed often. The letters were addressed alternately to me and my sister. I waited for them. So did my sister.

When my mother received the post and brought it along with her shopping bag, calling out our names, we rushed out. The name was always written neatly. Whoever the envelope was addressed to, felt super important for that day. As we carefully teared it open, the neatly folded pages of stationary tumbled out. Both of us sat down to read it immediately.

My father has a neat hand writing. His letters always had a header. There was a time, a day and a place. Whenever I read it, I tried to think what we were up to when my father was writing his letter to us. Irrelevant of who he addressed the envelope to, the letter always started with both our names.

His letters transported us to his world. It didn't matter how remote my father lived. His letter gave us a magic carpet ride. It told stories of his place, his activities and the uniqueness of the culture that surrounded him at that time. He had interesting stories he would narrate from his daily life or sometimes tell us a tale from history and mythology. With his letters there used to be cut-outs. Cut-outs from cartoon strips, a funny story or just a news item that he thought we should know. In those letters, my father connected with us. I was too young to realize his way of thinking but I definitely felt his positive energy.

I remember one letter from him. He was posted in Amravati at that time. It began something like this, "It is raining outside. There are big puddles on the road. The school kids are splashing as they walk. I remember how tough it was to take you both to the school bus stop in the rain.I recall it was difficult with your bags, the water bottles and the umbrellas. But it has been so long..."

My father made me feel how much he missed us without saying it aloud. The letters from my father were an integral part of my childhood. They allowed us to bond with a parent who wasn't always around. Every time my father came home, the house was filled with cheer and sound. His booming voice enlivened our place. By corollary, his departures were also marked with a depressing silence.

Now there are no letters. Letters from my Bapi stopped when I left for my undergrad. The era of cell phones, emails, text messages shut the door on handwritten
documents.I miss them dearly. As I speak to my Bapi on phone, I have the overpowering urge to ask him to write to me again.

"But whats there to write?" he asks. "We talk so often."
I nod in silence. But I keep asking. Maybe one day, my mailbox will have the yellow stationary envelope, post marked from India and neatly addressed to me. Till then I wait.

One phone call

2011-01-17T14:27:00.000-08:00

Alexander Graham Bell has been credited with the invention of the telephone. His patent was granted in 1876.
Almost five score years later, it became popular in Calcutta.

I am struck with wonderment to think that there used to be a time when homes did not have phones. I remember that only offices had phones and other public institutions. Once we left home. there was no contact between the family members. I was too young to realize why I would need a phone in the first place. Early in the morning, school started. Once in school, talking incessantly with fellow classmates more than sufficed my desire for speech. If friends refused to talk, there was always my sister. She couldn't escape my garrulity.

At that time, receiving a phone call only meant one thing. Bad news. After all, when you filled forms you were only asked for emergency contact numbers. I remember one incident that occurred with a friend of mine. Like me, her family did not own a phone at home. Only her dad was working and hence he had access to a phone connection.

A call was placed to his office. When Mr. Maiti finally came from his third floor work desk to the fifth floor to receive his call, he was not only panting but slightly agitated. His wife would never call him. Even at home, she spoke to him only if she had to. His daughter was in school. And it was his daughter, that he was afraid of. As a father, he loved his Shonali. But in all fairness, she wasn't the brightest kid around. In fact, using the word 'bright' for his daughter would be an exaggeration. Shonali had managed to re-learn two of her grades. Unlike US, where every child can be "special" and flunking could just be another effort to "learn better", Calcutta schools were ruthless. Not just in Calcutta, the India where I grew up, tended to treat their children with tough love. You were not "special" if you failed a class, you were downright stupid. The teachers and the students treated you likewise. It was a harsh and honest world.

"Hello, this is Shomen Maiti speaking", answered Shonali's dad. His heart was thumping loudly in his chest.
Static came through the other end. The connection was not clearly audible.
"Hello, Mr. Maiti, we are calling from your daughter's school", answered the handset.
Mr. Maiti's fears raised their ugly heads.
"What is this about?", he asked fearfully.
" Your daughter just had an asthma attack. She needs to go home. Our school nurse treated her but she is still very weak. Definitely in no position to be at school. You need to come and take her home. And Mr. Maiti may we also remind you that you need to be more patient with your child. Her asthma could be caused by mental stress. You need to take it easy on her. She may be dumb but repeating it daily does not do her much good."

Mr. Maiti was stunned. He stared at the phone he held in his hand.
As a father, he believed he had the right to treat his child the way he pleased. And he loved his Shonali. He was in no mood to accept unsolicited advice from a pontificating school clerk! His Bengali blood rose within his veins. His breathing became intense and labored. How dare they call him up and tell him what to do? In his anger for a stranger, he forgot about his own ill daughter. When he remembered, the line in his hand had already become silent.

"My Shonali...she is sick..", he murmured to himself.
Mr. Maiti was taken aback by the discovery of Shonali's asthma. He never knew she had it. How did it suddenly develop? Was this one of those things that his wife told him and he conveniently forgot? He questioned his memory. he did not have time waste, he had to leave.

Making some lame excuse about visiting a client, Mr Maiti set out from work. When he reached the school, he went straight to meet the Principal. Half an hour later, she was ready to see him.

"Yes what can I do for you Mr. Maiti?", asked the middle-aged martinet.
"I came to take my daughter home. Shonali had an asthma attack in class today. Your office just called me." Mr. Maiti explained himself.
The Principal gave him a worried look. She had not instructed her staff for placing a call to any any parent that day.
"We never called you Mr. Maiti and neither did Shonali fall sick. Who called you? Did you ask that person's name?"

Mr. Maiti hadn't asked the name. The process of identifying and seeking identification over phone had not yet been introduced. Unlike here, where every customer service call begins with, "I am Luther and how may I be of assistance?", the Calcutta I knew believed that the voice was sufficient recognition of oneself. When phones first came into vogue, people became busy talking. They scarcely listened.

Mr. Maiti demanded to see his daughter. Shonali was called away from the boring history class to the Principal's office. She celebrated escaping a dull history monologue. When she reached, she was surprised to find her father there. Without a word her father hugged her. With a sigh, he looked at her fondly. She could almost see his eyes watering.

A long bear hug later, he turned back at the staring headmistress.
"I want to take my daughter home."
The Principal nodded in agreement. This father-daughter duo definitely deserved a moment together.

Mr. Maiti soon realized that it was a prank call. But he also realized that he loved his daughter more than he despised her lack of intelligence. Stress could make her sick and knowing this, he forbade his wife and consciously stopped himself from reprimanding their only child too harshly. What happened as a joke that day could become the reality of tomorrow.
Shonali became a better student under the guidance of her surprisingly patient dad. She also became a worse spoilt brat.

A week later, she thanked the young clerk for the call he said he had placed earlier. After all he had done for her, she had started to like him.
May be there was even a spark there.
Those who knew her well at school, had named her "michkey shoitaan", a mischievous devil.

Telepathy and Teleportation

2011-01-15T10:59:00.000-08:00

My mother was a firm believer of the former. Telepathy is the sending and receiving of thoughts from one mind to another. Your mind becomes a transceiver, alert and capable. Thoughts pass like electric signals between your mind and someone remote from you. I believe it is possible. Sensing a loved one's discomfort and unease is a power everyone has. Cries of help and anguish, that you think you heard your child utter, even though they are not near you.

Teleportation allows your soul to travel to far off places. Renowned saints and great men have done it, or so the stories say. Bengalis have had their own teleporting men. Shri RamKrishna Paramahansa is one prominent saint among them.

My mother never believed in the plausibility of teleportation. Until she heard this story from one of her friends.

Animesh and my mother started working together in the same bank. He had joined their department recently. He was a family man. Totally and absolutely devoted to his wife and child. His wife was a home maker and his daughter was a mischief maker. Together they were the life and soul of his existence. My mother became a good friend of his - they both shared anecdotes of their daughters and took joy in the mutual love for their family. Animesh's was an average Bengali household with nothing exceptional.

It was soon time for the yearly review. When the results came out, it was a double shock for Animesh. He was made a manager and transferred to Cuttack, Orissa. It meant leaving Calcutta and his family. His daughter's school year was just half way through and it didn't make sense to relocate her to Cuttack. It was decided that his family would join him after a year.

Animesh departed with a heavy heart. Everyone who knew him, knew that becoming a manager did not make him any happier. In Cuttack, his work failed to immerse him. He missed his family sorely. When he came back home in the evenings, the silence haunted him. He missed the jangling of utensils in the kitchen, he missed the shouting of his naughty daughter and above all he missed the humdrum of his home.
Communication in those days was rather slow. Hand written letters and telephone connections were the best means. Phone calls didn't always go through. Animesh's neighbor had a phone and every time he called they had oblige him by calling his wife. To keep the disturbance to a minimal, he called once a week. He wrote everyday. Letters to his daughter and his wife.

One such phone call later he found that his daughter was sick. It was fever but she had become really weak. He became agitated. He wanted to get back home. Work wouldn't let him leave. At least not immediately. He sat down in his chair, depressed.

"If only I could see my daughter", he wondered.

He started recreating his flat. Those shabby yellow walls, the brown door that led to his home. That sofa, pointed to his TV, where he spent most of his waking hours. He was deeply lost in thought.

On the sofa he saw his wife. Clad in a green sari, she was busy knitting a pink sweater. Perhaps it was for his daughter.
Down on the floor, his daughter half-squatted, half lay. She was busy painting her coloring book. It was a mess. Nisha was not good at drawing.

"But why was she on the cold floor? Had her fever left? Was she fully recovered?"
"Nisha ..," he called out.

His daughter looked up. "Dad", she said in delight.
His wife's reverie was broken.
"Arrey you?" , she asked in shock.

The scene dissolved immediately. Animesh zapped back to reality. He was back, sitting on his stone cold chair, in a dark and gloomy room, in Cuttack.

The next day, he received a phone call at work. His wife had called during working hours, something she never did before.

"I saw you yesterday. You were wearing your grey kurta and standing in front of us. Nisha saw you too. Your face had a very dejected look. I have never seen you this grave. It is impossible and yet both of us have seen you. I think I am going mad. Animesh, please come home..." His wife sobbed on the noisy phone line.

Animesh eventually gave up his promotion, got back to his original level of work and happiness and joined his family in Calcutta.
He narrated this tale to my mother and his colleagues to tell them how this separation was affecting his mental sanity. It was also a living proof that he had managed to project his soul over a long distance. He had teleported.

As I sit in California, wondering what my parents are upto now, I wish I could teleport as well. I wish it was on demand. I can't.
I have to reconcile myself with video chats, thats semi-teleportation, after all. :)

When parents came visiting....

2011-01-04T11:46:00.000-08:00

I have been in America for some years now. It started with UCLA, not so long ago, when I boarded Singapore Airlines from Kolkata amidst my mother's incessant cries, my dad's encouraging messages and my own bubbling fears. America at that instant was worse than the dense rain forests of the Amazon!

My parents came visiting this 2010 December. It was a period of shutdown and I thought it made perfect sense to have them around with me close at hand. I prepared myself and cleaned my place (extra effort) and headed off to SFO airport. I sat at the side benches watching the monitor, expecting my parents to pop up on the screen pulling a cart full of luggage. After forty minutes of waiting, they showed up. My dad, followed by my mom. It felt amazing! To see my parents see me in the land I disappeared to. I felt I was lost and now I was found. I hugged and smothered them with public displays of affection before they could shove me away and catch their breath.

I didn't realize how much I had scared them about the weather. They had bundled themselves up in double-digit layers and only their faces brushed the clean air. As they were stepping outside at the parking zone, the rain and gloom hit them. Coming from the Mumbai Monsoons, they were not looking forward to meeting the rain gods again. As I saw my parent's faces falling incrementally, I tried to keep my Christmas cheer up. I assured them that Christmas as a festival was probably invented here and the residents of this land go a long distance to make the place wonderfully decorated.

My mother asked, "I have seen Christmas decorations. They are up every year in Park Street (Kolkata). What's so special?"

I allowed myself an inward grin and told her , " You will see".

The seeing didn't really happen. As I repeatedly checked the weather app, the day continued getting worse. The incessant rains, the cloudy skies and the chilly winds cooled my buoyant spirits. The warmth of the central heating in my apartment suddenly became like a beacon of hope that neither me nor my parents wanted to let go off.
After much reluctance, we stepped out. We made it to the Golden Gate.

It was pouring. With umbrellas in hand, we got out of the car for some photo moments.
Golden Gate Bridge looked majestic. I had pre-warned my folks that the name was a misnomer. The color was a dull red one and had not a shred of golden glitter. They stood looking at what I thought would have surely bowled them over. It didn't. My dad has been to more countries than I have fingers in my hand. He liked what he saw but didn't exactly fall in love. The like started evaporating when I forced my parents to take a walk down the bridge in pelting rain. I wanted them to take a piece of greatness back with them, completely ignoring the chilly air that was freezing them to the bones. Needless to say when I pointed out the "Suicide point" on the Golden Gate bridge, they started empathized with those hapless souls who wanted to jump off and end their damn plight!

After a gigantic cup of small sized coffee, my dad calmed down. I noticed tea and coffee were the mood-fixers for him. I made a point to note it down. My parents noted the super-sizes of everything - starting from the lanes, to the cars, to food and drink sizes and some obese people. How the roads remained this spruced up, perplexed them a lot.I had never given much thought to the roads - a reason why my driving suffered.

I showed them the Crooked Street which was fun to drive through because I wasn't at the helm. The Union Square, humongous bejeweled Christmas trees and the lights everywhere made an amazing spectacle. Much to their joy, I allowed them to sit in the car the whole time. It was like San Fransisco Safari in the rain.

A few more decorated down towns later, which all looked the same to them, I decided to try something different. I took my parents to a nearby temple. They were in bliss the moment we stepped in! My dad even joined the evening "aarti" while my mom certainly tried to hum along. I was delighted. Moments later we joined the crowd in the dining hall where food was served. Spiritually uplifted and happily satiated my parents blessed me for getting them there. I got even better response when I drove them to a far off Gurudwara on Sunday. In addition to food and "prasad" they served tea. My dad immediately became their devout fan.

I wanted them to see Pacific Ocean. So off we went to Santa Cruz beach. Being a working day, the place was a dead zone. None of the boardwalk shops were open. As freezing cold waves touched our feet, I scampered back to warmth. We sat down on the sand for breathing in the ozone rich sea breeze. I spotted a double rainbow which meant I had to do quite a bit of clicking. My mom decided to task me with the camera.I clicked away to glory. Photos were captured with and without their knowledge. As we walked back towards our car, I dropped the camera. Usually, these hardware devices are meant to be robust. This one turned out to be extremely sensitive. The lens refused to open and the camera went kaput for all practical purposes.

Even though I was an electrical engineer,my parents pinned no hopes on me. My services were fiercely unwelcome. Like the gloom outside sucked the sunshine away, the broken camera, midway through their trip, sucked at my mother's happiness.
We continued clicking with mine.

With the arrival of my parents, I began enjoying sumptuous food- morning, day and night. Late in the morning, I got to wake up to the smell of my mom's aromatic dishes. I never really learnt any cooking from my mother while at home, being studious and unhelpful at the same time. When she visited me, I realized how vastly different her dishes were from mine. It was no surprise that my dad had a tough time appreciating my food on the day they first arrived.

I decided to indulge them in different cuisines. To that end, I took them to a best known Thai restaurant. The only thing they really liked were the steamed white rice and panang curry. I was not ready to give up. I dragged them to the only Ethiopian place I knew. The injera bread reminded them of dosas back home, only sourer. The vegetable platter was filled with simple curries that my mom makes at home. They liked the food but couldn't understand the "big deal" about building a restaurant around it. I gave up and took them to the nearby Dosa place. Their joy was unbounded.

I caught the flu bug and my recuperation prevented me from taking them to UCLA. To make up, we went to Stanford University Campus. The sprawling area and the greenery took their breath away.I clarified that my campus was much bigger in size. My dad refused to believe me.

For the days I went to work, I set my parents up with laptops, TV and books. My dad finished four books and read all the news that Times of India dished out, while he was here. My mom managed to stay up to date with all her Indian soaps.

Towards the end started the shopping. I drove them to malls in San Jose and Milpitas. I noticed that every time my parents sat in my car, my dad started reciting his "Hanuman Chalisa" loudly while my mom called upon all the Gods she knew. As my GPS navigated me to my destination, my parents gripped onto their safety belts for extra comfort. While I was driving, my dad diplomatically never criticized me. He knew better than that. My mother could not pretend for long. She openly berated my lack of driving skills and road safety. But then, she also accepted the fact that my "driving" was in itself a superb achievement. I was the first bold female in a long line of cowards. I emphasized that driving in the United States had more to do with necessity than cowardice.

Much shopping and a new camera later, it was time for them to leave. Packed and ready, we went to San Fransisco Airport to check in. Relieved of their check-in bags, we sat down in a cafe, right before the Security Check. The impending separation made all of us sad. I recalled that I could fix it. A Cappuccino and a Cafe Latte later, my father smiled widely. Recollecting the short trip that he had in America, he said that the Return Policy at stores was something he found mind boggling. How stores could accept returns on products as late as ninety days was immensely puzzling for him. It is unthinkable in India. In some stores, if you so much as touch it, it belongs to you!

He jokingly asked, "Can we return wives and children as well?"
My mother's scathing glare dampened his mirth considerably.

As I feverishly waved my hands from behind the glass doors of the Security Check Point, I felt an overwhelming sense of despair. My parents were leaving me to be half a globe away and I stood there, watching them depart. I understood what my mother must have felt, when I left her crying at the airport. In some ways, in this trip, while "trying" to take care of my parents, I understood their troubles better.

But like every effervescent Bengali, who smilingly bids adieu to their favorite Goddess- Ma Durga, I smiled and said to myself, "Ashchey bochhor abaar hobey!" . It will happen again next year. And hopefully much better. :)

The Land of the Lost Wages

2010-11-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a desert. An intelligent and thirsty traveler traversing the dunes thought to himself, "I am parched man! Wouldn't it be awesome if there was a mind-befuddling dazzling blazing and completely unnecessary display of opulence right in the middle of nowhere?" His fellow travelers listened enraptured. None of them had come up with an idea for a long time, owing to the perpetual drying of brain cells in the desert.
One person inaudibly yelled with his desiccated voice, "Dude shut up!" But the idea remained. The thought persevered. Even after the sands shifted over the footsteps of the long-gone travelers, the notion floated about.

A mind-boggling show where humanity and botany scantly existed. Imagine the thought! The thought attracted traction. The idea gained gigantic momentum. The lure of opulence and the free-reign it allowed architects soon became impossible to resist.

Imaginary imitations of famous landmarks started sprouting. Julius Caesar's home was created- perhaps a tad grander, with more air conditioned rooms and slot machines. New York City, and Paris came together separated just by a block. Neon lights went up - brighter than most populated cities. A grandeur was born surrounded and within the dry desert.

I am sure the first few travelers atop camels would have discarded the spectacle as a highly misleading mirage.It must have been after they moved through the blazing neon's and beheld the scantily clad women with drinks, did their mirage become an oasis.

The above is a figment of my fertile imagination. The place I am referring to is Las Vegas, Nevada. I visited it recently (for the third time).

Before disembarking from my flight, the attendant asked the passengers to fill up a bag with their wages - to prevent them from losing it in Vegas. She laughed over the Public Address system in self-amusement and said, " Give it to me now before its gone in the Land of Lost Wages!" I didn't find it exactly funny.

Being a Bengali has certain advantages. Primary among them is the aversion to risk-taking. A bong won't be found near a slot machine for very long. One because he wouldn't have the heart to part with his hard earned money and two because he doesn't believe he could ever win. Bengalis are a pessimistic clan.

Bengalis are seldom lucky because they hardly participate in lotteries. For some reason this lack of luck has been rubbed on to me as well. The last time I "won" anything was when I was eight years old. My mother took both of us to see this Standing Talking Robot called "Khagenbabu". (The name is very stereotypical if you are in West Bengal). This robot's claim to fame was that it could talk and predict your age in 10 iterations! A gigantic achievement considering that robots in itself were never sighted in Kolkata.

Me and my sister along with fifty other visitors vied for the spot of "Face2Face with Khagenbabu". Owing to the popularity of Khagenbabu, the management decided to resort to lottery. Numbered pieces of paper were distributed to the onlookers and glass bowl was settled on a table. The number that came up would entitle the person with the same number to speak. After several juggling of the bowl, an aged Bengali picked up a single paper. Despite the prevailing lack of trust in lotteries, when it came to moments like this, all Bengalis joined the rest of the country. The held their breaths to listen, with feeble expectation and trembling hands clasped tightly around their papers. Me and my sister waited to. The enchanted number was announced, "17"! I was shocked! I had that number!

Like the Red Sea parted when Moses stood in front of it, the babbling bunch of Bengalis moved aside to have a better look at the winner. Khagenbabu was switched ON. He stared at me as well after the aged Bengali adjusted Khagenbabu's posture.

Needless to say he took 15 iterations to guess my age. Most of it owing to my nervousness and giving him misleading answers to his binary search questions. When he asked me if I was older than 34 years, I said Yes! I didn't realize what I had done until everyone around me started laughing. Obviously Khagenbabu with his infinite intelligence found it hard to find a number that was greater than 34 but less that 10!
That was the last time I won a numbered lottery.

Las Vegas was different. The first time I reached the blazing lights almost blinded me. The smoky rooms and the smell of alcohol wherever I went shocked me. It was truly a Sin City.

I played Black Jack, I played slot machines and I played "War". War is the most idiotic game ever invented. It requires absolutely no intelligence. The dealer gets a card and you get one. If the numerical value of yours is greater than that of the dealer's , you win. Simple. I sat down cautiously, egged by my friends who accompanied me. Twenty hard earned dollars were submitted to the Chinese dealer who said a friendly, "Ni hao ma?" to me. I smiled back. The first card was dealt. I was "2" and he was "9". The female beside me was a "10". The second card went the same way. After five cards of consistent losing, the dealer scrunched his eyebrows together. My woebegone face begged his mercy. He looked at me intently and said, "You not so lucky in this spot. Why don't you sit in the chair next to you? Big winner in that chair just two hours ago." I moved my rear end to the next one, trusting the dealer's insider information. My friends tendered their friendlier advice.
"Why don't you put twenty more dollars? New money would be luckier!"
I listened to them. Maybe Lady Fortune wasn't paying attention the first time.

The cards were dealt again. Ten straight lower numbers later, I left, minus forty dollars. Meanwhile my friends were entertaining other friends with my story of losing the "War"! I have stayed away from simple games ever since.

This time I went, I came across slot machines lined up outside a hotel, on the strip. The announcer was yelling about free slot machine plays once you win "100$" in the machine. I was enraptured. I swung the handle of the slot machine and lo and behold I had won a hundred dollars! Elated I ran to the announcer and asked for my winning money. It was then that she told me the next step. The money I won was "promotional", which means it has absolutely on value anywhere except on their "promotional slot machines". To make use of the "100$" I had to play at their machines. With the heat outside, I lumbered inside in search of this promo. I found it and sat myself down. On the eleventh turn I won big! The value of my winning incremented by a dollar and kept going up. The random dude sitting on my left hand side and my friend sitting on the right hand side, both got equally excited. As three pairs of eyes ogled at the mounting money, the cashier stopped by. He chuckled when he saw the amount stop at 450$. I was miffed at his amusement. I could be a small winner to him, but I was still a winner, I thought indignantly.

I soon found out the reason for his mirth. My winning 450 dollars were "promotional".
It only meant that I had to play longer and lose it all before I left the machine. More machine time and no real value. My left and right hand oglers immediately lost their interest in my game. I left broken-even.

The thing I noted this time was the sameness. The people, their looks, the places and their respective opulence had a monotonicity to itself. The bunch of oldies who flocked the slot machines had the same gleam of hope in their eyes. The hope of becoming the next millionaire. Like the trailer from Inception, they thought to themselves, "This last turn of the handle, that's how I get there!".

The younger crowd crammed the night clubs. Lugging drinks larger than their body weight they walked about on the strip, enjoying themselves despite the hurting heels, the long uncertain queues to enter the super-hallowed clubs manned by discriminatory guards and the constant jabber of at least one of their drunken friends. A casually dressed group of boys stood in line behind us to enter JET. As we exchanged pleasantries, I found out they were undergrads from Utah visiting for a night and two days. After standing an hour in the queue they were all turned away - the reason? They had no sexy woman with them.

Las Vegas night clubs blatantly flaunt their entry criteria. A measure of how "hot" you are can be found out by how quickly you gain admittance into the fanciest of night clubs. More women in a group also ensure easy passage. I have seen four guys trying vainly to tag one girl in the hope of being mistaken to be "together". It doesn't work. The guards at the gates have experience and a keen eye to discern the cool from the frigid.

Once in, you wonder what the hullabaloo was all about.Before you know it, you are bumping everyone around because your vision is impaired by the conservation of electricity. The lights there aren't meant for enlightenment. Most people crowd around the bar trying to vie for the bartender's attention. She couldn't care any lesser. They seldom appear interested in what you want but preoccupied in their world. I observed one bartender lady assiduously wiping the table for a continuous one hour thereby avoiding filling a single order!
Most people on the dance floor seem to be nudging each other than really dancing. Night clubs aren't for dancers, they are for those who don't want to dance at all. Every alternate step begins with them lifting one arm in the air and ends with bringing it down!

Not all clubs leave you suffocated for breath. There was one that I really liked because of the amazing ambiance within. A pool and an waterfall were all inside the night club! It was mesmerizing.It was called Tryst.

The constant walking on the strip gives people their much needed exercise. Of course the die hard gamblers never see day light. Within the gambling zone there is no night and there is no day. Even the ceilings have a false blue sky with cumulus clouds fogging your biological clock!

Vegas is known for its shows, its shopping and its bigheartedness to everything sinfully fantastic. There is a permanent charm of doing that extra fun bachelor party, the extra long drunken revelry , the extra dollars that could be won with the single toss of the elusively lucky die, and the extra special someone you could run into - that brings the older and newer visitors over and over again. Like the first weary traveler from my imagination, the desert in Vegas leaves most parched and thirsting for more.

Switzerland

2010-10-01T13:24:00.002-07:00

I think I was born loving this place. How far ago in time I first heard of this land of dreams, escapes me. It could have been an idle Sunday afternoon, semi-dozing on the couch after a gigantic Sunday lunch, watching Sunday TV that I saw this place on the screen.

The idiot box glowed as every pixel lit up. The lush green melted with the snow white peaks. The blue of the sky touched the deeper blue of the waterfalls. The chimney smoke rose over red and orange buildings out of an elf-dom. In the center of it all was a prancing Shahrukh Khan. A dream was born.

Switzerland has been the epitome of Indian Honeymoon destinations. It was accorded that status primarily due to the Bollywood industry. They became the unpaid PR agency that handled all the propaganda revolving around creating it as the mystical spot for every newly wedded couple. Innumerable heroes shook a leg and an arm, wooing their lady love in the idyllic settings. Abundant trees were clasped and unclasped, in every love song, during the wooing process. There were enough birds, bees and gigantic green leaves in those forests to hide a kiss moment. Indian housewives sighed unanimously in carnal craving for this fabled land.

I fell for the Switzerland charm as well. When my friends at school asked me for my honeymoon destination, way before I became legally marriageable, I said without blinking, "Switzerland." Everyone nodded in agreement. There was no need for explanations. Instead if I had come up with Peru or China or Cuba or Mexico , I would have had to do a lot of geographical research to back my choice up.

Being a Bengali, the Switzerland dream is not so deeply entrenched in the older generation. When I asked my aunts and uncles about Switzerland, they would tell me, "Dhoot! Okhaney toh Shahrukh naachey. Gondogoler modhey naa jawai bhalo", which means, "Why should we end up at a place of chaos where Shahrukh dances?"
I guess if it was the eternal Bong favorite, Uttam Kumar, many would have made their travel arrangements.

I visited Switzerland this May to fulfill my cherished dream. Needless to say, the intention was to get away from the Indian connection after all the wedding socializing and relax in the charming foreign hills and vales. On the plane we found the seats packed with chattering Bengalis and Gujaratis. More of the latter than the former. Upon landing, their number doubled. They were everywhere. Swarming, gazing, ogling and enjoying. It was full family vacation!

Summer months are the peak times for rich families to push themselves out of India and visit a foreign zone. The housewives finally become successful in nagging their lazy husbands into making that phone call to the waiting travel agent. They were all decked up, drinking in every detail to narrate back in their kitty parties. The kids looked for food. We were in between.
As I made my way from one destination to the next I noticed the Indian touch more and more.

When I reached the top of Mount Titlis, in a cable car filled with forty yelling desis, I found my way to the peak by following the Hindi signposts, where I found a life-size cutout of DDLJ poster. As I fell flat on the snow, trying to walk, a hand shot out to help me. The hand spoke Gujarati.
In Junfraujoch, the Italian chef said one word to us, " Phir aana!" as we saw hordes of Indians of every age group making their way to the Bollywood Restaurant on the second floor of the Ice Castle on "Top of Europe" destination.
As I took my place in Panoramic Glacier Express and lost myself in fantastic fables of self glory, along came a Tamilian Swiss Rail worker, asking me for my lunch order.
In Zermatt, when I strolled about in the car-less village, I bumped into a Bengali. He was attired in a monkey cap, brown gloves, blue socks and sandals. As soon as the collision took place, he asked in a concerned voice, "Aaha laglo bujhi?" (Did it hurt?). I had left my mom's advice aside and tried to look cool instead of cold. It translated into wearing light clothing instead of being a mobile clothes rack. Due to the lack of cushion on me, a hit would hurt. Hence his concern was genuine and logical.

In Interlaken, I plonked myself into a cab. The Swiss cab driver, smiled at me. I smiled back. I had come to enjoy the utmost friendliness of Swiss people. They are encouraged to be super cordial to the visiting masses. A couple had helped us schlep our baggage to our hotel from the train station in Zurich. It quite a distance of schlepping. I had been impressed since then. If it was India, I would perhaps be suspicious.

As the cabbie smiled, we exchanged some mundane pleasantries.
"Did you know, the name of Interlaken is going to be changed soon", asked the cabbie.
I said no. I had no idea that was on Swiss Government's plan of action. Definitely my research didn't yield any such info and I had done a great deal of it. Interlaken was quite an apt name, if you asked me. It meant in between lakes. This small village was tucked away cozily between two largest lakes in Switzerland - Brienz and Thun. How could they replace such a logical nomenclature with something more appropriate? Tough I thought and I became curious to know what the new moniker would be.
"What is the new name going to be?" I asked inquisitively.
"They are planning to call it India-Laken!" He ended with a chuckle.

I slumped back into my seat. Tell me about it!

Switzerland was picture perfect. I managed to click more than a thousand photos and still feel inadequate when capturing its beauty. Despite the heavy "home" feeling in this foreign soil, finding myself in the land of Heidi was indeed a lifetime treat.

Fro -Yo!

2010-09-30T12:56:00.000-07:00

I am referring to Frozen Yogurt.
I have entered every "tutti-frutti", honey berry, pink berry, red mango, tango fango - you can name and I have sampled their fare. There is a certain force that forces me to enter the portals of anything to do with sweet yogurt.

Being a Bengali, Fro-Yo is a part of our culture. Depending on which Bengali you manage to accost, our culture can demand from 4 hours to 10 minutes of lecture time. In my childhood, Sundays demanded special attention. My dad, whenever he was home, picked up two "bajaar-er bag" (market bags) and made his way to the neighborhood plaza. You had to have your own bags. Unlike here where plastic or paper is an option. It wasn't a plaza exactly. More like a farmer's market where farmers sat on the dirt road and laid out their fare on relatively clean pavements. Then they squatted down, fanned themselves and their produce with their tattered towels and got ready to haggle. As soon as the first shops were set up, the Bengali "babus" (gentlemen) queued up for the fish.

The best fish went quickly in the morning. The earlier you elbowed your nearest Bengali out of the line, the higher the probability was of getting a fresher catch. Bengalis weren't very polite when it came to fish. They assumed the business acumen they never had, when it came to buying their favorite "topshe", "illish(salmon)", "rui(Rohu)" and "chingri(shrimp)" "macch(fish)" (types of fish). A typical conversation between the vendor and the consumer would proceed this way.

"How much for the "macch"? The Bengali babu would bark.
"One for twenty. How many shall I pack?" The vendor moved on to the next question without bothering to find out if his customer was really interested.
"How about two for twenty-five?" The Babu would ask with a smirk. Inside he would think he was making a killing. Outside he would pretend that the vendor was making a killing.
"I can give three for thirty. Freshest stuff ever. Can't let go like this. Want it or not?"

The haggling proceeded till no one really made a killing. In my dad's case he ended up with four fishes, which he never intended to buy in the first place, at fifty-five rupees! It would inevitably mean a kitchen overtime for my mom which would turn into a domestic conflict for both of them. One time I have seen one or two of those fresh fish flying through the window and making their way to their home town, namely the nearest swamp. Of course there was no assurance that the fish would be the freshest.

After the fish and the "bhegetables", my dad would make his way to the local sweet shop. A "bhaar" of "rosogolla" would be packed along with "mishti doi"(sweet yogurt). (Bhaar is an earthen pot).

Misthti Doi or sweet yogurt was the Bengalis version of Fro-Yo. Of course no Bengali would be caught in Bongland uttering those words to a earthen pot of "doi". A Bengali household will hardly ever make "rosogolla" or "mishti doi" at home. Those are duties performed superbly by the local sweet suppliers. They have perfected the art so well that not a single "mashi" and "pishi" (aunts) I know will venture into it. I have however found a multitude of Bengali wives concocting their own blend of "mishti doi" in foreign lands.

When my dad returned from his morning market responsibilities, we would be waiting to grab his bags. The sweets would be the first ones he would lose control of. The Sunday morning breakfast would include the ubiquitous "luchhi alur dum" (bread with potatoes) and "rosogolla mishti doi" (sweets I just mentioned).

As a child I have finished several pots of Fro-Yo single handedly. Opening and closing the refrigerator door several times on Sundays was one of my favorite hobbies. (I couldn't put it down on my resume because there aren't enough people doing it to give it the "hobby" status). Long after all the goodies were gone, I kept opening the door, expecting something new to pop up. It never did.

The Bengali Fro-Yo served an important part in our lives. Every exam I recall started with a little blob of Fro-Yo. As I made my hurried exit from my house, burdened with overnight wisdom and a lunch box, my mom would pull me back. Holding me still, she would apply a generous dab of the sweet yogurt on my forehead. It was auspicious. It was for success. I don't know how much credit the yogurt took for my good grades but I do blame it wholeheartedly for my uncool quotient. By the time I reached school, the other ladies of my class would already have appeared, properly attired and perfectly "figured". Then they would spot us - me and my sister, perfectly rounded with an extra distorted circle of white congealed mass on their foreheads.
When I watched the epic and the war tales Doordarshan doled out on the mass media, the kings and the princes made their way to the battlefield with a similar mark ("tika") on their foreheads. No one thought it was un-savvy. Women worldwide sighed at the mark. The mark symbolized greatness. It even symbolized sexiness.

Mine on the other head made me ugly. I could not ask my mom to stop doing it either. Secretly in my heart, I needed a support system. Something that wouldn't fail when my one night cramming did. A weapon that would induce higher brain function for those crucial hours. Maybe God was testing me. The uglier I got, the better my grades were.
It was only in my college that I stopped having the white spot. That's when I started missing it.

Here, nobody dabs my forehead with yogurt any more. Interviews, tests, transitions, presentations go by without the yogurt touch. I would have to do a lot of explaining turning up with a monster white spot in an American workplace. My colleagues are still grappling with the concept of red dots ("bindis") and red spots ("sindur") without me adding another color to their overburdened spectrum.

I attempted making my first "mishti doi" after feeling all mushy about it. Halfway into the recipe, on step 2, pouring the molten sugar water into my hot milk, my milk curdled. The Fro-Yo dream dissolved into a sweet undefined paste. I have decided to give it another try before bowing my head to the Bengali Fro-Yo experts in Bongland. Their art remains supreme. I can bet they would give a good competition to the mango tango s in the area. As to how they would ever get their business out here - "maa Kali" knows!
(Maa Kali refers to Mother and Goddess Kali, a consort of Shiva)

Two in Two

2010-09-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

It is cryptic, I agree. But that's the point.
Someone who was not very good at writing had once given me a priceless piece of advice. He had said, "Keep the title cryptic! Give as little away as possible in the first line. That way they move on to the next in search for the clue." What he forgot to mention is the degree of cryptic-ism.

Two in two refers to my life on the road, pertaining particularly to my car.

The month was July and the day was thirteenth. I don't suffer from triskaidekaphobia and hence I was a happy woman driving back from work on a moderately congested CA 237. My speed slowed down considerably and came to a halt altogether when I spotted an unending line-up of standstill cars with their back lights flashing red.I stopped. It was not very unusual to come to a stop on this particular freeway at this particular hour of the day. Everybody wanted to get somewhere at this time and because of the collective decision, individuals went nowhere.

I sat tapping my fingers about and distracted myself trying to hum an extra mushy song that I had heard a few days back. Drivers around me looked at me angrily. I knew they couldn't hear me with my windows rolled up. Or could they? It possibly had to do something with the heat and the general feeling of hopeless frustration one finds oneself when they have a wheel and a will but still no way to go.

I nodded, at no one particular and continued my mellifluous activity.

Suddenly, I heard a loud screeching sound. Before I knew it a loud bang followed. It was also accompanied with a forceful impact - on me. I bounced forth and back and realized it was my car that the screeching-car had hit. For a few minutes I knew not what to do.

Meanwhile the screeching car came to a halt on the shoulder of the freeway.
Other drivers looked at me expectantly. I was supposed to "do" something. The road suddenly turned into a stage and I became the second lead character. The first was the screeching car. On a standstill freeway this was the only form of live entertainment.

I drove over to the shoulder and parked quite a few feet away from him. There was no knowing if he had done it on purpose and on finding me alive, wouldn't want to do it again.

I got out of my car self-consciously. The traffic behind seemed to edge a little forward while those in the front stopped budging ahead. All the inactive drivers had something to do now. Namely stare.

I stepped outside my car. The damage was conspicuous. It was my first car which needless to say I bought with my first pay check. It had tremendous sentimental value and some stupidity involved. I paid more than I should at that time. Bargaining with conniving dealers was not my forte.
But my car was not at fault. It should not have met with this fate. I peeled my eyes off the rear end of my car, which was now pretty badly butted out. On the road lay the fallen remnants of a battle lost before it was ever fought. My face fell.

I looked over. The screeching car came into sight. It was white and was equally devastated. My black car and his white car had scars running down their opposite sides on opposite ends. Our cars might have even been mates in an earlier birth if their souls subscribed to Hindu Rebirth notion. Perhaps it was an unsettled debt that had to be dealt with?
His damage was more profound than mine. His face however looked more confused.

I walked over to him and said "Hi".
Some nearby drivers tried to edge their ears closer. Were they expecting me to be more dramatic?

If I was in India it would have been entirely different.

Roadside Romeos and Robinhoods would have emerged from their hiding. They would have presented and dismissed the case with a verdict in minutes. No investigation or deliberation required. When a pretty woman in short skirt is hit by a nerd in ragged jeans, the latter is at fault. Bingo! Case resolved. There would possibly be some needless expletive thrown his way and some unwanted assistance rendered to me. A over enthusiastic "Chulbul Pandey" might even come up with the idea of hospitalizing me, just on the off chance that I could be spiritually if not physically hurt. I pulled myself away from the Indian image.

I was in US and there were protocols to be followed. By-stander court-of-law was non-existent.

He apologized immediately.
"I am so sorry for all this. I am so sorry."
I gave him a woebegone smile. It was difficult to reprimand a person so contrite.
Before I could ask his name, he began again.
"I spaced out. I completely "zoned" out. I know I shouldn't have but I did."
I wondered which zone he went off to when everyone around him was stuck on 237. He looked pretty young to be wanting to go to space at this age. I myself have been toying with the idea of a space venture but I know I would never have the money.

"Are you below eighteen?" I thought that might explain his zoning-out syndrome.
"No no. I just turned nineteen!", he answered indignantly.

We exchanged personal information. I found out he was given to drive the worst car his family owned. And his family owned quite a few new expensive ones. Maybe his dad predicted these things well. If my dad was to choose to give me a car, he would have given me a rickshaw! I had a new found respect for his doting dad.

I found out that he didn't know the difference between an insurance policy document and a car registration one. Upon enlightenment it turned out he didn't have the former with him. He decided to call his dad. I nodded in agreement.

"Hello dad?" He said. (10 seconds of distinct silence).
"Yes, I am in CA 237, rear-ended someone, need the policy number NOW!" (10 minutes of indistinct loud noise.)
"Ok so it AB-blah-blah. Thanks!" He hung up pretty quickly.

I wondered what kind of father-son confrontation would be waiting for him and what kind of car-less plight would be waiting for me. If I was in his position, my dad, would denounce my mother first, blaming my driving skills on her side of genes.
Both me and my sister have been badly tossed about while growing up from one side of lineage to the other depending on whether we bumbled or we blazed. When I got my first award for coming third in my Class, my father lapped me and accolades up as being very like his side of genes. A day later I smashed his car window by an accidental ball hit. I was discarded as an outcast and sent off to the enemy camp, namely my mother's gene pool.The "bangal" (aboriginal Bengalis) and the "ghoti" (original Bengalis) live in constant strife and harmony. Me being the "bati"( "ba" from bangal+"ti" from ghoti) have seen much of the push-and-pull in childhood.

The next day I received my rental car. It was a car that no one wanted from the rental office. The person handing me the keys, looked bemused and said,
"I didn't know they still made these any more."

It was a Nissan Cube. Blue and big. My friends, named it the "Cartoon Cube". The square windows and doors boxed me in. My sense of thinking altered itself as well. I stopped thinking out-of-the-box. Instead of being "cool" in the cube, I became conscious.

My colleagues came around for a viewing and a free laugh therapy. On-road rage increased. Drivers screamed at the slightest delay I made in budging once it was my turn. At every turn, I came across amused or angry public.

Less than a week into it, I started feeling a little better. The car was a 2010 model and drove very smoothly. It had less than a 1000 miles on it. I felt privileged to be taking care of a pariah car.

A week later I relaxed and let myself feel at ease. It was afternoon. 3 o clock. At a red light. The light turned green. The car in front of me took 1 minute to move ahead. Being ridiculed for no good reason this past week, I refrained from honking at him and patiently waited. After all, I was at ease. Before I knew it, I was hit. Again. For a second I thought, the driver behind me had resorted to nudging me with her car to move ahead. Perhaps she preferred that to honking?

I let out a sigh before flashing my indicators and moving to the shoulder. It was a deja vu on a hot summer day. It was a teenage driver. She came out of her car and asked me, "What happened exactly?" She kept asking me the same question quite a few times.
"You hit me from behind. That is what happened." I explained, again and again.
She explained that her phone fell down and in an attempt to pick it up, her leg eased off the brake pedal and boom! I was hit.

The exchange was one way. She was least interested in me and continued her text-ing marathon. I felt like an unsolicited salesman when I forced her to note down my name and number.

My mother called me. She had heard of my driving debacle from my sister and was ready for a confrontation.
"You should stop driving", she said angrily when I picked up her call.
"I should what?"
"Yes of course", she continued. You have had two accidents and in two weeks! In different cars. The only thing common is you!" She had logic, I had to give that.
"Monty, Dumba and Bampi are all driving around. They never get hit. Why is it you?"
The three names belonged to three pestilent boys who grew up with me. Their pet names were very Bengali. Bengalis had a fascination for bombastic booming names. The moment you called your son it should herald a celebratory blast.Their lack of rear ended accidents were none of my concern.

It took a lot of effort to convince my mom of my lack of guilt despite being the prime suspect and link in both the incidents. Thankfully she did not head any of the insurance companies. I was in talks with three insurance companies at the same time, all of whom accepted that I was "100% not-at-fault." I breathed a sigh of relief.

My car was declared total loss. I wept silently at the verdict. My car looked forlorn. I refused to let go. I paid a sum of money and bought back my car from the insurance settlement. It is still pretty drive-able. I got it cosmetically modified at an auto shop.It stays parked now. It has been deemed an emergency vehicle or a garage car. I have resorted to driving another one.

I looked at it today. Parked solemnly, with a non-pretty butt, under the shade of a green tree. It has suffered in silence and reconciled itself. I haven't. Hence I dedicate this post to him.

Going Out of Business!

2010-09-20T11:59:00.002-07:00

One of the memories I have of a sudden fit of joy was while I was walking down Westwood in Los Angeles. I was a poor immigrant student with huge dreams and very little green bills. In one such moment I spotted this watch shop. The name of which escapes me.
It had a huge banner hanging on its front face.

" Going Out of Business! Entire Store on Sale!"

That was my first brush with corporate cunning. I walked inside the store happy and unaware. Every watch on display had a strike-through price. The strike-through price was significantly more than the red-underlined price below it. As the strike-through prices elicited "Oh My God really?", the red prices made me go, "Phew! That's so much better!". As the watches sparkled and beckoned me I recalled my Class 6 maths lessons.

There were several lectures dedicated to marked prices, sell prices, and profit margins. The odd thing was that there were no problems in that chapter that dealt with loss margins. No matter how lowly a price the sell price turned out to be in comparison to the marked price, once you complete working out the problem correctly, lo and behold, there emerged a "profit"! In some cases I managed to get loss and I knew what that meant. I had to re-do my sum. It was a sure give away for a math-muddle made.

As I looked at these watches, their lowered red prices held me attracted.
An old man ambled towards me. He looked at me and said,
"Yeah that's a good one. Very expensive but now so cheap. That's what happens when you go out of business." He shook his head sadly.
I looked up. A part of me wanted to know the deep woeful story that was forcing this fat rich looking man to close his business. Was it a bumbling disobedient son? A prodigal daughter? Or both who squandered away his riches and forced their father to sell the last vestige of his hard work? He looked pretty happy. That seemed odd.How can a soon to-be-out-of-businessman look so dapper?

Maybe he had a mistress hidden away in the alleys of Venice? He was scuttling away from America to be with his secret paramour! That would explain his undue gaiety.

I tried to remember any out-of-business Bengalis. None came to mind. Bengali-s weren't exactly known for their business acumen. Too much fish and mustard made them PhDs and literary figures. The closest I could come to a business man was our chowkidaar/ gate-keeper. He had a side business of selling eggs and milk. He got hold of my mom and subscribed her to a month's supply of milk. Of course he coaxed her about how "new" his business was and how he had to have a month's money in advance before even the first packet of Mother Dairy could be dropped at our doorstep. My mom complied. Hardly ten days into the verbal contract, milk stopped appearing. Two days of condensed and evaporated milk teas later, my dad took matters in his own hands. He did a minor sleuth work.He found out that our gate-keeper had a new business model. The milk line of business was completely abandoned for the egg line. Since we were the milk customers, we got a personal hand written message of regret and one last packet of milk.

My dad was not a man to be messed with. This time he did major sleuth work and found out that the new egg line shop was set up not so far away from our locality. He decided to drop by. He picked up about a dozen eggs, smiled and started walking off. Our gate-keeper was aghast. When he asked for money, my dad said, you do have quite a bit of that left over from the milk money, don't you?

That was the last we ever heard of or saw his shop. He really went out of business and out of Kolkata. Maybe still sells his millk-n-eggs in Bihar...who knows.

I was jolted out of my recollection, by the old man standing right in front of me.
He was expecting me to go ga-ga over his amazing under-priced collection. It wasn't bad. The "80% OFF" was a neon light drawing me to it like a moth. After a laborious scrutiny of his watches under the glass cover, I selected two of them. One for myself and one for my sister.

As he gift-wrapped my purchases, he reminded me again of what a steal I had bagged and how infinitely happy I would be wearing them while his shop would disappear into nothingness. It hit me.

"Does this mean this is all Final Sale? No returns or exchanges?" I asked perplexed.
"Yes of course. I am going out of business. What you buy now, it is yours for eternity. Don't try to bring it back, not that you would ever want to return these wonderful watches." He answered smilingly.

It has been five years since that incident. Last time I dropped by Westwood while visiting my school, I found his shop still standing. It still had the banner proclaiming its eternal "Going out of Business status", only the font size and colors were different.

What kind terrific business acumen made him able to retain his business for so long? Was "going" never going to "go"? I realized that shops like that were actually flourishing all around me. They had a going-out-sale and then a few days later a "coming-in-sale" after altering a vowel in their names and declaring it as a new business. Selling things at final price also gave them the edge on getting rid of unwanted stocks and zero return policy.

The watch I bought for myself, stopped ticking long time ago. It went out of business much before its shop did. I guess it kept its promise and timed itself to die in empathy with its master, who never kept his word.

The Bengali Brahmin

2010-08-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

I am one, and so is my dad. What's so special about them anyways?
While I was in India I never realized their speciality. Maybe I didn't ponder over it.
It came to my attention in a strange way.

I was at lunch with my colleagues from work. One of my American team mates saw me sitting down with a aromatic chicken dish. He stared at me hard, gauging me and my food choice. Minutes of mental calculations later, he opened his mouth with a grin.

"You must be a non-higher class Indian!", he said confidently.
"Excuse me?" I asked indignant. My Brahmin blood pressure started rising.
"You are eating chicken. I know all higher class Indian dudes are veggies. You are not. I have even spotted you with sushi rolls. So I did some smart deductions and placed you in the appropriate Indian class structure!" He seemed rather pleased with himself for his sleuth prowess.
I had to correct this American dude. An education and an enlightenment was in need.

I began my discourse, much on the same lines as the first Brahmin pundit might have started off teaching a bunch of no-good disciples in his Gurukul. There were no gigantic banyan trees shadowing us but it was no less profound.

A commonly held belief among people I encountered here was that Indians are vegetarians. How Indians survived on no meat diet was a point of curiosity. Obviously when asked the Indians replied stating religion and higher caste. Brahmins all over India are strict vegetarians. (Some younger generation ones might not be practicing it.) However that is not true for my dear old Bongland.

In Kolkata every Brahmin kid grows up on "machher jhol" and "bhaat", the traditional rice and fish curry. We are famous for our "eeesh!" (popularized by Aishwarya in Devdas), our "feeeesh" and our beloved "eeleesh"!(Hilsa or Salmon)
Chicken is the first runner-up. We love them too. Every Sunday my mother used to prepare the awesome aromatic chicken curry in our ancient Prestige Pressure Cooker.

Perhaps she had received it as one of her wedding gifts. Giving Pressure Cookers as wedding gift item was extremely popular in my part of the country. A couple who forgot to mention “no gifts” in the wedding invite ended up with atleast a dozen 12 liter cookers. Left in this predicament with scanty kitchen space, the couples had to resort to re-cycling. Going green has always been an Indian initiative, albeit unrecognized. They re-gifted the pressure cookers to other unsuspecting couples. Care had to be taken to ensure the exact same model wasn’t given back. A cautious shuffling ensued.
People soon got wind of this pressure cooker musical chair. They re-invented the gift. Pressure cookers appeared as gift items – with a minor change. Names of the newlyweds and the gift-ers were deeply engraved in metal! Aha! No more cookers coming back now! This had a bi-directional impact.
My parents were stuck with the ancient cooker and couples about to wed ensured they wrote “NO GIFTS (especially cookers!)”

Fish, chicken and rice being the staple diet of every Brahmin kid and elderly person, there is little room to practice vegetarianism. Some Bengali Brahmins refused to give up though. The love of fish superseded the love for chicken. They became neo-veggies. They ate fish and called themselves Vegetarians. That only served to befuddle the other Brahmins from other states of India when they invited or got invited over to dinner parties by these neo-veggies. These new age Bengali Brahmins have also got a word for themselves – peskiterians.

I wonder what started the first Brahmin off on the path of chicken and fish in Kolkata. Common sense dictates availability of food choices over religious practices. The first Brahmin sat wondering at his options by the Bay of Bengal.
“Was it better to eat the delectable yellow mustard curry of this soft boned Salmon or was it better to never think of them while others devoured them around me?” Of course it was tough not to think of them. They were prancing everywhere – from the oceans, to the fishing nets, to the harbor, to the stinky markets to the dinner plates! It would be hard to live in denial, hence acceptance set in. Brahmins in Bengal started off on fish. Chicken followed in soon after.

Fish is considered auspicious in Bengal. My grandmother used to call upon the goddess Durga in her own way – “dugga dugga” and added “doi mach” (yogurt fish) along with it whenever we left home on a journey. The combination of yogurt and fish is not a dish. It is a combination of two auspicious items taken in one breath. To make it doubly good and really auspicious!

Fish shows up in weddings as well. Huge sized fish are exchanged between the groom and the bride. These are decorated with sandalwood, red netted veil and sometimes even ornamented. They symbolize a “fresh” beginning to a new life. Care is taken to buy the biggest catch of the day, early in the morning the “totto” (gift sets) are sent off to the groom’s side.

All these illustrations later, I asked my colleague,
“I am of the highest caste (not that it matters) with a fish- and-chicken diet. Did you get it?”
He looked at me confused.
“Fine so you aren’t a practicing Brahmin, that’s all. I get it!”

I gave up. For a moment I sensed the frustration the Brahmin Guru might have felt when elaborate examples failed to penetrate the thick head of one of his students. At least he had the luxury of “beth” (long stick) to spank his point in. I had to content myself with a sigh and an extra large spoonful of chicken breast.

East meets West

2010-07-08T22:52:00.000-07:00

I am a Bengali and he is a Gujarati.
We decided to get married on the same day and to each other! It was a decision born as much out of impulse as it was well thought out. He proposed "suddenly" after knowing me for a decently "long time" and I gawked! He took that as an Yes and I blushingly let him. That was the beginning.

I didn't realize that National Integration, breadth wise, wasn't a matter of joke. The rosogollas and dhoklas aren't usually eaten in the same meal. "Mathho" (flavored sweet curd) wasn't the same as "Mishti doi" (sweet curd) . But we had to try.

The thing with parents is that, no matter how many times you let them know of your boyfriend they will choose not to acknowledge it until it really happens. In the heart of their hearts they wish to be in control of your marital destiny. Surprisingly both my parents and his had a love marriage. For my parents, the Bengali of the east had married the Bengali of the west, and I was born as the hybrid, or in bong words, "Bati". According to me, I took it to the next level. I was the Indian of the East getting married to the Indian of the West.

"It is this very Amricaan thinking that has ruined your brain, no?" my parents barked.

" Who asked you to go to Amricaa? I knew it. Horrid country, I say." my mother concluded and my father nodded in agreement. It is unusual for my parents to agree on the same topic most of the times but when it came to my marital destiny they teamed up. I realized since I had managed to unite my parents, all I had to do was to unite them "FOR" me.

The rosogolla battle wasn't an easy one. I cooked for them (something my dad hated to eat), I regaled them with amazing stories what an ideal hubby the guy from the west can be (much of it sadly was made up), I told them of the enormous respect both of us, especially he had for them and so on and so forth. The thing with parents is , no matter what, they aren't convinced their bumbling baby can be taken care of well enough by anyone other than themselves, or maybe another Bengali dude in my case. They eulogized the amazing Bong culture which oozes out of every Bengali. It didn't work.

Every Indian considers their culture superlative- how can there be any comparison? Every Bengali boasts of rich literature, creativity and "Robiguru(Rabindranath)" and so does every other state - except Robiguru, coz that's unique to us. But because of this ingrained superiority complex which almost every culture suffers from, which surfaces most vividly during a love marriage, there is an inhibition in accepting that the other one can be better in several aspects than their own. That there could be a world of good among non-Bengalis, believe it or not!
Despite the hiccups, I was winning. My sister pitched in as well.

Meanwhile my would-be hubby was managing a mini-thepla-war at his end. (thepla - a sort of gujarati parantha). I pitched in with my amazing social skills and tried bowling them over. My would-be sister-in-law was pretty perky too. She chipped in with her unbiased opinions (which were in my favor, after I had managed to convince her to be on my side).

Then the day arrived. "Sondesh"(famous bong sweet) exchanged hands with the "Puranpoli"(famous gujju sweet). Gujaratis and Bengalis both spoke broken Hindi and guffawed at the same random joke. (I am sure each understood it differently). It was a moment in history. I was the translator, who translated only the good from either side.

On the 18th of last month, my wedding day occurred. Big Day for both the parties. To arrange a traditional Bengali wedding in a foreign land like Mumbai is no mean deal. My parents decided to import stuff straight from Kolkata. My mom, dad and relatives were heavily involved in goods transport - from the wedding dresses for the bride and the groom, to the "boron kulo"(the decorated plate to welcome the groom) to even the wedding garlands were flown in. The garlands appeared magically on the early morning flight! No matter what, a true Bengali has to get the thing straight from Kolkata!

An eclectic bunch of people accumulated. My best friend was a Tamilian girl and his best buddy was a Kashmiri guy. The wedding was heavily attended by Marathis, Punjabis, Rajasthanis and organized by a handful of Bengalis while the groom's side were all Gujaratis. It was National Integration of some sorts.

The Spinster's Rice, the Yellowing of the body, the before-sunrise-meal, decorating the welcome plate, the ritual of calling the dead forefather's blessings - all occurred in sequence and as per Ranu-di's instructions. Ranu-di was called upon again, now from Mumbai. She was becoming quite the wedding consultant on her own.

On the D-Day, "Mumbaiya" photographers and videographers arrived. My parents let them know what an excellent job the Kolkata photo-walas did.

"Arrey don't worry Auntyji and Uncleji. We are guaranteeing it will look excellent. So good that you would want to get married again, just for the photos!"

It is amazing how Indians sell their trade with guarantees. If I am an ugly looking hag, no matter what, their camera will capture it. A camera doesn't lie but the camera-man sure did.

I went to a famous parlor in Mumbai for my makeup. They had been well instructed about how a Bengali bride oughtta look because they had no clue. As expected they made several modifications. I wore the Saree in Gujarati style and had bright stone stickers on my forehead instead of the "kum-kum and chandan"(red color and sandalwood design). Every Bengali item used to decorate the bride was scrutinized. (They had all been flown in from Kolkata). They decided to give me the National look and appeal. Thankfully when my mom beheld me she didn't go into fits. Except the Bengalis no one knew exactly how a Bengali bride ought to look.

For my wedding, my sister and my mother wore Gujarati style Sarees and mehendis (henna hand decorations). I was mighty pleased with my mom for her adaptivity.

The Groom arrived with his entourage. Since none of them had any past experience in Bengali weddings, everything was new and fun. The welcoming "ulu"(sound made by women to drive away evil spirits) almost drove half of them away! The groom had been prepared for this eerie sound before so he stood his ground.

As the "barati-s"(groom's side) were escorted to their seating area, I sat in my secluded room awaiting the "Ashirwaad"(blessings from the in-laws). I touched my in-laws feet with some extra gusto and some thankfulness for their cooperation. After it was done, my sister and my best friend escorted me out with a beetle leaf covering my eyes. I wasn't allowed to see the groom's face until the auspicious moment. It was called the "Shubho-drishti". After seven blinded circles around the groom I was pretty much reeling from the torque. The groom on the other hand was having a gala time. Dressed up as a Bengali Babu, he looked pretty unique. His relatives found the "topor"(groom's headgear) like the leaning tower of Pisa and wanted to play with it afterwards! Once I set eyes on him, I smiled and he laughed. I hadn't treated him with such scales of royalty before. Holding the fan of his "dhoti"(traditional equivalent of pants) and helping me with the other hand, the groom ascended the stairs of the "mandap"(place of wedding) with me.

The punditji this time was younger and resident of Mumbai. My sister had googled him up. He claimed to speak fluent Hindi which is what every Bengali claims and only another Bengali understands!

He started his elaborate proceedings. He had an assistant who seemed to be mesmerized by the non-Bengali "junta"(attending public) and consistently botched up the punditji's instructions. Meanwhile my starving father was trying to get the ceremonies done in the fast-forward mode. This time he was tactful.

"Punditji, you are really good at this and I know it has been years of experience for you. Why don't you selectively do the critical aspects in order to get them married quicker?" Dad ended with a coy smile.

Punditji considered.

"I can do it elaborately for 3 hours you know, I am pretty seasoned at it. But I will consider your special request", punditji smiled back.

My dad nodded understandingly and told a relative to leave a hefty "dakshina"(fees) for the punditji.

The ceremonies began. Our names was repeated a zillion times starting from our great-grandfather and ending with a "Swaha", which was a cue to pour more "ghee"(clarified butter) into the fire. Punditji kept forgetting my name, and repeatedly asked,

"So who are you again?!"

As for the groom, his name was distorted in the Bengali equivalent of itself and except for my elbow nudges he had no clue he was being called!

The remaining Gujaratis hovered around the mandap and mainly gossiped among themselves trying to decipher the Bengali proceedings and trying to find their equivalent in their own wedding ceremonies. Since it was new for almost all , none had a reason to complain. The only people squabbling were the pundit and his assistant.

The photographers had their own secret agenda. They chose angles and disrupted punditji's "mantra"(spells) flow several times. They moved the fire away from our faces onto the pundit's face to get a better lighting! As the pundit sweated, we smiled for the lenses.

Throughout the wedding, my dad was omnipresent. He was jumping up and down trying to say mantras, throw ceremonial rice at the fire, inviting people in, growling at disruptive children and actually calling for divine intervention in Hindi!His Hindi had got significantly better while he managed to pick up one Gujarati word, "Kem cho"(how are you). (That was because he thought it was a shorter way of saying "Kemon Achoo" (how are you)).

My mom on the other hand was an one-woman-army. She was the ONLY know-it-all in this proceedings and had to constantly remember the sequence of things needed for the ceremony (as per Ranu-di's outline). But in Bengali weddings, the daughter's mother doesn't get to see the wedding. So my mom sat quarantined in another room with intermittent company from my relatives and my sister.

After the pundit was done, the photographers took over. They managed to bring out the film-star in us. I posed in every shape and size and so did my newly-wedded hubby. The more they asked him the more he obliged, totally forgetting there was a wedding-reception which had been underway one and a half hours ago! I realized that I had to be the smarter one in my new family from now on. I took matters in my own henna-decorated hands. I shoved him aside and posed for my solo "chobbi-s"(pics)!

More posing, smiling, clicking, thanking, introducing followed in the next venue. My dad had organized the wedding and the reception in side by side locations on Marine Drive. We had to rush from one to the other and because they were so near, no one wanted to drive. My parents had anticipated that my hubby would find it difficult managing his "dhoti" and had a change of suit-and-boot ready. Their thoughtfulness didn't extend to me and like every other bride I tried maintaining my bride-like poise running between the "mandap" and the reception hall. Several couple and group photographs later, they allowed us to eat. Since I was the Bengali bride I had been starving, but the groom wasn't. He had been enjoying his regular meals plus delicious snacks! Pretty unfair I must say. Gujjus should incorporate wedding day starvation ritual.

The food was spread under the open terrace with the sea breeze blowing in from Marine Lines. (And it was neither Bengali nor Gujarati but somewhere in between). As we finished with food amid our friends, our parents chatted in Hindi as well. Broken or otherwise, they seemed to understand what it felt to have their children married. Each of them had dreams surrounding their amazing daughter and their brilliant son, but neither had married according to their wishes. No matter how infinitely better a Bengali dude for me or a Gujju bimbo for him would have been , none of us understood it.

As the breeze cooled the land, it relaxed the people as well. I glimpsed my mother-in-law trying to hug my mom, who isn't used to public display of affection while my dad was getting overwhelmed with several hugs from the male members of the Gujju barat. Gujjus are openly affectionate while Bengalis try it subtly. So when one meets the other, their hug is a catch-me-if-you-can game! Despite it being new, it was nice. A hug edge ways, a smile sideways - the Bengalees and the Gujaratis managed to find many things in common. As the stars shone down, the east and west met each other with open arms and amused faces - all on my wedding day!

Two Weddings and ...

2010-07-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

I contemplated about the title for a bit - you see this blog has predominantly been a funny one. Adding a funeral to the title sobers the reader up instantly, even those regular readers who are used to my style of comic writing. But I couldn't help myself, so here goes.

First the wedding happened. Then the funeral. Then the next wedding.

My sister decided to tie the knot. Life was fun for her, she had a job, friends, great looks (thanks to being my identical twin), and dotting parents but then people on the left and people on the right were getting married and suddenly disappearing in this zone of couple-hood where past friendships are neglected. Single-hood so far had been hip and happening and marrying seemed like a fitting way to end it. The search had begun sometime ago and the groom was chosen. The D-Day arrived and so did I.

To chronicle what goes on in a typical Bengali marriage is an onerous task. My mother, whom I believed to be the know-it-all had another know-it-all whom she frequently rung up, exchanged the usual Bengali greetings which began with "How are you doing..." and without waiting for an answer continues onto , "..and what to say my daughter decided to get married and all...and you know how difficult it is ....I have forgotten so many teeny tiny rules....so why don't you tell me...", and the conversation pauses only for breaths. My mom tried to override almost everything the older aunt of hers was trying to get in edge-ways. But Bengalis are tenacious people. They just don't give up. My mom and the older-aunt who by some default Bengali nomenclature is called ranu-di"( a didi suffix instead of aunty), kept going back and forth as to what an ideal Bengali would do. Apparently both have no idea who handed out these rules. "Pandits, uff!" said my mom when I bothered her with historical queries. After much huffing and puffing and imaginative brain-storming they came to a consensus for what-to-do for "kulo saajano( the plate decoration used to welcome the groom)", "aayi buro bhaat", "dudhi mongol", "gaye holud" and "bidaai".

The rules are massaged according to convenience and laid out. Ranu-di was infinitely happy at being sought out for advice by my mom who hadn't really been in touch with her for goodness-knows-how-long. My mom was happy at nailing it down as well. She went about shopping. Much of it has been done before I set foot on my Bongland i.e. Kolkata. In my family, my advice is usually the last sought and the least followed. There is a genuine distrust in my americanized thinking even if I am brimming with Bengali-ness.

Before the D-Day the Bengali bride is home-fed with delicacies - the ritual is called "Aayiburo bhaat". If literally translated it means Spinster's Rice. If figuratively translated it means the food prepared especially for the bride-to-be before she departs forever to be fed by her husband/ in-laws. Because of the "forever" attached to it, the dishes are grand and myriad. I was overwhelmed with number of items that mom managed to prepare. Needless to say I got a fair share of the amazing Bengali cuisine as well.

On the D-Day, the "Dadhi Mongol" occurs before sunrise. The bride is blessed by parents and elders and water from the Ganges is gathered by the parents. My sister was given "khoi and doi" as the first and last meal till she got officially married. For the first time I got to act like the 2-minutes-elder-sister that I am and bless her along with the older relatives.

The "Gaye Holud"( Yellowing the Body) follows later in the day. The groom's family appeared with gifts and "holud" or turmeric for the bride. Of course when they spotted me, no matter how many times they had been told of my existence, they still stopped and stared a few minutes. One of them told me of a game they were planning to play later on, "Spot the Difference!". It sounded like a fun activity for them and a scrutinizing event for me. Thankfully it never happened.

The Bengali bride is usually starving on the day of her wedding, until the 3-4 hour long ceremonies are over. My sister needless to say was a brave-heart. She managed to decline my offerings of jumbo-sized rosogolla thrice! On the fourth attempt, she gave in. She promised she would return the favor when my turn arrived.

There are many intricate things that a Bengali bride and a groom are made to wear and carry. My sister was clasping her "Gachh kouto" and wearing "Shakha Pola (white and red bangles)", "sholaar mukut(hyacinth crown)", the traditional Benarasi Saree, the netted "choli"(veil) on the head, the ornaments, the deep red "Altaa" on the feet, the "payel (anklets)", the toe-rings, the trendy "mehendi" on her hands and the attitude of a beautiful bride. She looked fabulous. For once we weren't identical. She was a princess to behold and I was a mere side-kick!

The groom wears the huge and towering "topor", made of shola/dried hyacinth leaves. He wears paper silk punjabi and designer dhoti to look regal and important and groom-like.

My sister had gone to a parlor close to our home for her bridal make-over and they managed to make her look fabulous after a freakishly long time. You see, weddings are fun events. Beauty parlor assistants tend to rejoice and join in without invites. They started engaging in gossips, and tales and each regaled the other and so forth until, someone remembered that there was a "muhurat (auspicious wedding time)" involved and they better hurry up. My mom almost went into fits when I insisted to have my Saree fitted in a different manner than what was done after two long hours of my being there! My mom went to the extent of leaving the parlor with just the bare necessities - her purse and the bride. I was left behind. Thanks to my boot-camp days, I managed to outrun them and squeeze into the car that was about to leave for the "mandap (place of wedding)". Phew!

The eighty-year old punditji (priest) was a bubbling cauldron of activity and sarcasm. My dad had been involved since morning with rituals to please his fore fathers and invite their blessings for the wedding. He was starving as well. When the wedding started around 7:30pm, right after the "Ashirwaad", he wanted to get things going at a faster pace. He tried getting the punditji on board with his plans.

"Err...are you sure this needs to be done this way? There could be a quicker version available, no?" My father asked the pundit innocently.

The cauldron boiled over. He snorted loudly and smirked hugely.

"I have been doing this for Eighty years! There are no updated versions available, Got it?!!!"

That silenced my dad for the rest of the wedding session. I was left wondering how punditji was presiding over weddings even when he was a year old! I guess some professions don't have the age limit criteria.

Amid smoke, fires,video-graphers, photo-graphers, two squabbling pundits, several opinionated relatives and guests, some gate-crashers, careless kids and their angry parents, and some bemused non-Bengalis, the ceremonies concluded. The photographers decided on their own that their job was of supreme importance and hence they kept instructing the couple more frequently than the pundit. Our angry-old-man pundit became pretty docile when he was promised hero-like photos of his own to keep. I remained mesmerized by the fact that my sister was able to pose for countless cameras, big or small, real or phoney. Every one wanted a picture. Weddings are the one occasion where you are held as royalty. I was made to get into some of the pictures which later appeared on Facebook of friends titled, "Groom + 1.5 Wives", "Spot the Difference", "Real or Mirror-aginary?".

The newly wed couple were escorted for food. I joined them. For everyone it was a buffet but for THE Couple it was sit-down-service-several-times-over.

For the night of wedding, "Bashor Ghor" is organized. The young members of the bride's and groom's family congregate for a night-out filled with fun, games, gossips, music and endless talk.

Bengalis are good at talking. They are the most versatile talkers I have met. Give them any topic, from pin to plane, they will have something to say about it. My sister's Basor Ghor was fun because the groom's side was filled with amazing singers. They sang beautifully, male and female and buoyed by their encouragement I oped my mouth to sing. When I finished my extra-long Rabindra-sangeet my sister was the only one not snoring.

The D-Day passed into "Bidaai (farewell)". Amidst tears and howls my sister departed with her hubby. The mandap stood forlorn and the relatives dispersed quickly afterwards.

Receptions followed after a day. None were as significant or as memorable as the wedding day to me. I returned to my California with indelible memories of a Bengali Wedding.

It was soon after that my grandmother fell down. She hurt herself and was rushed to the hospital. Her condition stabilized for a while when she returned home but that was just a pause in the endless struggle she was about to undergo. She left us after a month of tormented existence. I have always been close to my mom's mom, my grandmother. She was the amazing cook whom my mom never equaled, she was the story-teller and the savior when our mom was about to give us a sound beating and she was the one who gave very practical advice to make our lives better. She had struggled all her life and never cowered under pressure. When she visited the hospital - it was the first and the last time in her eighty year old existence. I was lucky to have her at my sister's wedding. My parents attended the solemn funeral held in Kolkata.

Last month, I went back home, this time for my wedding. This wedding was Bengali but wasn't in Bongland. It was organized in Mumbai. It was Bengali in essence and yet adapted differently. I was prepared for all the rituals this time, having seen one just a few months ago. Suffice it to say, it was a marriage of the East and West, like the "2 States" by Chetan Bhagat.

Like a movie that is still rolling, the end isn't there. It is the start of a new life for everyone - for those that married and for those that moved on from this life. And with everything new, is the feeling of freshness. Life forges intrepidly ahead.

Culinary Cameo!

2009-11-10T22:21:00.000-08:00

I made my first appearance on the culinary landscape of bay area two weeks ago.

When I was younger, I loved watching the cooking shows on Indian TV. I never had the good fortune to be present in a cooking scene and hence watching telecasts was all I had to contend myself with.

The cooking episodes were diverse. Always a plump homely woman, with the spatula and the knife appeared behind a wooden kitchen top. The ingredients were ready, chopped, cut, minced, diced as required. The spices, the salts, the condiments were placed in small glass containers in an orderly fashion. A well attired host sidled up to the cook holding a microphone.

"So what's cooking today?"

"It is a very fancy dish which my grandmother handed me down. I am going to re-create it for the benefit of our viewers."

The cook then rattled off an exotic name and the television screen became blue as a slide show presentation started. The dish, its name, its ingredients were written there. The slide lasted less than three seconds before it was removed - anyone without the pen and the parchment ready couldn't possibly have the time to move his or her rear end fast enough to grab one and note down all the ingredients.

The camera then panned the face of the plump cook who pursed her lips in an imitation of smile behind the fumes rising from her frying pan. The host, letting go of the microphone and donning an apron, stood beside her - nostrils extended.

"Ahhh..smells heavenly...this is oh so good!"

The plumpie smiled a little more.

Finally the grandmother's dish came to life after thirty minutes of air time. Throughout the process, the host never volunteered to help, only making inane comments near the stove, the wok or the condiments. However, as soon as the dish got ready, the first spoon that went to scoop up a hefty mouthful belonged to the host. The cook stood by for the final verdict. The host then took her own sweet time, munching through it, savoring every last bite. Finally the viewers got to hear,

"It's simply delicious!"

As I watched the proceedings, ogling the dish that stood just a few feet away from me, I wished for the "Push-Button". A miraculous button that would pause the host right before she dived her spoon, pause the cook right after she lifted her dish and leaned and pause the camera right at the hot savory freshly made dish - while I would "push-my-button" to get the dish come right out of my TV!

Unfortunately that much needed button hasn't still been invented.

It was a Thursday evening when I landed at the scene of my culinary cameo. It was the first time in my bong history that I was going to watch a live cook-and-teach session. Very like the ones I had watched in childhood. (Here I am ignoring all those times in mother's kitchen when she asked me help her and I smugly walked off to watch the latest episode of some K-serial)

As I reached my destination, I noticed my classmates. We were all students in this cooking class. I was the only Indian woman with the zeal to learn "Caravan to Marrakesh Saykout Cous Cous with Dates Lamb Tangine Chicken Pastilla with Vegetables and Almonds". Everyone else was retired American couples. I sat down slowly while uncle and auntys gazed at me. The cook started out with handout distribution, exactly how my professors at UCLA used to do. I stared at the sheet. Ingredients unknown to me were listed out. I stared back at the cook.

She was a very casual, smiling young American woman. In fact she wasn't the plump sort I expected a cook-type to be. She had her girth under control. It made me wonder. Did she not eat what she cooked? Doesn't that adversely speak for her culinary skill set?

As she went into the cooking process, I noticed a few things that were different. There weren't any ready to use, minced, diced, mashed ingredients. There was no order or cleanliness.

I understood that television sets were way cleaner than a real kitchen. The cook asked for volunteers. Two old men and one reluctant old woman got up. They had been sitting and chatting with their neighbors over their wine glasses. I noticed that the students didn't pay much attention to the teacher. Everyone had something to share, unrelated to the dish being made. I was the only person hastily jotting down notes on the handout. I heard my neighbor chuckle as I wrote down, "Cut long slices of onions for fifteen minutes"

The cook tried cracking some culinary jokes which were lost in the multitude of distracted pupils. I would have laughed but then I didn't quite get the joke...

The cook asked for more volunteers. This time she wanted to grill something outdoors. No one budged. It was chilly and clammy outside and moving out of the cozy comfort of the kitchen was too much for most of the septuagenarians. I raised my hand to save the distraught cook. She smiled, dumped the pineapples, the vegetables and the chicken on me and set out towards the grill.

When I returned, frozen and numb, others had been making merry. The two old men and the reluctant old woman had finished baking their dish rather quickly and were happily gobbling it up with those present in the room.

It was the first time I was present live on the scene of a cooking session. First time that a miraculous "push-button" was not required. First time that I realized that cooking classes doubled up as eating classes. To see all my hopes dashed was too much for me. I dashed away from the cook and joined in the gobbling process. I must admit eating it was much more fun than cooking it.

Surprisingly the cook didn't eat any of her preparations. The food had turned out amazingly well despite all her reluctant helpers. I was amazed to be a part of the action, live and actually savoring the delicacies. I felt like the host. I realized that my anger towards the bygone host had been misguided. After all, it wasn't her fault that her face registered heavenly delight when mine looked woebegone watching her on television.

As I helped myself to yet another bite, I gently shut my eyes, puckered my nostrils, held my left hand in mid air, held my right hand with the spoon and paused - there was no need for the button, the food was already there with me!

Radio-logy!

2009-10-27T15:29:00.000-07:00

This is all about The Radio and the art of listening and reacting to it!

Recently one of my friends gave me a ride. Whenever I get a ride I sit very peacefully without making too much fuss. Since I hate driving, by corollary I love rides. Back in BITS-Pilani I had sat at the corner of streets leading from the classrooms to the hostels, trying to hitch a ride behind any one's bicycle. Needless to say, those kind hearted souls who attempted to give me "dubs" (short for doubles) on their bikes, ended up with a flat tire or an in stable Center of Gravity! In that respect, I respect cars more. These things are designed for me. Cars know that some people can't possibly balance their bodies between a stick and a pair of thin tires.

Anyhow, my peace was broken when I suddenly heard hindi advertisements emanating from his car sound system. I sat up. Did the new hindi CDs come along with embedded ads? I paused to air my question.

I found out that the rather eclectic CD I thought was being played wasn't a CD at all. It was a radio channel. It was my first brush with hindi radio station in bay area. Have the desi's now successfully besieged the radio tower?

Before long, I started listening to it myself. I couldn't help it. The other channels aired English muzik which most of the time sounded to me like this, "Boom boom, blah blooh, O Baby, blooh blah, boom boom..". Of course my listening skills weren't exceptional and when words were uttered mixed with background noise, I became semi-deaf.

To make matters worse, two years ago I had been gifted with a hindi music CD from my friend. After hearing it endlessly for a couple of weeks, I found that the CD had made it's permanent residence in my car sound system. No matter how many times I pressed the "Eject" button, it just wouldn't budge. After ignoring this breech of tenant rights for a year I decided to visit the mechanic.

The mechanic, instead of fixing the problem, got into philosophy.

"Why do you need to hear CDs? Radios have been invented already you know..."

I made a face of disbelief.

He assumed I really didn't know about the existence of radios.

"You seem to be a very violent creature - why did you jam your CD in? If you didn't like the songs, you didn't have to play it."

If my CD did not like coming out of it's closet, it wasn't my fault. Some people require more help than others in revealing themselves. It was useless trying to make him understand that I was Gandhiji's non-violent disciple and hadn't resorted to jamming.

I left the shop with my CD happily lodged in the track- just like before.

Radio now became my best alternative.

1170 AM was the one I tuned into. The different shows had hosts asking, beseeching, cajoling callers to dial their number. The songs were lively - a blend of god-forgotten-era and yet-to-be-released hits. I enjoyed driving to the tunes of these. I even hummed them to myself. It helped me distract from the honks and the yells from fellow drivers.

I decided to call in one day.

The topic under discussion was, "Would you prefer an arranged marriage or a Love marriage?"

When they received my call and after I had finished the usual reveal-my-name-and-be-welcomed protocol, I said,

" I wish to be married - who cares if it's arranged or love? Just get me married!"

My call got unceremoniously disconnected.

I called the next day.

The topic was, "We go to the doctor only when we are in a terrible shape, do you agree?"

Incidentally I was driving that day to keep my regular doctor's appointment.

When I called them up, I said,

"I totally agree- in fact I am driving at break neck speed to reach my doctor's office!"

Instead of showing sympathy, the host broke down into peels of laughter. His theory had been validated. He thanked me and cut me off before I could say the next line which began with, "Why in heaven's name are you laughing at me....?"

I called again.

The topic this time was, "Who is the most special person in your life and give three reasons why".

After I uttered my name in style and put on my awesome bong-hindi accent, I said,

"The most special person in my life is ME! I am my most favorite person! Even though God has pumped unmeasurable goodness-es in me, for the benefit of the show, I will just list three!

Awesome, AweSOME, and AWESOME!" I waited for a response. There was a pause, a blip and then an irrelevant song started playing.

For some reason since then, my calls never get picked. I seemed to have been placed in their mysterious-phone-spam list. All the hosts have been served with an alert and their system of warning seem to be working perfectly.

But I am not going to give up. I gotta be heard. If no hosts will listen then I will have to do the inevitable - start my own radio show and talk all about myself! Good luck to the listeners!!

Amricaaan Courthouse!

2009-10-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

I have been to Amricaan court.

When I was growing up, my parents had embedded me with one of their historical, science-less superstition - NEVER EVER wander around a court! The farther you can stay away from that red and brown colored building the less annoying your life will be. As a child, I swallowed the information without chewing it thoroughly and it caused a stomach upset. Which means, I ended up questioning this belief.

It began in the winter of last year. My car and me were cruising down El Camino Real. There is nothing real about this road. This road has been named thus because it used to be the favorite means of transport for erstwhile Mexican royalty. According to some of my Indian friends it's named because most of the real "kamina-s" live on the sidelines of this road. The name and it's origin is still under massive debate.

I was just about cruising past El Camino and Pomeroy intersection, ogling at a random call that erupted on my Iphone screen when a sound, whirring and disturbing emanated from my vicinity. I have been a communications student - I have learnt the techniques of filtering out white background noise. This one seemed to have high frequency peaks and no matter how much I tried ignoring it, it became more persistent. I glanced around my different car mirrors. The rear- view mirror showed a pair of flashing red and blue lights. My heart stopped - my steering wheel wavered...before I knew it I had stopped right in the middle of the lane. The cop car stopped behind me.

A handsome cop swaggered by my window. I had already rolled it down and sat there petrified. He blinked at me and asked, "Are you alright ma'am?"

I nodded. Words didn't escape my lips.

"What I am confused about is this - why would you run through a red light, when I was in the car right beside you in the adjacent lane? I don't get"

Genuine confusion - I must admit. I figured it out in my fast paced brain. I had not seen this ominous cop and his scary cop car beside me. I had been busy staring at my Iphone. Now I wasn't sure whether I should assist in clearing his muddle or act equally fuddled. I decided to act.

He stared at me for a few more minutes expecting something. I stared right back - as if English was phoren language!

He started again.

"Ma'am could you pull over to the curb please? I don't want you getting hit - we care!"

It touched me. I went ahead and did what I do best - try to pull over. My pulling over skills weren't great and the cop didn't pursue the matter further.

"Your license and registration please"

Dammit! I thought I had the sliver of chance where I could wiggle away from this caring cop without a ticket. There was no way out. But I did try.

"It was yellow".

"What was yellow?"

"The red light was yellow."

"Please hand over your license and registration RIGHT NOW!"

I gave in.

He left me with a yellow looking slip of paper. Two weeks later the ticket arrived. A humongous 410$ were charged against my name. The only way out or in was to see the mighty judge. I decided to make my first American Court appearance.

None of my friends wanted to buy into the theory of me trying to contradict the ticket. They were more inclined in giving me ideas about how to look so moppy soppy that the judge is moved enough to slash my ticket price in half. They had fabulous dressing tips as well.

On the appointed day, right on time I arrived. The traffic court was in Homestead. The session was being convened in one of their underground chambers. A thorough security check followed every new admission. I looked sad but dressed well. Maybe if I looked good the Judge would be more prone to pity me?

In my head I had visions of the court scenes I had seen in Bollywood movies. A old looking Judge, a few villainous witnesses and our mighty yet downcast hero standing woefully at the brown cage-like box. I wondered where I will stand. I rehearsed my woebegone speech a couple of times in my head and then I made my entrance.

The court room was definitely non-bollywood style. It was American. Lack luster people sat around in wooden chairs, lackadaisically. The court was already full. I had expected to have private audience with the Judge but that wasn't going to be. Everyone was privy to everyone else's plight.

I sat down with tripedition. A police officer was busy rattling off different rules. I listened intently. 'How and where and how soon can one deposit the ticket money' was what was being announced. I realized me and money were soon to be parted.

A young looking man stepped in. Everyone stood up in attendance. He was the judge. "Your Honor" was extremely soft spoken and very patient. In fact he went on to say that he knew America was in recession and he would do everything he could to help people who couldn't pay. My heart soared.

Names were called off one after another and people stepped in. Some said "No Contest" and some said "Not guilty".

When I stepped up and the Judge asked me what I chose to plead, I said,

"Good afternoon. I choose to plead No Contest" No contest is equivalent to "I am guilty" but it just makes you sound better in your ears.

He asked me whether I would like to go to traffic school. I said yes.

He was done. He asked me to pay 220$ at the court deposit center. I realized my speech would go un-listened. I started abruptly.

"Your Honor, could you kindly consider reducing my ticket because it is my first violation and I really didn't mean it?"

He looked at me and explained the math. 220$ was lesser than 410$. Hence he had already done what I requested.

220$ less I stepped out into fresh air. Two months later traffic school was done. The memories of the court were behind me. Telling my parents that I was going to drag myself to court hadn't gone very well. They had been sure I was in insurmountable heap of mess. No amount of "I am a free resident", "I have rights", "Courts aren't scary"- seem to pacify their nerves.

When I came out of court, I realized that I didn't want to get back there again. I wondered what my cop was up to. Did his confusion finally end? Who knows...

IGreying!

2009-10-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

No I don't have grey hair and I don't intend to have them anytime later either.

I am talking of my IPhone - my one and only I-object.

The story begins in 2007, end September. I had just celebrated my two year relationship with my Motorola Flip Phone and in my thrifty mind, I was planning two more anniversaries. Before I knew it, tragedy pooped my party plans. My flip phone showed it's flip side. The video disppeared. I was rendered blind. I couldn't see whom I dialed. To make matters worse, the audio followed the video - mutely. Now I couldn't hear what the person had to say. Given my indomitable spirits, I worked with my phone to make the relationship last longer. I used speakers for listening and praying for dialing. It lasted a week. My friends gave up on me and hence I decided to part ways with my flip phone.

At that point in time when I was debating upon cheap phone options, Iphone had been launched at a discounted price of 399$. For those who have a sharp memory would remember that the initial price of Iphone was 599$. To all my friends, who wanted to play with the Iphone and didn't want to get it themselves, it was an "amazing deal". They pushed and pummeled me until I screechingly halted at the AT&T store. According to unanimous public opinion, getting the Iphone would be a decisive step towards acquiring the "cool babe" look that I never had. How a phone could overhaul my persona was never reasoned upon.

Holding the black luminescent box in my hands, I felt "cool". Flaunting something "touchy" as the Iphone would indeed make others take note of the phone, first and me, next! All those years of sitting and twiddling thumbs on the sidelines were going to end. As the Iphone acquired celebrity status, so would I , 'coz it's my-phone!

I bought it.

First two months, were pure stardom. Even my manager came by to take a look. I could stop people mid-work and click their photos for my contacts. No one minded- in fact colleagues posed. Friends who never called , started paying me a visit. The world was a wonderful place to dwell.

It's 2009 now. Iphone 3G-S has made an appearance and at this astonishing 199$ price.

As I sit and sigh with my Iphone 2G, others around me flaunt their superior speeds and spectacular Apps.

To top my woes, my Iphone suddenly showed creepy grey lines spreading across it's touchy screen. I was flabbergasted! I didn't think my phone had aged so quickly. Why, wasn't it just two years ago that it was born? Was two years such a long time in Iphone years? Even if I had been a little careless with it, might have bumped it about surfaces but that's just showing my "tough love!"

It all fell to deaf ears. I ran to the Apple Store and grabbed a genius at the "Genius Bar".

The genius, being the prodigy he is, took one look at the phone and uttered his prognosis.

" These are grey lines, probably dead pixels - I have seen them before. I don't know how they arise, how they spread and how to fix them."

That was indeed enlightening!

I stared at him for something more.

" Your phone is aged, there is no repair for this. We can give you the same Iphone 2G for 199$ but I would tell you to do nothing. This is your chance to be faithful to your phone. So what if it's ugly now, is your love only screen-deep?"

I thought about it. My love was screen deep but my love wasn't nutty. I wasn't going to spend 199$ to fix an old phone that functions even if it looks shitty.

I left the store- enriched and smiling. My phone looked back at me - I guess he wouldn't forgive me for all those bumps and scratches but haven't I just redeemed myself in his I-es?

Leaky Life!

2009-10-14T17:36:00.000-07:00

My roof leaks.

I have grown up hearing stories of leaking roofs. My father used to live in one of the famous small towns/villages of West Bengal. As a young boy, his family wasn't exact the kingly sort. The house was huge but the maintenance was poor. I recall him telling me tales of how during the seasonal Bengali thunderstorm, "Kalboishakhi", his siblings and him took refuge under their gigantic bed. The imagery of this scene mesmerized me. Can the bed suddenly turn into a roof, when the real roof cowered under the storm? Maybe beds are meant to have dual purposes, and only my dad and his siblings were the discoverers of this amazing benefit!

My mother stayed in Calcutta when she was young. They lived in a humongous collection of flats. Obviously the renter did very little for the upkeep of his building. As soon as the downpour of the monsoons started, the leaky roofs emerged from their hibernation. Leaking relentlessly they made my mom miserable. As a child, I remember her telling me, that she used to run into any non-leaky neighbor's apartment. Leakiness symbolized discomfort and refuge for me.

It is unbelievable that I am facing what my parents faced five decades ago.

Just yesterday, as I was sitting peacefully in my cubicle, minding my own Outlook inbox, my colleague from the cube-behind, came up to me. Without much prologue, she asked, " Is your roof leaking?"

I looked up. Right at that very instant, a gigantic drop left the ceiling and bounced on my nose. She was right. The rain outside had found it's way to touch me. Despite all my attempts at sitting tight on my chair, the Rain God had decided on his own that I shouldn't be missing out on all the fun he was generating.

The drop that hit me had got mixed with rust of the conduits it had taken for it's journey. The drop was dirty.

I stood up. I realized that the dampness I had been feeling right on top of my head was not residual from my shower in the morning.

A few more colleagues joined in the celebrations.

"Go home", "File a bug on the roof", "Recycle the water - go green", "That's funny" - were some of the comments I was left with, along with rolls of laughter.

One of my colleagues couldn't stop guffawing. He finally stopped to say, "I hope you know I didn't mean to laugh!".

I stared at him hard - full of understanding. "Yeah right!".

Out of his supreme sense of guilt, he helped me tape a paper cup to the ceiling. The cup seemed to do a good job in holding the dirty rain drops. He left me with his parting comments, " So now all you have to do is watch out for the overflowing cup. Be sure to scoot right before the cup topples on your head."

I sat down with tripedition. I couldn't determine whether my situation just got better or worse. I decided to take matters in my wet hands. I called up Facilities.

They came by in raincoats. Took one look at the situation and moved my monitors away. My blue colored recycle bucket was placed right where my head used to be. I was told I was the 15th leak in the building and apparently I couldn't jump the line to be fixed. My leaky life had to be endured.

I have settled down in my new position. I watch the bucket filling up now, in addition to minding my Outlook Inbox. Colleagues smile and commiserate. Facilities have marked my emails as spam. My dreams of getting a free cubicle upgrade have already been shattered.

I wonder whether I would ever be able to tell stories about this "working" leak to my children?

Dancing Dhamaka

2009-10-09T12:14:00.001-07:00

I am a born dancer. Ever since I could wiggle, I jiggled. My chubby arms and small plump body moved about to the tunes of Bollywood mushiness. My mommy stared in disbelief and awe. (More awe I hope) I was pronounced a dancer. My dad grunted through the ordeal. Seeing me jiggle, my sister joined me. Obviously my moves were far superior and she soon decided to let me be the laughing stock of the colony - alone.

School happened. Dancing periods were included. I was all charged up. To the tunes of slow paced Rabindrasangeet my classmates swayed their bodies. I joined them. My swaying had to stop abruptly. My dance teacher realized very soon that my swaying had no rhythm. Beats were ignored, meaning of the music was lost and limbs knew not where they flew.

We used to have a four-year mega event called Spectrum. Auditions were held simultaneously in fields while my dance instructor oversaw from the first floor window. Inevitably my name was announced , on the microphone, distinct and audible, before I was pulled out of the dancing melee. Of course the embarrassment was supreme but my acute wisdom made me realize that my dance teacher was yet to reach that level of higher consciousness to appreciate my dance form. Sigh!

BITS,Pilani happened. In my first year I tried to edge my way once into the fashionable dance club auditions. They gave me a chance to perform. As the seniors looked on, I thumped my feet, flayed my arms, twisted my torso, bobbed my head and then boom! The music stopped. Apparently that was enough to reach an unanimous decision. The next thing I knew I was out of the door, the stage, the dance clubbers.

If you have read my posts previously, you would be familiar with my indomitable spirit. I never gave up. In my last year "Dance Workshop" happened. It was touted as a workshop for people who had two left feet. Obviously I was far superior. I was sure I would waltz my way in amongst the dance-gawky crowd. I was wrong. When names of the selected were put up on every hostel, my name was missing. I wasn't going to be stopped by a mere list. I edged my way in by meeting with student instructor of the workshop, expressing my desire to be allowed to "learn the awesome moves of the beautiful instructor" and coupled with the emotional sadness of it being my penultimate undergrad year. The melodrama worked. I was in.

Needless to say I was awesome. On the final day of the performance, I danced waltz, charleston, tango, twist and a random Sholay number. The stage bore reverberating testimony to my heavy thumping feet. When I looked at the videos I realized I was superlatively fat.

In UCLA and in bay area the dancing was limited to some Garba and Dandia.

Just last week, I got the golden opportunity to perform on stage in Campbell Theatre. I joined the Diwali Dhamaka celebrations of IITians. They had organized a dance-drama competition between the seven IITs and I participated from IIT-Guwahati. It was destiny. In helping my friend locate the place of practice, I found myself moving to the sound of music again. The choreographer was extremely patient. I could jiggle, wiggle, to my heart's content! They allowed me to be in one song - the famous "Dhan tanaa" from "Kaminey". I told the world about my dance status. The stage rocked as I went one step ahead to better the moves. My friends and my colleagues found me dancing on my chair, on streets, in my bathroom - I was obsessed with practising the steps. Music wasn't even necessary. My friends were subjected to watching me move , music-less ! Well their trauma ended in a week.

My awesome performance is was put up on you-tube. I saw myself on stage. I even had one line dialog!!! I felt like a movie star!

Well I am going to continue to butt into dances, edge into performances and finally one-day conquer the stage!

Windshield Woes

2009-10-01T10:57:00.000-07:00

A common knowledge is "Sun rises in the east". Another such universally accepted truth is "Cars are not my cup of beverage". However I have been able to coexist with my car peacefully. We have a mutual understanding. I get it serviced as and when I remember and he on the other hand endures the pains and doesn't give up on me. Life has been sailing thus for the past two years now. I have started to grow fond of him and once in a while I even do the oil changes on time!

Last week, while I was driving calmly on CA 237, on my way to work, as merrily as I could, something hit the car. The sound it made wasn't joyous. I took my eyes off the road, and looked around to find the result of the thud. I found it.

Hiding out of the driver's side, my windshield had been chipped. The damage size was less than a dime. The heartbreak was priceless.

In general I don't like the way cars function. Why can't you buy one and forget it? Why can't it run miles after miles endlessly, without cribbing or complaining? Why isn't gas enough for it to feel contended? Why are servicing, oil changes, tire changes and timing belt fixing necessary? And if you forget to do one of them, why does these beasts give up on you at the most inopportune moments? Mystery I tell you.

Anyhow, the great deal finder that I am, I found a way to get it fixed or repaired. All Star Glass on El Camino Real. I scheduled my visit. I could get the damage fixed under 40$! I found that a cheap deal considering it was my car.

On the appointed hour I arrived, me and my bruised car. I was upbeat. In under 20 minutes the world was about to become a better place.

The first hint of premonition hit me when they made me sign some obscure PDA documents. Even if I didn't know what PDA meant, what it said was thus, "We can break your windshield while we repair. After breaking it during repairs, you might want to get it replaced. While replacing your windshield we can break it again. None of the above will be our fault. You will pay the price for our ineptitude. Please sign and date below before we touch your car. Kindly enjoy the great 40$ repair service we are about to provide you."

I signed.

As I sat watching the mechanic working on my car, my spirits lifted ever so slightly. The resin, the glue, the glass was looking better. The crack had disappeared to about 80%. I was about to stop the man and shake his hands when he shook the heavy instrument in his hands first. The shaking hit my windshield. Like an earthquake spreading from it's epicenter, cracks crawled out on the surface. Like a spider it sat there mocking. I stood stunned.

Something broke me out of my reverie.

"Oops the windshield broke."

The repetition of the truth didn't make the disbelief reduce. I stared at the mechanic hard.

"Why don't you come inside and see how we take off 40$ from the price of a new windshield , eh? A new one would be only 230$. Come inside and take advantage of this great deal.Come quick!"

I must admit the business plan was amazing. If the windshield breaks while repairing, you manage to make at least 200$ more than if you just repair it!

Needless to say, I bowed to their ineptitude and cleverness and drove off with my cracking windshield. I spent a few moments mourning my windshield woes and then got it repaired at the next best deal I located. This time I made sure I went to a place that didn't ask me to sign any documents.

As the dying wish of my last windshield, I posted yelp and google reviews for All Star Glass , El Camino real, narrating the autobiography of my windshield. This post is a tribute to his soul. May he rest in peace!

Bad-minton !

2009-09-18T15:05:00.000-07:00

I have developed a new passion in my company. My colleague sitting beside me, across the cube-wall is an avid badminton player. He plays well. He got into the mode last year where he became enthused of getting together a badminton team representing the company. By law of shortest distances, I was the nearest catch. I was caught.
I believed strongly that I am a badminton player. Afterall hasn't every bong girl, on a hot summer afternoon, with a lopsided hat on her head, hit her friend from the same colony with the shuttle cock? Mostly without the net in between. What is badminton other than making the connection between the racquet and the birdie? I recall laughing and rallying back and forth with my sister on the terrace in a game of badminton. There were no rules except, hit it back, and hard enough so that my sister couldn't hit back! Games always ended with the loser crying back to mother and food. That was chapter 1.
Then came chapter 2 of badminton- in UCLA. I borrowed a raquet from my senior, gathered the few people who claimed their friendship to me and reached the badminton court in UCLA gym. Tuesdays and Thursdays were reserved as baddy days. As I started playing, I realized that people were not playing the same game. What was badminton for me, did not exist in their game dictionary. I realized badminton was not all about standing still at one place and hitting only those shots that came within a hand's radius. It also wasn't about sending shots back anyhow. It involved hitting where the opponent couldn't reach. Surprisingly there were strategies and actual physical exercise involved. It became obvious very fast that I wasn't playing baddy at all. My friends decided to unceremoniously dump me from their future games and I dumped them from my orkut friend's list.
Chapter 3 - Company badminton. Now that I had wizened up from my previous badminton experiences, I decided I was a good raw material to get moulded into the company's baddy team. There was a inter-company competition coming up in Bay Area and it was a perfect opportunity for my hidden talent to surface into limelight! I reached the practice sessions, with a borrowed racquet, hoarded birdies, new Adidas tennis skirt and new sports top. I looked the part I was going to play. People encouraged me as I stepped up and I smiled back. In my head a celebrity had been born.
In the practice sessions, it became painfully clear that work was required. Apparently my talent was very deeply and well hidden. My serve was crooked, my elbows were bent, my birdies were lost, my opponents always won and I panted and fretted just to return a shot. Some of my friends even suggested I join the opponent's team to prove my loyalty! But my colleague held his firm belief in me. Being an Asian, I was predisposed to possess badminton genes.
On an early Saturday morning in May the round robins began. I had 3 games lined up- two women's doubles and one mixed doubles. My partners were all very encouraging. We came up with new strategies and I armed myself to excel. As points rolled by I realized my talent hadn't surfaced at all. Our opponents turned out to be three time champions! They smiled and smashed and then shook hands saying " Good play huh?" Were they commending themselves? All three games were unanimously lost. My talent wasn't deeply hidden, it was non-existent. Round robins ended and I sat down munching my banana and subway sandwich. Around me the qualified teams were playing hard.
I left the scene of the battle , dejected. I later found out that I had missed being in the Team Photograph! Now I don't have any proof of my labour and given the way I have played, I have serious doubts whether I would be summoned again next year.
What did I learn? Bad-minton has "Bad" for a reason.
I haven't given up. The racquet I borrowed still lies with me. Once in a while I smash an imaginary shot in the air to my invisible opponent who invariably can't reach for it. Rows of ghost spectators rise up on their feet in a mesmerized silence. And with that I win the match, the game and the battle!

Water and Ski!

2008-09-15T13:18:00.000-07:00

I have never skied in life.
When I imagine skiing, I imagine pristine snow capped slopes, with adept individuals moving graciously in between, at slow or rapid pace. They fall sometimes, but snow doesn't hurt, does it?

When I skied for the first time in my life, it was on water.
This water activity called jet skiing takes place on a motorized scooter-look-alike that moves at tremendous speeds on water bodies. One, two, three people can sit at a time atop this thing, while one person drives it. The number of bodies is directly proportional to its instability.

On a chilly windy morning in Lake Tahoe, I decided to go for it. To dampen my beginner's unsuspecting spirit, the jet ski rental owner tried scaring me. "It's cold you know - the water itself isn't that bad, but when you topple in the water, which obviously you will given the lack of expertise, the winds will chill you to the bones". He paused after this , for special effects.
I stared back at him.

During the long stare, I pondered.
I was here already, I had never done this thing before, I would never come this close to bringing myself to do it again , and once I manage to get over with it- I can boast about it for life!
Next I knew, I was renting the boat, the sun goggles and the wet suits from the owner.
Dressed and armed, I ventured out into the lake.

I am not a great driver. The closest I came to driving something resembling a jet ski, was a bicycle. My Indian bicycle didn't have those fancy gears. As I started out in the water, trepidation set in. I recalled "fun facts" I had read about Lake Tahoe. It was the second deepest lake in United States. This fact were not fun any more.

Wobbling away, and moving at snail speed, I headed out to the water. I was told to stay away from boats, humans, steamers, and coast. In plain terms stay deep and stay out. Turning the jet ski in the direction I wanted, almost made me topple! (They charge 50 bucks extra when you topple their jet ski)

My friend sitting behind, wanted more speed.I tried. For a whole one minute I moved at 5mph and stopped suddenly coz it was making me nervous! After spluttering for what-seemed-like-eternity, in the water, getting chilled and numb all over, I decided to head back. We had booked it for an hour - I felt I had gone way past it.
When we went back, I was told it had only been fifteen minutes!

My friend decided to take matters in his hands this time. Sitting behind felt much better. As we went out into the lake, much smoother, I appreciated the beauty of Lake Tahoe from such close quarters. I recalled movies I had seen of people astride on a jet ski. They looked so cool! Chattering in my teeth, wishing for the wind to stop, I felt extremely cold- a degree ahead of cool! This time the jet ski was actually moving and at much faster pace. I wasn't comfortable with speed, and I made my point clear.

Next I knew, my friend left me at the coast and went off to have some "real fun" all by himself. As I stood woebegone on the sand, I tried concentrating on the positives of my situation. I had been able to enjoy a whole 40 minutes of my one hour rental!
Standing on the beach, I was definite he was freezing in the water. I was definite he would have toppled. I was definite he would be back, any minute. He did come back, right when the hour was up; extremely exhilarated by his experience!

Jet skiing was the most memorable part of my journey to Lake Tahoe.The feeling of cutting through water on a jet ski was amazing. Taming nature in such adverse conditions, with such skill as mine, made me proud of myself!
I doubt I will do it again too soon.

:)

The Lonesome Lockout!

2008-08-07T11:21:00.000-07:00

In my pursuing attempt to remain fit that ceremoniously began six months back, I join anyone making hiking plans. The few people who make them invite me - in their words, "they don't have the whole day for it!"
Last Saturday, I got invited to one such hike. To garner additional brownie points for myself, I volunteered to drive all of them there. The idea was to drown them in gratitude. It didn't quite work that way. The mountaineous roads and my super-awesome driving didn't go well together.

We started early - by Indian standards. 10am. On a weekend that means getting out as soon as you have gotten up. It also means hardly any breakfast. "The hike won't take that long and we would have plenty of time to fatten ourselves at lunch".
The closer I came to the destination, the worse my fears got. I suffer from acrophobia - in plain terms I am afraid of heights. On the narrow steeply climbing mountain road, with one side ending in a deep gorge and the other a tall stone wall, I chose to stay close to the wall. That meant driving on the wrong side of the r0ad. The passengers panicked! The choice was simple - getting hit by incoming car or falling off the cliff. I chose for them.
As soon as we reached, everyone jumped off the car. I followed slowly. We gathered our bags, energy bars, water bottles and were about to start the hike. At that precise instant I had a brainwave. "Why carry my heavy purse? I won't need it." Boom! I shut the trunk on my purse with my car keys in them!
My friend realized my folly before I did. He wanted to keep the car keys in a safe place. With very little to do, we decided to continue on the hike. I could hear muttered mumbled indistinct voices all around me. I didn't dare look at them directly.
It was a strenuous hike. We took 3 hours and were completely exhausted.
This remote place had no cell phone reception. The nearest one was at the base of the mountain. I hitched a ride from a fellow departing hiker, went to the base, made a phone call. I was told to get back up to my car, in less than an hour. Hitching a ride back was tough. I almost asked fire fighters to help me out when an old lady with a dog took pity on me. As soon as I reached the top, the wait began.
What was to take less than an hour, took more than two hours. We had no food, no water and sunlight was fading. Meanwhile I sent another friend down and never saw him back!
Finally, the car got unlocked, my friend was found and food was eaten. We combined breakfast, lunch and dinner into one meal. I paid for it - hoping it would alleviate stressed nerves. The hike that was to last 3 hours took 12!
Since then I have been thinking of ways to make myself lock-out-proof. My friends have suggested strapping the key to my body, strapping the key to the car, strapping the key onto a friend and million like that! I am still looking for a sustainable solution!
:)

Safar to Swadesh!

2008-01-29T15:47:00.000-08:00

After one and half endless years, I reached Swadesh. I am no Mohan Bhargav, but I do miss mom's cooking.

The moment my flight touched Mumbai International Airport, I woke up. The long flights make me sleepy. What I don't like is the fact that attendants push me awake and deliver me food. No exercise and constant feeding- it starts in the flight and ends only in the flight back.

My parents were standing at the gates, at that wee hour to receive me. They recognized me instantly from my dishevelled looks. I was all smiles. Dad looked older but mom seemed the same. I expected them to gush and fuss over me. (I had been religiously visiting a nearby gym to look better). They didn't. My parents nodded their head in disapproval and uttered unanimously, "You need more exercise!" No amount of convincing from my side helped. I gave up and morosely munched on the delicacies laid in front of me.

Mumbai - the land of dreams and Bollywood. Everyone here seems to be in a rush. Early morning I went to Marine Drive with Dad. Joggers, walkers, idlers flocked the area. Surprisingly it was very clean. Breathing in the ozone rich Arabian Sea air, felt great. Except a few super slim runners, the rest were plump married housewives waddling along the drive with their chattering friends or spouse.

Having a driving license(after enormous struggle) I paid more attention to traffic rules and driving this time. The traffic lights in Mumbai stop functioning from 12am to 8 am. God help you then. And perhaps your luck. The concept of lanes exist but are never followed. When rushing to the Mumbai Airport in the busy evening hour, I saw how our driver maneuvered through cars, bikes, autos, men and animals to get us there. Indian lanes always make room for more - for more than what it was designed for.

Watching a movie at Eros theatres, I observed the college kids. Their fashion sense seem to have been directly lifted from the movies. I wonder when all these kids do their home works, or was I too studious? Everyone carries a cell phone -from the roadside tea seller to the rich businessman. It's a necessity. And it's not just any cell phone, it is the latest gizmo out on the shop. I hardly saw kids come in with their parents, except myself.

Mumbai appeared advanced - in the rich tea restaurants, mocha cafes, super malls, discos, clubs that have cropped up all over the place. Smoking and drinking are ubiquitous among all sexes. Life moved fast.

Kolkata was a stark contrast to this advancement. People, routine and rituals were as I had left them before. Change creeps in slowly and stealthily, not interrupting or taking anyone by surprise. People are mild and tempers mellow. I met a Jadavpur University professor this time. From pin to politics to Einstein and Tagore - he discussed everything. What was going to be a 15 minute thing became a 2 hour discourse. People love to talk in Kolkata. They ask questions, they take pride in your achievements and flaunt theirs in return. It's missing in US. No one really cares or takes up so much time.

Walking through the streets of Kolkata, I finally felt at home. Watching kids with heavy back-packs brought back fond and heavy memories. Eating egg rolls from the unhygienic side stalls at Gariahat tasted delicious. Shopping from the street hawkers honed my bargaining skills. The lights, the sounds and the delights of Kolkata amazed me yet again.

Coming back to an empty apartment and joining work with jet lag wasn't easy. If technology could advance so far as to take me home in one second, I would embrace it. Till then lemme imagine.

:)

Boot Camp

2008-01-29T14:34:00.000-08:00

The original name referred to young men training for battlefield-readiness.
I am not going to war in US, but it feels much the same.

A vacation to India (yes! I went back home after so long) changed the way I live life. It reduced me to a eating and sleeping machine. Of course the food was filled with glorious calories and delicious taste. While my mother's cooking rocked, my calories mocked. They had a field day. They made home in the nook and crannies of my body and by the time I caught the flight back, I resembled a rolling ball!
I took matters in my own plump hands and registered myself to this Boot Camp. When asked by the online form, why I wanted to join it, I wrote, "From fat to fit!" It sounded nice and catchy. Who knew what lay beyond.
It begins at 6:30am in the morning, which forces me to open my eyes at 5:30am. That struggle is mild compared to the regime itself. Two trainers, clad from head to toe, to keep the cold away, train the 10-12 women who registered. The cold is always there. Only recently rain added itself to it. However that doesn't deter the spirits of the coaches or the campers. I am not talking about myself here.
The boot camp is enlightening. I have realized exactly how fit I am. Before I can start any of the excruciating exercises, others move on to the next. Every run around the block, ends with me. While people run their second lap, I find myself struggling midway in my first. The coaches are relentless. They make sure you get your money's worth. Every cent I have payed them, they return it to me in sweat!
Wednesdays are Track days. We gather around in the tracks of a school and timed laps are run. Needless to say, I take the longest. Every now and then, the coaches become sympathetic to my plight and utter, "Are you OK Meena?" Oddly, that doesn't make me happy or relaxed.
In the weight training, I discovered, while I carry a total of 6 lbs, others happily lift twice as much in one hand! While my muscles start hurting almost as soon as I begin, others can go on endlessly. Sometimes I wonder. "Did these people come to the Boot Camp just to show off?"
Honestly, I think boot camps should be filled with people like me. Gyms should be filled with overweight and unfit people too. But it's just the opposite in life. I have hardly seen more than one obese person frequenting a gym. Am I to believe that every fat person loses the adipose tissue as soon as he joins the hallowed gym?
Jogging, running, crunching and stretching, I have managed to survive two whole weeks of this paid torture. Two more remain.
Hopefully I shall survive it to tell more tales in my blog spot!

Driving Away!

2007-08-29T14:41:00.000-07:00

When I was a kiddo, I got chauffeured around.
Either Dad or driver was always there to take care of me and my outings. Hence I never realized what went into driving on the roads...especially Indian roads.

It was in Los Angeles, in late April when I figured out that surviving my professional life without a car or driving experience would be next to impossible. Thus enlightened I set out to discover my latent driving talent.
I found that it wasn't latent. It was non-existent.

The driving instructor I hired to coach me in LA had "the time of his life" on the first day I touched his steering wheel. "Have you ever driven before?" he asked me before we set out."No, never." I honestly replied as I belted myself tightly.He gave a benign smile and added, "That's why I am there to teach you." And smiled a little more.I smiled back, not so confidently."Lets go", he said and off we rolled.
I am not sure what happened first. Him screaming or me going zig-zag in my lane. Sticking to your lane comes intuitively to most people-like drawing a straight line. To me it sounded impossible.Holding a steering wheel to keep yourself going straight!!! -how could that be done? Hence I wavered merrily about.
We practised turns in an empty parking lot next. "Right...left...right.....right...left..straight...right!" and the drone went on. He was satisfied after 10 minutes. We hit the busy road. I took turns, I went straight, I stopped in the middle of the road, I came close to other cars, I wavered in my lane, did everything a first-timer could think of and more, while holding onto the steering wheel for dear life. When the session ended, not only was I tired, my coach was tired too. He heaved a sigh of relief to hold his steering wheel.
If he didn't love his job, he probably would have given me up.

These sessions continued, After 3 of them I felt confident that I could drive a normal car. (The learner's car are usually fitted with an extra pair of brake and accelerator). I convinced my Chinese friend to trust me to drive her new car.She did. The very fact that you and only you are in control of the car and the fate of the other passengers - makes your task heavier.To top it, I didn't realize how bad I was until I was driving in my friend's car. My turns were terrible. Making a left turn I almost hit the oncoming traffic lane.Wavering in my lane I was about to hit the curb. She decided she had the "time of her life" as well and hence I had to quit.

I experimented my driving with a total of 4 licensed instructors and numerous unsuspecting colleagues. The instructors wished they got more students like me 'coz I was a source of steady income. You keep practising till you get it and if you don't your instructor earns!
My colleagues valued their lives, their work, and their family more dearly. They looked at nature with greater respect, life held new meaning for them, once they had a driving session with me.

Then came the driving test. California allows you to take 3 road test for every written test. I flunked 3 road test with ease. While in the first written test I had 3 mistakes out of 40, in the second I had none! Brilliant performance - one would say. Uncannily I failed the driving test almost periodically. Every time it was a right turn at a red light that got me.

Finally, the examiners at DMV gave up. On my fifth day, the rather plump disgruntled examiner, grunted away for 20 minutes of my test and finding inadequate grounds to flunk me- declared me "Passed!" Wow what a joy that was - for them.

When I reported it to my colleagues, everyone unanimously vowed that they wouldn't ride my car now as I was a "viable and licensed threat to the road!"

Funnily I had bought my car without a license almost 2 months before I finally got my license!
My driving adventures continues and I always end up with the weirdest things that can happen to one.

Commencement Pictures!

2007-07-03T12:21:00.000-07:00

The Department Head of some department congratulating everyone who survived the ordeal!

There's an awesome me, sitting somewhere in the Pauley Pavilion, in my black gown with black hat, a yellow hood (a speck in the pic) and a "07" tassel hanging from my head.

A True Graduate indeed!

After a long time.

2007-06-28T09:53:00.001-07:00

I am back. Hopefully for good.

Its been sometime since I scribbled here. Loads happened in between - mostly good things and some bad!
I left my LA far behind. I am a professional now - or trying to be one. Life's different! From waking up whenever I had a class, to waking up to be there on time, from running home whenever I felt sleepy or hungry to sitting still and looking busy, from staying up as late as I wanted to- to sleeping as soon as I can, from having weekdays as fun as weekends to struggling to make a weekend fun, from being surrounded by friends all the time to being alone now - life did change a lot. And along with it I learnt.
Just two weekends back was my commencement. That was perhaps one of the best weekends ever for me. The journey back to LA felt like going home. As I stood still with a huge smile in the Pauley Pavilion, the Dean said, "With the power vested in me, I proclaim you ....Master of Science!" And then I attained it. It isn't like the enlightenment thing that Bodhi tree in Gaya gave to Budhha but it comes close.
My chinese connection housed me happily. I looked quite a graduate in my huge black gown, yellow hood, black hat and long black tassel which had "07" written on it. In my own biased words - "I looked awesome!" :-)
My commencement ceremony was scheduled for 12:30 in the noon. You were required to assemble before that in queues wherever you found your department placard. EE was perhaps the most populated. First the PhD hooding, then the MS walking and finally the BS marching endlessly - sums up the event. Not to forget the speechs and jokes thrown in by the professors and the chief guest. The event was huge. My family didn't make it but those who did cheered endlessly for that brief time 'delta T' when their kid came walking by on the stage. Cameras flashing eveywhere, I felt like a VIP.
I had entrusted my chinese friend and one Mr.N (the other Mr. N was graduating with me) with my camera to take as many pics as they possibly could of me. To my consternation I later discovered that my chinese friend was busying taking pics of her long time crush instead! :-P
Nevertheless I ensured that my pic was taken - after all no one does a second MS from the same Univ again!
After a while, I ran to find my advisor. A thorough search yielded him in the Alumni centre. Just when we posed to smile and take the pic of a lifetime, my cam died. Never to give up as I was, I forced my senior to run and get hers! And then the memorable pic was taken :)
At every statue, every corner, every flower I stood - insistent that my picture be taken . My friends were thoroughly tired at the end of the day and seemed joyous when I finally parted with my gown.

Flying back was tough - coming back to a life thats so remote from being a carefree student always is. The only bright part in my gloomy trip back was the fact that somewhere in my luggage, lay my black hat with its "07" tassel - a sign that I was a Graduate!

Happy Birthday!

2007-02-27T10:42:00.000-08:00

It was my Birthday yesterday!

My earliest remembrance of my Birthday begins with my mommy kissing both of us awake in the morning with a "Happy Birthday" song! My dad smiling gaily beside. I remember him teasing us as to "how old" we were getting! I felt thoroughly adult in my small kiddish life at his remarks!
I dunno much about what took place on that day, except for the gooood food I got to gobble! Sometimes my aunties came over and decorated the rooms with balloons, sometimes we got friends of the building coming over and celebrating with us, and sometimes we just celebrated by ourselves. No matter what I had a good time!
The funny thing about our birthday was the fact that there were always other kiddoes in school or in BITS, who had their b'day on the same day. That distributed the fun.
It was fun wishing each other "happy birthday"! There is always someone who would remember it was my b'day (without alarms and reminders!!) coz it was theirs too! :)

This is my second American B'day. I must admit it was as rollicking as the first one. Thanks to my best buddies who have distributed the workload among themselves of making me joyous !!
Since my birthday was on Monday which is right after a Saturday and a Sunday, I actually had three days of Birthday fun! Ofcourse, I left no stones unturned on my part in reminding my friends that my b'day was approaching by subtle and not-so subtle hints! :P
A sponsored shopping spree on Saturday, a double-scoop ice cream on Sunday, cards, cake, flowers, food and friends - I had them all! I loved the scarf that my Chinese friend knitted for me, I loved the jacket that I am wearing now, and above all I love the feeling of being taken care of!
My sister had a different b'day. So far away, with her own friends and her own circle. It feels weird that the time difference makes her celebrate her b'day 12 hours in advance! Does that kind of relativity make me younger than my twin???

I just wished to thank everyone who made me so happy on my b'day. And Orkut for reminding my friends to wish me!

:)

Jazzing up my life!

2007-01-30T10:16:00.000-08:00

I am learning Jazz.

When I was a kiddo, I loved flinging my arms and legs around with music. My parents and other elders doodled upon me and exclaimed in unison, " Wow this kiddo is a real dancer!"
It made me happy and I just swayed myself more vigorously.
Needless to say I didn't remain a kiddo for long. In school I recall how my dance teacher pulled me out inevitably among a bunch of kids and made me stand and stare at the rest. I attributed her behaviour to her and not to my dancing abilities!
Then came BITS, Pilani. Most of my time there I was happying writing aritcles, stories, poems and notes for my classes. But in my last sem, the dance bug bit me again. I took part in DW - Dance Workshop. I learnt Charleston, Twist, Tango, Jive, Waltz and performed on stage with other workshopers. I loved the experience.
In UCLA there are myriad opportunities to express yourself. Classes are held from rock-climing to caring-for-herbs and encompasses dance from all over the world. There are Bharatnatiyam lessons too! I learnt hip-hop for a while here and then my classes became too hectic for me to dance comfortably. And I left.
This being my last quarter here, I decided to be more serious. I took up Jazz.
The instructor is a man who dances so beautifully that it makes you want to do the same. He moves his body with such ease in such painfully difficult steps that it makes you wonder whether you are made of wood while he is made of rubber!
The dance and yoga classes or for that matter most other classes are populated with girls. No wonder then, in our class there are 15 girls and 2 guys. My friends say thats the case with any other dance class here. Thankfully it isn't a pair dance and so the ratio is unimportant.
The class begins with fluid yoga, moves on to balancing acts and then the Jazz routine. By then everyone is sweating away to glory.
I like Jazz and I am hoping that by the end of the quarter I will be able to raise myself from the depths to the heights and justify those elder's comments!

:)

Illuminating young minds!

2007-01-10T10:43:00.000-08:00

I am a teaching assistant this quarter.
I am teaching Circuit Analysis.

Its funny feeling to see people come to listen to you. And actually jot down notes on whatever you blabber! I remember myself as a student - writing down every word that left the professor's mouth, but its a different feeling to observe others do the same to your words! To be honest, its a little unnerving!
The first class I had to take, took place at 8am. Crawling around the campus at that early hour, I was pretty surprised to see people actually show up for my class! My class began with a smile.
"Good Morning, I am your TA", and then started my first formal lecture.

It's easy to convince yourself when you are understanding something, but it becomes equally tough when it comes to presenting something so that someone else can understand. Especially students who expect you to explain to them in their own language.
It funny seeing my hands all white and chalky after writing on a board and not on paper. Its funny to have office hours. Above all its rewarding to see the smile of comprehension on the faces of the students after your explanation.
Lets hope my blabbering gets these kiddos through their course!

:)

Six Flags and still alive!

2007-01-06T09:59:00.000-08:00

I am not referring to international convention of 6 countries.
I am referring to dare-devilry.

I went to Six Flags. In a small Santa Clarita city, resides this deadly attraction. Its a theme park meant only for the hot-blooded creatures. I am not one of them and it took me a trip there to realize.

We took a bus from Westwood early in the morning. The bus was huge and we were the only passengers. Through 405 and 5 Freeways the bus drove on.Mountains with hovering clouds and green valleys passed by. Los Angeles is beautiful - it felt more so during the early morning ride.My Chinese friend was busy taking photos through the bus window!
We reached Santa Clarita Transit station and awaited another bus. According to someone in our group, that wait was the deadliest part of our trip. It was unusually chilly and windy. We froze to the bones. No amount of joking, jumping or juggling with bus options, helped our cause. We kept freezing. Finally our bus arrived and we landed at our destination. For the uninitiated, it helps to know a little about American Theme Parks. Here they try to make it a wholesome experience for the guests. It's not as crowded as Indian ones and yes definitely neater. Food stalls flood the place and cartoon characters populate the road.

The first ride, or "starters" as my friend put it, was called the "Gold Rush". It was a roller-coaster ride. As soon as you were seated, you screamed. In a span of 3 minutes, daylight was knocked out of my senses. Up up up up and then swoosh it fell down- I grabbed onto my seat-belt. I felt weightless, couldn't scream (sign of being totally scared), shut my eyes and prayed. In afterthought, I feel it was really a starter. Worse was yet to come!
Next came "The Riddler's Revenge" - another roller-coaster ride. It had ups, downs, twists and turns. The seats were different, and the safety belts even more. I took a deep breadth and away I went at the speed of sound. All the centripetal and centrifugal forces that I hardly paid attention to in my physics class, came back to extract their pound of flesh! I felt the forces pressing down against me. Add to that the chilly winds that tore at my face - you have an ideal setting for a horror movie.
As if getting down from it alive wasn't enough, I went walking towards "Colossus". White structure and white toy train. "Wouldn't be that scary", said my fearless friend. I smiled weakly and sat straddled between multiple belts. Someone announced that people with motion sickness and weak heart are advised against the ride. Before I could contemplate my condition, Colossus took off. By now I knew what I had to do........ or so I thought. Hold on tight, shut your eyes, pray and oneday the thing will stop. However, Colossus had different plans for me.
It started off slowly and safely, lulling me to believe that things were great and before I could shut my eyes, it tilted sideways and fell...literally. In other rides, if they fall they do stop after sometime...Colossus only knew how to fall at different angles. It twisted and shook- trying its best to shake off the passengers - while I hung on for dear life! Its moves and shakes shook me to the bones. Meanwhile my fearless friend N, was having the time of his life. While people gritted their teeth to stop the fear, he took snaps, smiled around, lifted his arms to show his joy and generally had a good time. I must admit, I admire his bravado......or whatever that was!!!

That was the end..for me. The moment I touched Mother Earth, I promised I won't take a step towards another roller-coaster. My fearless friend went on to enjoy crazier rides like "Batman" and "Psyclone" and came back smiling. It was his second trip to Six Flags - in the first one he had already been to all these.
There were only two rides that I sat in after that. A swing called "Bucaneer's Boat"(populated mostly by kids) and a small car driven on ground in "Go-carting". Those were my type!
Our day ended with a bus trip back home.
I suddenly realized that I had been really brave that day. Atleast I had survived through those rides I took. Maybe many years from now, when I look back at myself, I can ask with awe, "How in the heaven's name, did I sit on those?!!!"

:)

New York and back!

2006-12-11T15:34:00.001-08:00

I have been there!
New York is three hours away from Los Angeles. But the entire process is highly time-dilated. An unearthly morning Culver City bus coming honking at me from the amidst the foggy night, with a driver that reminded me of Santa Claus, took me to the LAX airport. Half dazed, half hungry when I finished the new and improved extra-stringent security checks, I found that I had 2 hours to kill before my flight left. Hmmmm...not good I said to myself and ran to the the previous flight which was due to leave in less than 15 minutes. A mini-drama was taking place there. A girlfriend was yelling at her beau for being extremely irresponsible. Unlike India, where idle passer-bys would encircle the couple to enjoy the circus, people at LA maintain a discreet distance.
While the drama was taking a break, I got my new boarding pass - just in time. Away I flew on an early flight. The flight reminded me of Deccan Airways. Meals for buy, water for free, screen was up for a movie but the headphones had to be bought! All I needed was sleep.
The plane landed and so did I. New York terminal is very clean - much better than crowded LAX. After a series of escalators and moving paths(something I never saw in India) I reached the airport door.
New to New York - I caught hold of a security personnel for directions. He wished me Happy Diwali! He was from Jackson Heights and knew Indians and their illuminated festival pretty well. I had to reach Wall Street and he gave me Plan A, Plan B and Plan C to reach there. I forgot A, confused B and resorted to C. I took a yellow cab.
Near the JFK Terminal, I found the streets reminding me of Mumbai. It was as unkempt as India. Except for the trees - they were in their fall colours. The traffic was messy, the winds chilly and my cab driver was in perennial hurry. Goodness knows why he thought I needed to reach early. Then I understood. It was not me - it was him who wanted to hurry.
A few moments is all that is needed in NY for a person to know how hurried and harried people here are. Everyone is rushing. Everyone is running - either to reach work or home. Their lives are as dynamic as New York Stock Exchange(NYSE).
Highly car-sick, I landed in Wall Street in the evening. Skyscraper's surrounded me. Being in UCLA, I was unaccustomed to concrete jungles.
Wall Street has its own landmarks. Crowds of people milled around NYSE, a protestant was protesting, Trinity Church loomed in a distance, and Wall Street itself bore the pain of multiple running footsteps. Every building had tight security. Outside the building there were mini mobile shops with snack bars to cigarettes and much more. Very like the paan-walas in India.
Not-surprisingly these are managed by Bangladeshi-s and Indians.

I saw the South Sea port pier with my senior. The lights and the dark waters of of the Hudson River made it beautiful.

I saw Ground Zero. The area is still cordoned off and pictures of the ruin hangs on the makeshift fence. New Yorkers move on with their lives.

A PATH train brought me to New Jersey City. Seeing the Hudson river from here is an entirely different experience. The entire NY lighted sky crapper skyline looms up. Every movie captures this image - and so did I.

Kolkata has had Metro Rails for a long while now, so the PATH ways and SUBWAYS of NY was nothing new to me. To my surprise I found them as crowded as they were in good old Kolkata.

A backbone of Subways connect the length and breadth of NY. The entire system is laid out on a grid. Its easy to learn and its the cheapest means of transport in costly NY.

Early next morning I rode a ferry on Hudson River and saw a speck of Statue of Liberty. In the evening I met my school friend who was as jolly funny as 8 years before. She took me through multiple subways to Brooklyn Bridge. As we walked on the bridge, the evening sun was setting. The lights on Brooklyn and adjoining Manhattan Bridge turned on. As chilly winds froze me inside my coat- I felt happy.

At night it was time for Times Square. Neon lights blared bright. My friend said that no matter what the hour, a crowd will always be there. Shops, streets, people all seem happy. It was something like the Durga Puja in Kolkata with elaborate street lighting. From the streets of Gariahat to Times Square, we realized we came very far- both in time and space. But we managed to remain the same. Times Square mesmerized me. ....for a while.

We had dinner in a narrow mobile FALAFEL shop, with the chef giving us what he wanted to instead of what we wanted!

A subway, where we missed our stop and had to re board, and then separation at Ground Zero.

A promise to meet again, we boarded our separate trains.

My senior and I cooked dinner and it felt like home. We talked as long as time would permit me. Jet lagged and sleepy I landed in LA the very next day!

My whirlwind tour made me want to see more. New York I will come again!

Stick Dance!

2006-10-24T12:48:00.000-07:00

I am referring to Dandiya!
Here in UCLA, the Indian undergrads are an active lot. One way they have devised to bond with their old faraway roots in India, is by celebrating in colourful dresses and dancing! Ofcourse dancing with sticks!
I attended the Garba celebrations this time. It was an experience to recount.
A small idol of goddess Durga was placed in centre of the huge Ackerman Grand Ballroom, lights were lit, devotional songs were sung and the puja was done! The prasad comprised of dry fruits, nuts and M&Ms (Gems are its Indian counterpart).
And then the Dance began!
To the sounds and songs of a live band, singing popular bollywood numbers, youngsters of all shapes and sizes swayed themselves to the beats. The pace was fast, the steps simple yet graceful and completely impromptu. Anyone with enthusiam was invited to join. The circle moved around the goddess's idol. The girls were dressed in ornate ghagras, leghengas, sarees, while the guys wore kurtas or sherwanis and dupattas. It was extemely colorful to say the least.
And there were foreigners! Chinese and Americans who found the entire event highly motivating, stood in a circle trying to the pick up the steps and the sticks! Some of them wore kurtas, or even sarees!
I wore a saree myself. With help from my roommates, and pins in place, I gleefully joined the melee of circulating damsels and danced away merrily. Just when I thought I had got into the groove, some of my friends pulled me aside!
They wanted me to teach them the steps! A crash course later, me and my friends entered the loop. I don't know how disruptive we were, but definitely we had an amazing time!
The Dandiya, I have learnt is an art in self-defense. If someone has a hidden agenda against you, it's a great idea not to play dandiya with him/her. My friends passed on this divine knowledge to me and I came out alive and smiling!

I must admit, my enjoyment of garba in US is equal or more than that in India. Here, wearing a saree is a big thing! And dancing in it, even bigger!

:)

Pasadena Puja

2006-10-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

It's that time of the year when Bongs feel over enthusiastic.
It's that time of the year when dear old Maa Durga decides to spend 10 days in her parental abode with her kids in tow. 10 days of glorious no cooking,cleaning, making lunch boxes and time away from hubby Shiva! :-) And honestly her homecoming is welcomed with great gusto by all the bongs and non-bongs! It's the Puja time!
I am a bengali as my name implies. I have seen Durga Puja for most of my childhood in Kolkata. The light, the sound, the new clothes, the food stalls, the pandals, the idols, the crowd-pushing, the walking for long hours in the night, the meeting up with friends, sitting in a restraunt and eating 'coz mommy wants a break too - have all been an integral part of my life. When I reached BITS, I realized what I missed.
We had a puja in BITS too (wherever there are bongs there will be a puja!) It was a good one, but obviously I missed the Kolkata and its festivity.
Then I reached America. No relatives, no cars and hardly any bengali contacts - there was no puja for me in my first year. No new clothes, no lights no festivity. I realized the true worth of a home and yes Durga Puja in my life.
This year I had almost given up hope of seeing one either. However destiny had it otherwise. I saw Pasadena Puja. 2 hours in 2 different Metro buses, moving through unsafe downtown LA, I reached Pasadena. Walking for 15 minutes I saw a Cathedral. However the people milling around were by no means Christians. Bright colors, sarees, kurta punjaabi, bengali words filled the cathedral. The idol was in the big hall where usually choirs are held. Goddess Durga was at home even in US!
As I gave my osthomi onjoli, I forgot that the surrounding and people were all unkown to me. I forgot that I wasn't in Kolkata. It felt like home again. 4 hours of journey and 30 minutes of walking was worth it!
But there were other things I realized. The children spoke in accented bengali, the mothers explained the history of Goddess Durga in english, everyone except me came as a family, there were no drumbeats(dhaker awaj), and the pundit was just another person who had managed to download the sanskrit verses from the net.
But I enjoyed! I loved being in front of the watchful eyes Goddess Durga again. She seemed to tell me, "wow! so now you have international experience!"

:)

Great Expectations!

2006-09-21T14:43:00.000-07:00

I have read the novel by Charles Dickens.
The protagonist Philip Pirrip irritated me. He made mistakes in deciphering human emotions and feelings, committed blunders and then redeemed himself by doing something worthwhile. At the end of the novel, I didn't know whether to be happy or sad for him. But this post isn't dedicated to him.
Why do people expect from others? Freud might smirk at my question and say, " Of course, because they want something in return for their efforts for other people!" Expectations can vary - from material tangible things to nothing more than a few kind words. Expectations are also attached only to people who matter to you.
When I received without expecting, I sometimes never ealized it's value. It's only when my great expectations were met with nothingness, that I learnt something new.
For one, I learnt to value whatever I had received previously without asking for it.
I learnt that nothing should be taken for granted. Nothing is obvious.
I also learnt that feelings matter more than materials. Hmmm...thus said I do believe that sometimes a little something helps in generating good feelings! :-)
Great Expectations come directly from the heart - atleast for me. My logical gates never help me where my heart is concerned. And when the expectations aren't fulfilled it can be painful.
But the good part of the story is that, great expectations when met, makes you really truly happy! And life becomes really beautiful!

:)

Annual Day and more!

2006-09-05T12:09:00.000-07:00

Nope, am not talking about my school's annual day, am talking about myself.
I realized last night with a start, that I had been in the BushLand for exactly one year!

I never thought how many years I have been in Calcutta or India, I just took it for granted.

Its been a long enriching one year. I have grown, evolved and learnt something along my way. For every person coming into Uncle Sam's place, its a new experience. Some of us come here already freaked out, while others enjoy every moment. From "nothing ever works" in India, to "wow! it works!" in US, its been some journey. Its not true that everything is rosy here in US, there are thorns as well. Its not all that easy to acclimatize to the US conditions. Incidentally, students like us are called "Aliens" in tax forms! I wonder whether Indians would ever call foreigners by that name. :)

Its been a long weekend here. Labour Day. Like Indians, americans celebrate it by going somewhere to spend the extra holiday.And yes, in America there are usually "sales" (discounts) on prices whenever there is a holiday! But these holidays are few and far between. If we had such a system back in India, the shopkeepers would be bankrupt by now!

For this long weekend I went Kayaking with my labmates and friends. In one word, Awesome!
I did it for the second time. Since its free for UCLA students, we were happier!
The waters of the Pacific Ocean is diverted into a huge lagoon. The area is called Marina del Rey. In a small kayak, barely space for 2 people, armed with oars we floated into the deep dark waters! Even though I was assured multiple times, that there was no fear of toppling, I screamed everytime a wave swayed our miniscule kayak. My kayak-mate was a supercool dude. He decided that the boat would float whether he rowed or not, and hence he took it easy. For sometime I was the only one rowing away, until I realized that I was doing it all alone! You see I was sitting in the front, hence his inactivity escaped my attention.

One ground rule for kayaking is to escape the big boats - coz they can't see you from that height and they don't mind running you down. We escaped two rapidly oncoming boats by vigourous synchronized paddling and weren't we happy! My kayak-mate christened it, "The Great Escape".
From one end of the Marina to the other, we rowed, hitting against other kayaks, screaming whenever a huge boat passed and waves hit us, steering away from rocks and ducks, waving to handsome lifeguards, and getting close to the Pacific Ocean and turning back. It was 2 hours long, and we got thoroughly tanned in the process.
Had lunch at an Indian Restraunt with Korean, Chinese, Italian and obviously Indian people!

The day was worth it and definitely well-spent!

:)

Of Lakes and Oceans and Boulevards!

2006-08-10T13:45:00.000-07:00

My summer sunshine continues.

I visited Lake Shrine. A tranquil space ensconsed in greenery and awesome scenery in a corner in Malibu, this Shrine is for those we seek a respite from their mundane weeks. Set up almost 50 years ago by Swami Yogananda, for people to meditate and seek god within themselves. The place has a swan lake, where two beautiful swans swim alongside a bunch of ugly ducks! :)
The lake is huge and is encircled by green foliage and wooden benches. We sat there for an hour and the peace was palpable. There is a Windmill chapel and a prayer hall and temple. The foliage is filled with flowers of all shapes and colours - a treat to the eyes! The ride to the Shrine was beside the Pacific Ocean, pretty enjoyable. Thanks to my senior Srikant who took us there. Honestly my endless chattering must have driven him to instant meditation in search of peace! :)
Next Day it was Hollywood Boulevard and a walk among the stars. I have been there before - the first time I landed in LA. This time it was with N and N, one of them who had never been there and the other who drove by it without stopping! Walk of Fame with stars on the pavement and names within made me wonder whether I would ever get a star for my name. There was an empty star and the three of us decided to book it for ourselves!!! :)
Chinese Grumann Theatre, at the entrance of which were the hand and footprints of Hollywood celebrities. Kodak Theatre where Oscars are held every year. On the roads, mini shows were held. We watched a group of young boys doing miraculous stunts on the pavement. Hollywood Wax Museum and Guiness Records Museum was entertaining for a while too. A metro bus brought us back, but not without a little drama. An irascible old man decided to take his life and chose our metro to do so. No amount of pleas from the driver bent his mind. Most people de-boarded the bus and then ...he decided to leave. Phew! Talk of dramatic death!

I also watched Pirates of Caribbean in Westwood Village. A decent time-pass.
Shopping for cosmetics with Xi (coz there was a sale!), going to Santa Monica to shop some more and then to Target - quite eventful days!

I hope there will be more events to follow...
:)

Summer Sunshine

2006-07-27T14:57:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles is right beside the Pacific Ocean. That makes it continental climate doesn't it?
Much to my surprise, California is burning right now. A summer thats so hot doesn't make a good summer at all!
However, being the resourceful character that I am, I have been making the most of what I can.
Santa Monica beach one evening, dipping my feet in the cold blue waters of the Pacific, watching Mexican families swimming in oversized swimsuits, and blonde beauties bathing in joyous abandon, seagulls flying low enough to hear their wings swishing past, yatches sailing beyond the horizon and the evening sun retiring - everything was simply mesmeric. Add to that the company of two of my best friends here (N and N) , what more could someone want?
Next weekend was time for A.R. Rehman. At Hollywood Bowl, came a galaxy of Bollywood bigwigs. Rehman, Sivamani, Hariharan, Madhusree, Sukhwinder Singh, Musafir - singing to the lilting and soul-reaching tunes of Roja, Dil Se, Bombay, Yuva...under the stars, in front of an overwhelming audience of 18,000 people! I found an equal number of Indians and non-Indians. I saw a blonde girl wearing a pink saree and I saw Indian girls dressed in micro mini! :)
I found British women exchanging their love for "paneer", while Indians gorged on "tofu".
I found american undergrads swinging to Rang de Basanti, and the surprise of the evening was the song "Thodi si dhool teri.." sung by a foreigner. Articulation wasn't great but the effort was awesome!
Last weekend was alloted for Getty Museum. A sprawling structure on the green hills, it took a metro bus and a tram through hilly terrains to reach the Getty Centre. North, East, West and South Pavilions housed everything from furniture to photographs to paintings to sculpture. Arranged chronologically, it documents the paintings by Renaissance artists. The works were vivid and alive in composition. Some paintings stood out like photographs! The gardens at the Getty are another work of art. Rose garden with its fountains was a place for photography. Unfortunately we forgot the camera. :( A great day and very well spent. The only complaints were from my friends. Both Mr. N and Mr. N complained that museums are no place for men!

A few weeks of summer still remain. Lets see what those unfold!

:)

Me and My Friends!

2006-07-13T14:17:00.000-07:00

" To meet and part is a way of life,
To part and meet is the hope of life."

It was on my farewell from BITS that I first came across these lines. They have remained with me ever since. I have been thinking. Nothing new about that. I always think something or the other. This time I was thinking about the people I have met and separated from, and those that I am currently in touch with, but would soon be parting from.

My school days.
My best friend had always been my sister. We were born together. From nursery to graduation- we have been together. We changed schools together, we got admitted to BITS - again together. It was only when she left me in BITS, when I realized how much I missed her.
Fortunately or unfortunately we found our own friends - people who sometimes never knew of the other's existence. This lead to a lot of confusion but that's another story.

In school one of my best buddies was Anuradha. Plaited dark hair, quiet , demure- she was my antithesis. While I jabbered on, she listened wide-eyed. What I liked best about her was the fact that she tolerated me so well. We wrote poems to each other, called each other for endless hours and managed to giggle at the most inappropriate things! I am glad I am still in touch with her.

BITS, Pilani
In BITS, I had several friends. There were a gang of bongs whom we chatted and laughed with occassionally. Indro, SUL, Manocha,Kaushik - each of them had their unique brand of humour.

Mandeep in third year, Harini and Jitesh in fourth year were my constant companions. I learnt a lot from them. Laughing, joking and chatting away. Mandeep made my physics classes enjoyable, Harini and Jitesh helped me enjoy my EEE. I am thankful to each of them. They are miles away from me now and only time can tell whether we will meet again.

My BITSian life would be incomplete without a mention of Rahul. MISra was my id-sidey. He was MIS and I was RIS. Our friendship began in the cyberworld of "pine" - one email led to another. From pins to politics to planes to philosophy - we left no subject undiscussed. It was an enriching experience for me. An amazing poet, a tennis-pro and above all a wonderful friend. I just wish we met more often in person than in the cyberworld!

Sushant ,Aditya, Deepak were two people I had met for only a little while. My training days would not have been as enjoyable without them there.

In UCLA...
I came here knowning no one. Having no friends. Its a scary thought to reach a place where you know none. Hence the people who made me face this strange world will forever be dear to me.
Xi - became one of my best friends here. And the first international friend I have. Shantha told me stories from the mythologies(she has an amazing memory) and made me feel like a child again, when I felt sad and lonely.

Nitin is another great person to know. He is very patient with my endless nonsense and was one of the first people I came to know here. I learnt from him that one needs to "fight" to get to the "right" place.

Nitesh- he is a genius. If its not his intelligence then its his humility that bowls people over. Extremely helpful, I had bugged him with unending circuitous questions for almost 2 quarters - all of which he explained to me tirelessly. A li'll stubborn but a great person!

I learnt a lot about myself and the world from all these people. Each of them have made an indelible impression in my heart. I learnt to accept differences. A great friendship doesn't mean that you never fight- it means you grow together. Sometimes, its the fights that make one understand each other better. I also learnt to forgive and forget.

I just hope that as days go by, I get to make more such amazing friends!

:)

Half a Globe and back!

2006-07-10T18:23:00.000-07:00

Phew!
3 weeks was all I got at home. A flight that took me across half the world, and brought me home, well not exactly. I landed on hot Hyderabad from cool LA. A week there involved each day filled with an activity. "Fanaa" (mushy tale with melodramatic nonsense) and "Phir Hera Pheri" (loud and comic) at Hyderabad Central was a learning experience. I learnt not to buy tickets without reading the review!
Laser Show - marvellous play of water and laser light at Lumbini Park, roaming in Charminar in search for "churi's", kesar kulfi at a roadside stall, famous Hyderabadi biriyani, bangalore visit for 12 hours, ISB campus visit, Shopper's Stop ...and yes sleep at nights filled my days at Hyd.
I got to see the IIMB campus- lush green and bordered by forest, it reminded me in part of BITS, Pilani.
I saw ISB campus too and well I found it cleaner and greener. Its a huge campus, and the students get to stay at "villages"! in rooms fitted with AC.

Kolkata. City of Joy.
The place is timeless. It looked the same as I had left it almost a year back. The buses are no match for the Big Blue Buses here, but the people there speak a language that sounds sweeter to my ears. At Kol you get a receipt for the money you pay (a ticket!) , while in LA you just give the quarters away! I remember as a child, I had a hobby for collecting tickets and comparing my stock with my playmates. Am sure no child in US will ever get to cultivate such a hobby! :)
I watched some movies and soaps on TV. The soaps here never change. Women dress up in the gaudiest of dresses and wear tons of makeup for just being at home and bicker with each other over men and materials! Either the daughter or the mother-in-law is oppressed, while the man decides between being more of a hubby or a son.
Bengali Food and loads of it, Digital Fortress by Dan Brown, chatting on phone, talking - I learnt that there were so many things that I had forgotten. I learnt that there was so much I never thought about. I learnt that I knew very little about the ways of the world and there was still so much to know! Ironically, my learning was more at my home than at the university where I have come!

I went to Akshardham Temple in Noida. It's an amazing piece of architectural excellence. Expansive, green, wooden and stony. The "Musical Fountain" is a treat to the eyes. 5 years of toiling and crores of money went into this project. I am glad I visited it.

I am back now - travellling the same half of the globe again. The journey was uneventful except for a turbulence in midair. The plane jerked and jumped and made me wish for a little more time - to live. My wish was granted. I am back.

3 weeks passed in the blink of an eye. I did what I could within those few days but there is something I wish I had done but couldn't. Hope I get time for that.
Till next time...

:)

My Chinese Connection!!!

2006-06-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

Here in this City of Angel's, I met one of my best friends, who's from China! Fortunately she's been the one from whom I've copied my homeworks, went to chinatown and she's always there when I need her!! Thanks to her for the bit of chinese I know and she knows "namaste, kaise ho!"
Now I think that I'm very lucky to have met her here....thank you Xi!

Oh what a struggle!!!

2006-06-05T15:15:00.000-07:00

I had a huge exam.
There is nothing new about taking exams..I have taken so many ever since I was born that I have lost count of all of them. But there was something different about the exam I took this time. Not so much to do with the exam as it had to do with me.
I had a tough time preparing for it. My mind kept getting distracted. Along with my mind, my mood turned traitor. I was very depressed for various reasons. I found it difficult to go to bed and difficult getting out of it! I read the pages but nothing penetrated. I saw the graphs but I lacked the insight. My concentration was at its lowest.
The only thing that I feel proud of is my struggle. Despite this depression, I tried my very best.

The exam came and went away. The professors asked whatever they wanted to know under the sun!!
The results are not out as yet. I am just keeping my fingers crossed...it would be a shame to know that my best is not enough!

:)

Have I done my best today?

2006-05-20T22:48:00.000-07:00

When I was in school, this poem was on the 3rd page of our school diary.

When I read it for the first time I was very inspired. It asked a simple question and the answer forced me to think.
I have learnt a few things today and in the past few days.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, lasts forever. Be it extreme grief or overwhelming gaiety, it leaves you after a while. But they do keep coming periodically, and thats what makes life interesting. The indeterminate time-period between them, leaves you wondering - Will it be joy or will it be woe, next?

I always thought that I couldn't focus well. Umpteen thoughts reared their ugly heads in my mind, and my concentration gave up. But surprisingly, I was wrong. There is so much one can do when one puts his mind to it. So much. To accomplish something, I always thought next to impossible, gave me a real moral boost.

I used to hate loneliness. But I changed. I learnt to enjoy my company. I like myself better now!

And from what I have learnt I believe I have done my best today!

:)

The Window on my right

2006-05-13T13:20:00.000-07:00

The window is huge.
On the white wall on the right side of my desk, there is a huge window. Its a glass one and unlike other windows, this one can't be opened. You can only cover it. You can touch it but can't stretch your hands outwards through it.

So, whats so special about this window? Nothing. There is nothing extraordinary about this plain glass-pane window, but in what it makes me feel.

When I first got this desk, it was this window that made me feel better about my place. My desk was the brightest one around. Ample sunshine flooding my deskspace. It uplifted my mood immediately. It gave me a great start to my day - one filled with energy.
Sometimes when it rains, I can see the water falling merrily down through this window.

Even though I sit at my desk, I can still escape it - through this window.

The view isn't great. Concrete jungle meets the eye. But I am glad - atleast I have a view. I have seen places that have no window. Only walls and doors. No window.

Seasons come and seasons go, and my window mirrors the world outside, while I sit at my desk gazing out of it.

:)

City of Angeles!

2006-05-06T21:25:00.000-07:00

I am not an angel.
When I was a kid, I had taken part in a dance performance where I had to attach false wings to my back and dance on stage. It made me feel real good. I felt like an angel - beautiful and pure. I even attempted to fly- sadly my body mass couldn't be supported. I lacked a streamlined structure and sound aerodynamics knowledge, and hence my flight resulted in a sad plight.
I learnt I couldn't fly, and that I wasn't an angel.
Like every other kid, I read fantasy fables. About a mythical land populated by gnomes, elves, fairies, angels, trolls, princes and princesses. Lovely land and quitoxic tales. Such places don't exist. But there is a place which is called the City of Angeles. Los Angeles.
When I first came here, what struck me was the beauty. Clean, neat and green. Even the sky seemed a shade bluer! The climate wonderful, thanks to the Pacific Ocean right nearby. The beaches filled with white sand. Santa Monica beach and Venice Beach - the only two beaches that I have been to.
Compared to mountains I always liked oceans. Why? It gave me a sense of expansiveness. Ocean were more down to earth, and mountains high above - away from the land. Oceans seemed to have the ability to take in whatever you threw at it.Oceans taught me to forgive, accept whatever came your way and still feel good. Life was too huge to waste time on petty things. It gave me tranquility.
Coming back to Los Angeles - its a beautiful city. This place is a melting pot of cultures from all over the world. Along its roads are restraunts that cater to every cuisine known to man, unless you are taking about Adivasis of Andaman! I haven't seen so many complexion and colours in any one place. I haven't heard so many languages spoken at a given square area of land!
Chinese, Cuban, Mexican, German, Italian, Greek, Indonesian, French, German, Iranian, Spanish,Thai, our very own Indian and many more. I had the good fortune of trying out many of the above mentioned cuisines. I learnt some Chinese and practised it on unsuspecting Chinese, who were taken aback - more because of my incorrect usage than my knowledge!
People here wear very colourful clothes. Maybe because everyone feels like a star. Hollywood is nearby - maybe that influences the attire. And I find people smiling at strangers here - something that you would look upon with suspicion in India. But here its just courtesy...spreading a little warmth.

Once on a rainy day, while I was walking with an umbrella, I suddenly felt happy. Why? Something struck me. I was in Los Angeles - the city of Angeles, where angels are meant to dwell. So.....shouldn't that make me one too?

:)

Influence of Influenza!

2006-05-04T13:55:00.000-07:00

I have cold.
Nothing new, considering that too much ice-cream consumption, and too little protection in cold, chilly nights can lead to such a condition. The point is not that. The point is, how much this influenza thingy is affecting me.
Its affecting my body, 'coz I do feel a little weak, my nose is running and am running around with tissues wherever I go. Besides that, the cold has laid its claim on my mind too. I feel depressed and sad. Whenever I get a cold, the feeling of being utterly useless comes creeping back to me. Instead of saying, "Buck up Meenu, you can do it", the cold makes me say, "Uh well! You know you are no good. Why don't you just give up?" Its a ongoing battle between
me-the-would-be-useful and me-the-good-for-nothing. Right now, the chances of the latter winning is supreme.

When I was a kiddo and I had cold, all I had to do was sneeze, and voila! my mom would come rushing to me and take me in her arms and give ....one tight slap!
"How in the heaven's name did you get it?"
I knew how, but after one slap, its a little silly to incite her into giving me more of them!
Then a series of recuperative measures were taken under parental supervision which made me healthy and un-sneezing in a matter of days!

Now there is no one to slap me and none to run after me to take my meds. 'Coz now I am a kid no more.

Frankly this cold thing is making me too depressed. If there is no one to take care of my cold(and I refuse to accept that responsibility!)then why do I keep getting cold?
Just like a flower dies when the gardener ceases to look after it, shouldn't the influence of influenza dimish 'coz there is no one to take care of it????

What say?
:)

Circuitous Circuits!

2006-05-02T12:55:00.000-07:00

I have taken this course called Analog Circuits under professor Behzad Razavi this quarter.
One main reason for doing this course was the professor. In my undergrad years, I recall his book very well. That text book was highly recommended and I wondered then what it would be like to learn from the one who actually penned it down. So when the opportunity presented itself to me here, I grabbed it with both hands.
Before I began the class I was awed by his presence. And as I continue to attend his class, I am awed even more. He has been very friendly to suggestions from students, very open in his attitude to accept his small blunders during classroom teaching and in all, has made the course fairly easy to grasp for a person who isn't a master in circuits!
Its the current homework thats bothering me now, I am yet to finish it and its due soon! :(

My other course is also as enjoyable as this one. It deals with the future of electronics and what roadblocks we might face as we look beyond this present time. To think of solutions to problems that are yet to arise. Challenging! is the best way to describe it.

:)

Groundhog Day!

2006-04-30T16:34:00.000-07:00

I watched an old movie today - Groundhog Day. February 2nd every year is Groundhog day.
I didn't know that before I watched the movie. But thats not the point.
What happens if you get to live a single day of your life over and over again? In this movie, the protagonist gets up everyday on Feb 2nd to watch the same things, observe the same people , hold the same conversations, and yet seems incapable to escape that single day. Then it hits him! If he was to get back to the same day anyways, then why not do things that he always wanted to do? He learns ice-sculpting, piano, reads French Poetry, saves lives, even kills himself - he does it all, only to find himself alive the next day! The cycle ends only when he learns all the lessons that he had to from that single day. From a cynic, sarcastic jerk of a person, he changes into a caring, loving and enjoyable man. And only then does Feb 2nd turns into Feb 3rd.
I thought to myself after I saw this movie, what would I do if I could get to live one single day all over again? Which day would it be?
Tough question.
Would I prefer to live a day where I made mistakes or one in which everything I did was just right?
A day of blunders would be my choice. I could correct them then. Mistakes cost so much. A single mistake changes lives. If I could, I would go back and change them. There were times when I did rash things, things done without thought. If I could just recall that moment and hold myself back, before that happened - it would be so nice!
And that reminds me, when it comes to preparing for exams - I wish I had more time. Getting the hours back, again and again wouldn't be a bad idea at all!
So long!

2006-04-23T13:00:00.000-07:00

Its a great feeling when I learn something. However little, however trivial. Life's lessons are precious ones. I learnt something yesterday. And I am glad I did.
I learnt detachment. Life becomes blissful, once expectations end. I learnt to truly enjoy my own company. Honestly, if I can't put up with myself who can?
Its a funny feeling to start a blog...lets see how far it goes.