East meets West

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 ...

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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

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

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 !

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!

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!

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!
:)