Fro -Yo!

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

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!

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

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

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...