Moving Out Moving In Moving Up Moving On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saraswati Puja

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

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

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

Other times:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being Uncool

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission Peak Hike

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letters from Bapi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One phone call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Telepathy and Teleportation

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

When parents came visiting....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Land of the Lost Wages

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Switzerland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fro -Yo!

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!