Daddy’s shoes 👞

 

As a kid, I loved wearing Dad’s tan Oxford boots that were part of his Indian Police Service uniform and walking around the front verandah, where the shoe rack lived—outside shoes are not allowed indoors in my culture.

Growing up, I’ve realized it is not easy to be a father.

Those boots weren’t just leather and polish every day. They were long hours, quiet authority, and the weight of decisions he carried home without words. They were standing straight even when tired, choosing duty over comfort, and love expressed more through presence than praise.

Back then, I only felt their heaviness on my feet.

Now I understand the heaviness he carried every day—so I could walk freely, pretending to be him, not knowing how much of him was already walking ahead of me.

I believe in you

This is a cup my mom got me in 2006. It was a time when I needed motivation the most. Even now, when I am down, I take it out of the cupboard and drink something in it. Even if it is plain water. Works like magic.

Grandma

12:51 AM PST
A little while ago Dad called to say that she passed away around 12 noon, IST on 4/23/2011, Saturday. I knew it when I saw Dad's number on the caller id. 1- He never calls up so late at night. 2- We talked about her often, and he never sounded so disconsolate about her gradually deteriorating condition before like he has been recently. So, I knew before I heard it, and had cried through evening wondering how it would be to never see her again- if Dad's fear were true.

It seems so unjust that just when I have begun a new life, someone so dear to me should end her earthly existence. I can't say it was abrupt- we had been expecting it for months now. But bereavement is never easy- apprehended or not.
...

Bleed Blue

As a very young kid, I walked into the TV room and saw my family getting excited over a match. I asked my elder brother- ‘How many goals have been scored?’ He laughed and said, ‘Stupid, it isn’t football (American : soccer), it is cricket! You don’t score goals; you score runs or take wickets. I would have probably forgotten the incident, but he makes it sure to remind me once in a while my naiveté about a game that defines a country, unites its diversity and rekindles passion in many a passive existence surrendered to the daily grind of day-to-dayness of life.

Over the years, my education on the game continued with my family participating actively in my grasping of new terms -onside/off-side, pacers/spinners, no ball/wide ball, lbw (leg before wickets) – I learned the nuances of the game as I got acquainted with basic cricket vocabulary.

Cricket means family and friends to me. Cricket means what almost every kid plays in the gullies of India, believes in the superiority of his skills and brags about it to his GF when he grows up. Cricket means seeing people get pissed off because the team you support is misfielding in a stadium, miles away from where you are watching the match. It means a new leash on life, a chance to forget mediocrity and bask in the excellence of a few. It is a reason to reach home early in the blaring traffic or to stay up all night. Cricket also means when a star player can sell you anything from shoes to cold drinks. But most of all – cricket means a religion – something you believe in, something that drives you- even if it is just for a few days.

My mother is one of the bigger cricket fanatics I know, who watches any match that is broadcasted, but her frenzy reaches its crescendo in World Cup every four years. I know, even today she will get back from work just in time to watch the final.

Here’s my recollection of some matches:

I wish I were there

Dad receiving President's Police Medal for Distinguished Service from Dr DY Patil, the Governor of Tripura on 26th Jan '10

I remembered the last time Dad received a medal. The whole family was present, including uncles, aunts and cousins. Most accomplishments are considered individual efforts, but my father always acknowledged his family, specially his wife, on occasions such as these. This time even Mom couldn't be around. She is a headmistress now and had to hoist the flag in her school on Republic Day. After that, she tried to make it to the Assam Rifles grounds for the ceremony, but missed it.

There are a lot of families who wish their kids to move to greener pastures but progress comes with a price. I have missed weddings in the family owing to academic commitments. And I am sure they have missed me.

We might have as basic amenities what some people would consider luxuries, but I miss the warmth of affection only a mother can give, the moments in conversations I can have only with my father, and the secrets I can whisper only to my favorite cousin.

Indulging in these fond memories is in vain though. Home, as I knew it as a child, isn't there anymore. We have moved to a bigger house. Most of the younger ones have moved out and have settled down in different places scattered all over the globe. An occasional green icon on a chat window or a phone call reminding me that we share something in common.

There is nothing much I can do, except choose to be with someone who can be family to me. I wish I had the emotional range of a teaspoon or never had the spare time to miss my family. It is true no one spends the entire life with us except ourselves. Thank God for my friends.

To Heaven and back

I visited my aunt last week. The trip was planned at a short notice. SG was going to Montana for a week and when I had gone to register for my Summer courses, my Program Director had advised: You are going to be really busy from July 13, enjoy the Summer till then.

I was running a temperature and my internship as a Marketing Research Analyst had started from June 11. It was a tough call. But I knew I wouldn't have time later. I told my boss about my trip and knew I'd make it up for him.

Seeing my cousins was a joy. Anupam ( Mashi's elder son) had grown up quite a bit since I last saw him in Xmas 2007. He picked me up from Washington Ronald Reagan National (DCA) airport. We took the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Yellow Line to Gallery Pi- Chinatown and then switched to the Red line to Silver Springs (The red line that smashed into another yesterday was on the way from Takoma to Fort Trotten. Takoma is the station before Silver Spring)

It was at Takoma where the man standing next to me said: Nice ring. I smiled and suggested: You can get it at Kay. He asked me if I was visiting or lived there. I looked at my cousin and mentioned that I was visiting my aunt. He asked a score of other questions like where I was from, whether I went to school etc. I scanned his dark business suit and wondered if he worked for the FBI. But I think he mentioned United States Department of Agriculture- quite innocuous. He said he was getting down at Silver Springs too. Before he could probe deeper, our station arrived and I got busy dragging my suitcase out in the crowd, and he shouted: 'Welcome to DC, have a great trip !!' I smiled at his affability and asked my cousin if it was common there to be so friendly. He said: I think he was trying to hit on you or something. And we both giggled. I saw the demographics was quite different from Boston. It was.. how shall I put it.. more diverse.

It was a vacation typical of my school days. I didn't have to cook. I had to sneak in to do my own dishes. I could drink tea without brushing and even had lunch once without having a bath first (very unlike me). No rules. Watched a couple of movies. Read : Stephen T. Kay's Boogeyman with homemade popcorn- oh yes, I did. Though, I don't think I can manage 'The Shining' all by myself yet. Boogeyman was not as scary as I thought it to be. It was all about confronting your fear. I liked the shots, well detailed and artistic. I usually like Sam Raimi's productions. My first kiss of fear was from Evil Dead. Ewww.
The 39 steps (1935) with homemade samosas and gulab jamuns. Hitchcock's depiction of a man and woman being tied in handcuffs together - now where have I seen this copied before? The 'Memory Man' concept was ingenious and hilarious. The following day, my aunt recommended that I watch Tales of the Kamasutra 2 :Monsoon. Helen Brodie looked good. Her father is Scottish I believe. Gulshan Grover was a convincing bad man. But the director could have done a better job. Later, we watched The Scorpion King 2: Rise of a Warrior and I think Michael Copon is cute.

I had picked The Kingfisher Illustrated Animal Encyclopedia by David Burnie and Anupam shirked : What are you reading? Personally, I found it interesting. The Argonauts for example. This unusual octopus spends most of its life in open water. The female is up to 20 times bigger than the male, and she has a paper- thin, spiral shell. Unlike other mollusks, the argonaut's shell is not attached to its body - the female holds it in place with her arms. She uses her shell to protect the eggs, and once they have hatched, she will often discard it.

I didn't know that Scorpions carried their young ones on their backs (or had forgotten the fact) and that some fishes have beauty consultants in Cleaner shrimps (a swimming decapod crustacean) who eat the parasites off their bodies and have a symbiotic relations with their hosts.

The overcast clouds spoiled most of our plans to go out, except when we attended a dinner invitation on Friday and went to Wheaton Mall on Saturday. I got the Transformers Blu-ray for Anupam and the Indiana Jones series for my collection. We tried to find four leafed clover, but in vain.

I saw something my father had said to me once.
Anupam showed me the Washington Monument while driving back to the airport on Sunday. Later, I recognized the obelisk in an Indiana Jones movie. Just like most movie makers show the Boston skyline with Prudential and the John Hancock towers to convince the audience.


Andy had recommended the Holocaust Museum but the rifle-wielding James von Brunn, an 88-year-old white supremacist from Maryland, fatally shooting a security guard marred our plans.( Apparently, he is a known Holocaust denier who created an anti-Semitic Web site called "The Holy Western Empire" and has repeatedly claimed that "The Diary of Anne Frank," is a hoax.)

I can't complain. I wanted some rest. Mashi and I bonded over some manicure. Anupam made a Transformers wallpaper and showed me the E3 2009 Batman Arkham Asylum demo.

I saw Anirban playing XBox online mostly. He has grown his hair and his back looks exactly like SG. We made a joke of it. Poor kid had fever when I left them. The Wasabi sauce with sushi cured me of my cold. I hope it helped him too. And the Jamaican Habanero sauce with shrimp and vegetables spaghetti was heavenly.

My flight on Sunday got delayed owing to inclement weather in Boston. It was a good break, but I was pining to be back. My roommate picked me from the airport after being chased twice by the traffic control. SG joined us for dinner at The Kebab Factory.

The following morning I had my weekly meeting. But I felt ready for it after a restful week. Last night, I made the Italian sausage recipe I had learned from my aunt. It was a hit.

Home

I'm sure every culture has a code for that one (following up on my post on 'The Culture Code' :D)

It brings to my mind a mosaic of images- Mom and Dad cooking for me, Grandma's caresses, lying on the grass lawn with my parents and watching shooting stars in the sky, Beena Didi, Ashu Kaku, my pet dog which lives no more, the treasured suitcase full of Tintin and Asterix comics under my bed, the cupboard that has all my soft toys and Barbies, the book shelves and movie collection, pictures on the wall and a myriad of other things. People and possessions.

But most of all - it means 'security'. In my childhood, however, I detested the idea of being driven around everywhere I wanted to go or have a home guard trail me everytime I stepped out of my house. Probably, an aftermath of a kidnapping attempt on me and my elder bro when we were kids. I wanted to explore the world on my own. See the colors and sights, try to sense what's good or bad myself.

When my parents came to drop me off at my hostel for my undergrads, I was excited. But then my cousin brother (Misti Da), who was residing in Delhi at that time, said: 'Don't worry, we'll be there if you need us.' It was antithetical. I knew I wouldn't be seeing my parents for a while. I had not taken this into account ! It was a beginning and an end.

Sometimes, kids start living outside their homes earlier or later than I had. Nothing new. My point is - most of you know how it feels to be away from home and probably attach a different meaning to 'home' now. It might not mean what it meant before. For better or for worse.

Growing up the way I am, being 'homesick' is considered a repugnant weakness or the aftermath of illness or inability. My mother always told me success stories which inevitably ended : '...and then he went to live there* (variable) and is doing great professionally.' Fairy tales were my own vicious indulgence. I don't remember my parents ever buying me Cinderella or Snow-white. Little Red Riding Hood - maybe.

So, when your éclat is judged on the magnitude of your well-being away from your home, it becomes a little embarrassing to admit how much you miss 'home' at times. Or the home you had as a child (contrasted with the possibility of your owning one yourself )

Anyways, all that rambling spurred from the likelihood of my going home this December. A toast everyone, to home, sweet home.

In her shoes

Image courtesy: Ashley Bell

I have a cousin sister (the daughter of my paternal aunt), elder to me by nine months. She was called Sejhdibhai, a title typical for the third eldest girl in an extended Bengali family.

When we were growing up, we were inseparable. So much so that my Grandpa called us twins and gave us the names Jaya-Bijaya, other than our own assortments of already earned sobriquets.

I don't know how it happened, maybe it was a secret I told her not to share with anyone. Maybe it was the differences in perceptions we began to develop around puberty. We got busy with our own lives- me primarily with my school grades.

I wasn't her partner in dancing school anymore 'cause I stuck to taking private tuitions for my Hindustani Classical Vocal instead. And so the weekend meetings at Kalatirtho, the dancing school, became infrequent too. Though I made it a point to watch her perform on stage even if I weren't participating during cultural fests and Ponchisey Baisakh (Gurudev's birthday) celebrations. My favorite was dancing to the Tagore song "Aaj dhaaner khete rodro-chhayay luko churir khela" with her.

After my ICSE, we went out together to one of her very close pal's pad, and she declared proudly about me: The lowest she has scored in an subject is 80%. I remember meeting her next during two family tragedies- when her father died and our grandfather passed away. Her strength during both occasions were exemplary.

I met her once in Bangalore during her undergraduate days. I was in North India, while she was in the South. And it was rare that we went home on vacations concurrently. Over the years, we only grew apart and out of touch. Often I missed her active presence in my life. The secrets we shared, the jokes we made, we had even got my favorite doll married to her favorite teddy bear !

Sometimes, I wonder how it would be to meet her after all these years. I heard she is going to get married this November. And, as usual, I won't be able to attend it. I'd be busy wrapping up a semester then.

I guess my greatest strengths and my greatest weaknesses are people. They say life is all about the connections we make. It's also about the ones we lose on our way.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Happy Anniversary
Your happiness together means "home" to us.
Here's wishing you both years of togetherness and joy to those who behold you.

Values

When I was in high school, I had a heated debate with my Dad at the dinner table and it proved to be more than the regular table talk we used to have. I don't remember how it started but when I opined that attaining success -by any means - is the raison d'etre of my life, he expressed his views that values are as important as success is. And the whole concept of : 'the right path with the right motivation' competed with Mom's deliciously cooked dishes to fill in our mouths.

Years later, in retrospect I feel that he was right. It is not just enough to be happy. You should be happy for the right reason. I am not ashamed to say that I thought that being vindictive gives you a sense of power. And for that reason , I never forgave. In fact, so abashed I have made someone with my verbal assault that he alleged I have paid back more than he could have ever wronged me.

Now I think it is time to let go. Maybe it does feed your ego for a while, but a revengeful attitude starts gnawing into your mental peace soon. It has an infinite appetite; it's better not to indulge in the starters and let it starve to death. However, I also feel that you need to have that "Don't mess with me !" expression on you so that people don't take advantage of your vulnerability. If they can't locate it, they can't exploit it.. right?

Wrong. Your close ones would know your weaknesses and yet, never try to manipulate them to gain an edge over you. I am talking of the closest circle in Set A

So, is the key to let your hair loose and be yourself with your inner circle and wear a mask of professionalism/ armor of strength when you are out in the big bad world? Maybe.Maybe not. I have recently earned the name of a "tough nut" (Dada), "hard heart" (Ma) etc from the members of my family. The veracity of the statements have yet to be verified by Dad. But I guess that it is what he always wanted me to be. TOUGH.

I cry less. ( Doesn't count that I wept while watching "Happy Feet" yesterday. Now, how dumb is that ?) I mean I cry less when people don't do what I expect them to. Somehow, I have begin to respect the differences and that has given me a quiet inner peace. I know I am human and I have my flaws, my negative biases, even prejudices. But I am glad that I don't limit myself to them . I let the shackle break free when I am proved wrong.

For example, the derogatory term ABCD (American Born Confused Desi) is applied to the second generation kids of Indian origin, born as US citizen who have a different accent and taste for food/music/attire/anything you can think of. The general idea is that they are confused about their identity and are not aware of their own roots.But I have seen even first generation Indians turning either an assimilationist or an atavist to survive. It's natural - isn't it?

I am in Maryland with my maternal aunt for my Christmas and you can call my two cousin brothers (Age 13 & 14) ABCD if you want to. But I beg to differ. Last night, when I was doing the dishes, my aunt kept insisting that I shouldn't move a limb and stay put and enjoy my vacation. But I know how difficult it is to manage the domestic chores all by yourself. Ok, answer this question: #How much should men contribute in household work in a country like US where domestic help is not easy to get? ( I need statistics to prove a point, so please reply :D )

I stove her out of the kitchen for a while and did what I could to help. The younger cousin came over and teased: You are disrespecting your elder (by defying her). And I winked :Aren't you? (by questioning me? ) And we both laughed. I felt glad that they were not alien to the values I had inculcated myself while growing up. It has nothing to do with the geographical location, or the differences of breeding, or in being brought up in a different environment. The kids here are as respectful and probably more polite than they are back home. I think I will have a word to say when someone uses the term ABCD to mean NRI kids.
*****
Quote of the Day:
Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power.
-Lao Tzu

Ayushman Bhava

Meaning "long live ", is a Sanskrit phrase often uttered by elders in Bengali Hindu culture, when they bless the young ones. I recollect that on every birthday or religious festival or upon the  declaration of my exam results, I'd run to my paternal grandparents to touch their feet in reverence. ( Called pronam in Bangla. I lost my maternal grandparents early, so I don't have many memories with them.)

My now late paternal Grandpa (Thakurda) would insist that I be adorned with "Dhaan-Durba" ( grains of rice with the seed coat and a type of grass )while he closed his eyes in prayers for my well being. I liked that so much that when my other cousins hurried to brush off their hair of the yellow and green bits, I'd let those stay on, pretend that I didn't notice, and let out an Oscar-winning "Oh!", when any of them pointed out "Hey you still got bits on your hair!"

It made me feel special. It made me feel cared for and blessed. I wanted to keep it with me as long as I could.

One day I asked my Grandpa the significance of using the combination. He opined that the grains and the grass signified prosperity and health, respectively. The age old idea of "Gola bhora dhaan"= "barn full of grain" represents affluence; and that special grass has the amazing capacity to regenerate even after a house and its lawn have been completely destroyed by fire. So, when elders wish for our long lives by pronouncing "Ayushman Bhava" (or "Ayushmati Bhava" while blessing a female child), they also wish us a life of prosperity and health along with longevity. Maybe I treasured those bits because I knew what it meant while most of my other cousins didn't.

The last time I got dhaan-dubba was when I went home to visit my family before coming over to Boston. My grandma said that I wouldn't be in India by the time my birthday arrived (14th September), so she wanted to give me blessings and some INR ( I still have that money in my bag ). This little rite is something that is probably going to die out with time. And I don't know, several years later if I try to put grain and grass on my kids' heads, maybe they'll think "Mom is crazy" or file a case for harassment. Maybe not.

Whatever, back to present. I was walking to school when I saw the snow melting on the lawn and the green grass still thriving beneath the sheets of ice, and it all came back to me.
*****
This post comes at the wake of an unfortunate event when an oil tanker truck blew up in Everett. One of the houses destroyed was Carol's - a MGT671 classmate of mine, who has lost all her possessions. It makes it even more difficult with the semester end approaching. I'd probably try to take out my passport, credentials and my laptop with all my assignments in case of a fire emergency- whether I manage to take out a coat at -13 degree C or not.

I request anyone reading this post thus far to take a moment to wish her strength and courage to ease her through this trying times. I might/might not believe in God the way most people do, but I definitely believe in the great strength of will.

I have grown up near a commercial center and have seen two major fire incidents where I witnessed some people lose everything. One of the women crying like an insane person on the street was a mother who had saved all the gold ornaments in her shop for her daughter's wedding the following day. Some slaves can be real bad masters.

Sweet November

Itni shiddat se tumhe paane ki koshish ki hai-
ki harr zarre ne mujhe tumse milane ki saazish ki hai

Take 2:
Ladies and gentlemen,
Kehte hai agar kisi cheez to dil se chaaho to poori qayenat usey tumse milane mein lag jaati hai.

Humari filmon ki tarah, humari jindagi mein bhi end tak sab kuch theek hi ho jaata hai.Aur agar theek na ho to woh "The end" nahi.
Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost!

Ok I watched Om Shanti Om again. So what? Even if it meant sending my mind to graze grass- once more. But I had an occasion. I met Dada almost after one and a half years on the Thanksgiving weekend in Boston. I had last seen him in May 2006 in Noida, when he was about to leave for Pittsburgh.

PR (my roomate) had not watched it either, and we had made a pact that we would watch it together. But I cheated and watched it online last weekend. So, PR , her boyfriend VR (who had come over for the weekend too), Dada and me went out last Saturday to catch the flick at Capitol (Massachusetts Ave. Arlington, MA 02474) It was a neat 30 minutes drive from South Boston. I don't think it would have taken less than 45 minutes had we been in India.

I am so much used to multiplexes, that the hall looked disappointingly old. But then I decided to think of it as the "old age charm" that is intrinsic to the city. Even the red bricks of Harvard emanate it. Nothing justifies the parallelism with ivy plants better.

Believe it or not- I saw Harvard Square for the first time at night and had decent Indian food at The Bombay Club ( recommended). In short, the weekend was a typical Bollywood masala movie with an array of emotions hitting us folks :D

Wednesday:
Dada asked if I would be free this weekend and I replied in affirmative. He reached Logan airport around 10:30pm and reached home by 11:05 pm and we spend talking almost the rest of the night trying to catch up with what we had missed.

Thursday:
I decided to start with the Skywalk at Prudential Center, where you can have a bird's eye-view of the whole city and then decide upon where to go next. We had a turkey lunch for Thanksgiving and met an Indophile couple.

In the evening we met up with one of Dada's old school pals.

Friday:
I showed him around the Emerald Necklace.

Saturday:
We got out to the Bayside near my residence and I clicked some matrimonial ad-worthy photographs of Bro.

Sample :


Specially, with the ultimatum from my parents that he has just an year's time to find someone of his choice or else they will start looking for him :D

Btw, he looks more like Dad now, doesn't he? Though we have both got Mom's dimpled chin :) Quite a good looking family , eh? :D


Here's another facet of Mr. Amitabha Kar for you. Did I mention that one of my classmates had a big time crush on him ? :P (Sorry for embarrassing you in public Dad . I know you are blushing right now. Hee hee )

Went to Central Square for lunch at a Bengali restaurant and to Massachusetts Avenue in the evening.

Sunday:
Lazed about in the afternoon, honestly tired. I tried to work on my pending project report but had to cook for one of Dada's friends who was coming over for dinner. Dada helped with chopping the vegetables for fried rice and in creating an ambiance by playing songs . Recently, he has a surge of writing Shayeris. I want to locate the inspiration. Any clues?

Monday:
Woke up at 2 AM to work on the report which was giving me nightmares. If I am dreaming about it, it IS serious.

Bro will be leaving in a while. Don't know when I am going to meet him again. Maybe in December for Christmas at my aunt's place in DC. I'm glad to have a sibling to create memories with.

We have both changed in our own ways. I found him to be more care-free, more jovial and he observed that I have matured a lot, have become less expressive of my emotions maybe. Honestly, I feel I have become more like him and he has become more like my previous self.And since the growth was in vectorial opposite directions, the changes seem greater in magnitude from our present reference frames.

PR couldn't believe he is my elder bro 'cause of the way I boss over him all the time and try to micro manage things. But he understands that it is engendered out of the fact that I expect nothing less than perfection from him.

Thanks Dada, Pu and Viv for the great weekend.:)

P.S Btw, have you noticed how those lines from OSO are so eerily similar to
When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it from Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist ?

Everyone deserves to find his/her happy ending.
All the best.

The Color Purple

The post title is a namesake of an acclaimed 1982 epistolary novel by American author Alice Walker that won the 1983 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the National Book Award. Later, it was adapted into a film and a Broadway musical.

I was reading the synopsis of the story last night and today I received a forward from my father of an article in Boston Globe. Sometimes, it makes me feel glad that I am from a family which has given me ample opportunity for my education and has not treated me like some second class citizen.

During the final year of my undergrad, a family friend, who was about the age of my father and had equivalent social status, ( the mark of broad mindedness for the naive like the "then" me) asked me what do I intend to do after my college. I intimated: I want to work for a while before I study further. And I want to travel. See places. Meet people. Their customs, attire, food. I want to live it. He casually remarked: Aar porashona kore ki korbi? Ekhon biye tiye korr. ( What is the point of studying further? Get married now.) His vested interest was his marriageable elder son who had just cleared an entrance for the judiciary system and had a stable career ahead. He was looking for a bride. He admired me a lot. My family knew about it. But I felt scandalized. I had a very high opinion about that man until that day. If he really wanted me to be a part of his family, he should have waited for some years until I was ready, instead of trying to mutilate my growth . Like some fathers do- for cultural , religious , and purely non-medical reasons.

FGM was an unknown concept to me till yesterday, when I decided to browse through the story of The Color Purple in Wikipedia. By the time I got reading to Type III FGC , I was so sick to my stomach that I wanted to puke. The ancient Chinese practice of foot binding was equally cruel.

My intent is not to shock and awe. Or to transform the usually "responsible" content of THE VARIEGATED SKY into a sibling of a shock site. I'll probably get back to sipping coffee and preparing case studies after this. But I wanted to say what I felt. And I don't care if I am labeled a Feminist henceforth. The term itself is unfair. It should be an "Equalist". Feminist makes it sound as if we are trying to give women a status they do not deserve. Even some of the "great" minds at work believe it is charity they are doing. And in their modesty lies the silent pride that it is their greatness that makes them work for the social cause, not the necessity. (How lame is that? )

We might have come a long way since 4 December 1829, when Sati was formally banned in Bengal by Lord William Bentinck. Raja Rammohan Roy might not live today to campaign against the practice but it hasn't stopped burning alive of women. Oh , they don't do it on funeral pyres nowadays. When I was residing in NCR, I often came across articles like this. Made me wonder where I was living.

But I don't blame the society. Because I am a part of it. Some days back when I was walking to school, I saw a bully thrashing a small young boy. The kid lay writhing in pain on the pavement while the big boy stamped his wrist under his feet. It was so horrible that I wanted to stop it at once. But 1) I did not know if it was happening under parental observation and the parents thought it was a healthy way to play 2) I knew the kid had to get up himself and hit back if he wanted some dignity in his life. I could hear his cries a long way down the walk, and I thought to myself: You will grow up to be a strong man or you won't ever grow up at all.

What I mean by narrating this random incident is that it is the rule of nature. The strong feed on the weak. You either grow to be stronger or you perish. If women want respect, they will have to earn it. They won't be given alms.

Education, empowerment, financial independence- are the three first crucial steps. Then comes sexual liberty- the right to say no.
Many women tolerate domestic violence because they are not able enough to support their children of their own and would prefer to lead a degraded existence than see their kids suffer or their daughters be subjected to the same atrocities when they grow up fatherless.

If only these women had means to support themselves and run a family. Or made a choice to do so. That reminds of a real life incident. She was a small town girl from India who grew up in reasonable comfort. After two elder brothers, she was the only daughter. She had an arranged marriage soon after she had her Bachelor's degree to a guy who was "working in America", from the same town. The emphasis on "working in America" was so great that the parents of the bride did not check on the guy's background. Who turned out to be a big time drunkard and gambler. She started working to pay the bills. The woman had two sons with him. One fine day, she decided she had enough and left him. They are now separated. Not legally divorced. Every one back home knows they are happily married.

I respect her for her strength to go on herself, being a single mother, and not going back to her folks for help. Even if she did, she would have probably been turned away in fear of "lok-lajja". She might not be the ideal woman for me. But she made a choice. And that makes me look up to her.

I'm not a commitmentphobe or a man hater. But I definitely know when a man does or does not respect me. If I ever exercise my right to choose a life partner, I will go for a man , who more than anything else is a good human being and does not take me for granted. It might have nothing to do with the Feminist Movement but I will save at least one life. Mine.

The original book cover. Publisher: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich

Travelogue: How green is my valley - II

This is a travel log of my trip to North Tripura with my parents.


Day 1:



“Sorry, there’s no weighing machine”
The Sub-Inspector of Central Industrial Security Force (CISF) at the entrance to the Agartala airport looked at our helicopter tickets, then at my parents and me. He was very thoughtful, scratching his chin and obviously very confused. My dad watched him for a minute or so and asked him, ‘Aisa ticket pehle dekha nahi hai kya?’ The fellow admitted that he never saw such a ticket during his last three months tenure at Agartala airport. ‘Understandable, as no minister or a VIP might have used the chopper during the last three months for a visit to the interior areas of the State’, Dad said. An old hand of the CISF came to our rescue and asked the Sub-inspector to let us in.

We entered the airport departure lounge and sought out the reporting kiosk. Not a soul was near the check-in counter. When we decided to have some tea, the transport department guy (TDG) responsible to see us off turned up and our conversation went like this:

TDG: How old are you people?
We told our age.
TDG: How much do each of you weigh?
Dad: I am 56 kgs, my wife and daughter are 70 kgs each.
Mom and I protested vehemently and asked in unison: Do you have a weighing machine?
TDG: No. Those people (he gestured at Indian, Kingfisher, Jet, Deccan Air, Indigo counters) have weighing machines.
Dad: Why do you need to know our weights and how will you know that we are telling the truth?
TDG: This helicopter for five passengers can take only 500 kgs and the pilot will take fuel proportionate to your weights. You are allowed only 10 kgs of luggage per person.
Anyways, the TDG did not want to annoy two ladies at the same time and put our weights at 60 kgs each.

Immediately after the chopper took off I realised the beauty I had been missing these many days. I will let the photographs taken from the chopper do the talking. Though they will do no justice to what I saw or how I felt. My camera was only 1.5 Megapixels and already 10 years old. Next time, I’ll make sure I have a better digital eye.

One curious thing I noticed on reaching our destination, Kailashahar airport, was the plenitude of ruminants . A small patch of concrete is sufficient for a chopper to land but needs some dough to call it a “runway” and make planes land. On the day of our departure, the SDPO (Sub-Divisional Police Officer) informed us that the government intended to make some investments and equip the airport to capacitate the landing of some ATR planes, at least.

Three men in a boat
The flight took us 40 mins and while we were being driven to the Circuit House, Dad and me stated our own logic why the better pictures were the ones taken by each of us. I told him that the cliff was taken by me and the following pics had him looking out of the window-then the pics in between had to be mine. He surrendered saying that “OK. These are yours” but later showed me my pics and said :”Of course, and these were taken on self-timer mode? Huh?” And the war still goes on.

In the late afternoon, when Dad was through with his work, we visited my maternal uncle and aunt who suggested that we should go cross country for a little known man-made lake called Khaorabil which supplies all the fish required for the district headquarters town. So, at about 5 pm, we started our journey to the lake. We came across border fencing between Bangladesh and India. Such border fencings - 150 yards from the zero line and inside India - have been erected at many places of the Indo-Bangladesh international border. The Indians residing on the other side of the fencing have their own chronicles of woes to tell but that is another story.

By the time we reached Khaorabil it was dusk. We visited a temple and crossed a small canal by a dingy of a local fisherman. As we moved toward the lake, we located three kids in a boat, happily singing and returning home after a good catch of small fishes. My Mamaji paid for the half of their catch and kept on advertising the freshness and food value of the small fishes found in Khaorabil and invited us over for lunch the following day. The walking along the banks of the lake became more and more difficult with the road becoming bumpy. By the time we came back to our car, it was pitch dark and we were breathing fast and in need of some cold water.

Day 2


Ten million minus one ( plus one? )
We intended to visit Unakoti, a Shaiva pilgrimage dating back to 9th century A.D. and reached there accompanied by a drizzle. The rock carvings, murals with a primitive beauty and a waterfall reminded me of the scenes in Tomb Raider III.

Unakoti means one less than a crore (ten million). As per Hindu mythology, Lord Shiva was going to Varanasi and made his sojourn here. He asked all the gods and goddesses to rise before dawn and advance towards Varanasi. In the morning no gods and goddesses could wake up. An angry Shiva cursed all the gods and goddesses to become stone statues.

A statue of Shiva and a plaque by the Archaeological Survey of India are the first things you notice on reaching Unakoti. The plaque reads:
‘Nestling in a lush green valley, Unakoti means one less than a crore (and) is an exaggeration of the colossal representation of Shiva in varied forms along with other gods and goddesses those carved in bas relief on the face of hillock. These bas relief sculptures of Shiva depicting only faces may be considered the largest in size in India. The art style differs from the classical and depicts typical tribal features both in decoration and anatomy, in fact, makes these as unique. The three rock-cut Ganesha figures fall down stream of a local spring which flows right on their heads gives a bathing scene effect.

The highly mutilated loose sculptures, some temple architectural members and traces of brick temple on the top of the hillock indicate an existence of a temple perhaps prior to these rock carvings databale to 9th-10th century A.D. on the basis of the Chaturmukha and Ekmukha Lingas, Uma-Maheshwara, Mahisasurmardini, Ganesha etc besides some Vaishnavite cults attest this valley as one of the Shaivite centers flourishing during the Pala rule which must have influenced the great rock cut carvings, in due course in this region datable to 11th- 12th century A.D. Thus Unakoti was the greatest center for religious activities that flourished at least for more than three centuries.’(Sic).
So, I got answer to my question - With Shiva’s statue in Unakoti how can there be one-less-than-a-crore statues? There are not one-minus-ten-million statues – with or without the statue of Lord Shiva.

Day 3


The Spiderman in a tea estate
It was Ratha Yatra day and the sky was threatening us with a heavy downpour from the morning. We set off for Manu Valley Tea Estate, only 5 kms from Kailashahar. I had never seen processing of a bud and two leaves (duti paata, ekti koori), though I had seen a lot of tea gardens in my early childhood.

When we reached Manu Valley we were welcomed by Mr. Asim Das, the manager of the estate and his wife Mrs. Bharati Das. Their eight-year old grandson, Tuhin was visiting them for his vacations, and had a plastered bandage on his right hand. Mr. and Mrs. Das offered to show us around after we had a very refreshing cool drink called well-you-may-name-it-anything as I forgot to ask her the name of the drink.

The couple showed us around, the minute details of turning tons of two leaves and a bud into tea granules – right from step one where fresh tea leaves are put in bags that carry them to dehumidifier trays. Later, the tea leaves are dried, cut-torn-and-crushed, roasted and separated as per the sizes of granules. The dust tea coming from the leaves gives a strong liquor (remember 200 mile-wala chai in some dhabas on GT road?) whereas the bigger granules give lighter tea liquor.

On our way back for a cup of tea (narrated in a modest manner by Bharati but it was high tea) I became quite friendly with Tuhin and asked him, ‘How did you break your right hand?’ Tuhin replied nonchalantly, ‘Oh that was nothing. I just stood up on a stool and fell down.’ It was later when we were having high tea that Tuhin’s grandpa came out with the real story. Tuhin believed he could be the Spiderman and was just trying to change space but time did not agree with his calculations.

OK, here’s the recipe for the cool drink (let me call it "Planter’s Delight"):
Have a bottle of tea liquor (do not add sugar or anything else) chilled. The shelf life of the liquor in the fridge is about 15 days.

In a tall glass tumbler add sugar, salt, jal-jeera, lemon juice to taste. Add the chilled tea liquor and serve chilled. You may add ice cubes and all the nakhras of putting sugar powder on the tumbler rim, a mint leaf on top and a sliced lemon if you like.

Day 4
The return journey was almost eventless except for mom having a flight fright when the chopper was caught in a thunderstorm and the pilot kept flying in orbit. When we landed at Agartala airport, it was still pouring heavily. Mom was stiff with fear and she had a tale to tell for many days to come how we got saved from nischit mrityu (certain death). Dad and I were a little disappointed though, we had already started imagining an adventure where the pilot would have to land in the wilderness and we would have to fight for survival for a few days until a rescue team found us wandering on the hills. Well, there's always a next time :)

How green is my valley?

I was still rubbing my eyes when Mom woke me up on Sunday morning. I told her sleepily: Ma! I woke up at 4:30 in the morning today! She smiled and said: But you went back to sleep again honey I tried to get cute and cuddle up to her so that she would let me sleep a little longer. But she is my Mom. So she kissed me and ushered me to have a bath. My maternal aunt ( my mom's eldest sister) and her family were coming over. We had planned a trip to Tripureshwari Temple, Udaipur about 57 kms from Agartala, the capital of Tripura.

It is one of the 51 pithasthans (a shrine or sacred place of worship). According to Hindu mythology, when Lord Shiva -the destroyer, enraged by the death of his beloved wife Sati, started his tandav nritya,carrying the corpse on his shoulders, Lord Vishnu- the protector directed his Sudarshan Chakra to cut the body into pieces so that the creation ( shristi )could be saved. The 51 pieces fell on earth and each one became a pithasthan . It is said that the right foot fell where Tripureshwari temple is. So much for myth, it is worth visiting just for the sake of reviving old memories. I make it a point to visit the temple every time I come home.

Back to scene 1. I don't think I could see clearly even after the bath. Mom insisted I wear a saree as I am accustomed to when I visit a temple. Lesson 1# for the day: always tie you own saree. I was running late, so my aunts came to my aid and wrapped it around me. I don't pin a gorgette in the fear that I will ruin it. When I was ready and about to leave- the other members of the trip, which included both my maternal aunts, mesho ( my eldest aunt's husband), my favorite cousin , his newly wedded bride, her parents and her cousin sister were waiting to see me at the dining space. I had a severe wardrobe malfunction and my pallu almost fell off  when my Mejo mashi came to my aid and saved the situation. I thought to myself, gritting my teeth- I should have worn a cargo.

Anyways , the rest of the journey was almost eventless. By the time we reached, it was 11 am. the time for bali or sacrifice had begun. I wanted to take a few snaps of the ritual but the I thought I could save my readers the bloodshed.


(to be continued)
Next on my itinerary are (1) the rock cuts and stone carvings of Tripura at Unakoti, which is about 178 kms from Agartala, and 8 kms from Kailashahar and (2) Ujyanta Palace.

You can read more about the temple and its history here

The ones always there

It was a comment on one of Shashi's posts. I took his advice and penned it down in my blog too:

Some days ago I saw a curious thing when I was waiting for my father at the airport while his flight got delayed by 45 mins. A kid came running to the arms of his father and was trying to hang down from his shoulder and touch the father’s laptop case. Both were giggling and unmindful when a chain of trolley came in being pushed by an airport staff. The father raised the child as far as he could so it wouldn’t get hurt and the trolleys hit the father's legs. It must have hurt him a lot but he didn’t flinch and he kept holding the child at a safe distance.

I was watching sideways. When the kid turned to show his full face, to my horror I saw that his left side was fully burnt and his left eye was damaged too. I thought of fire crackers or something. The kid was very naughty and had a pretty face on his right. And the father-son duo made a wonderful scene together.However, when I saw the entire face, I was filled with pity.

Our parents are like that. We all have scars that only they know about , yet they love us for what we are. And they try to protect us and keep us happy, warm and safe.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

And here's one of your favorite Dilbert strips.

I know you had a tiring journey yesterday and your luggage flew to Patna instead of Delhi-Kolkata-Agartala. I'll pray for your bottle of Worcestershire sauce and Caesar salad dressing to be healthy after the little adventure :D

You kept saying to yourself “Happy Father’s Day” as a pacifier . I hope it helped.
Because when the going gets tough, I try to conjure snapshots in my mind to make myself happy and it works.

Sometimes I wish I had more memories with you from my childhood. But Mom used to say that I’ve to pay a price for being your daughter. I believed her. We couldn’t ask you to be less than what you are.

I often wonder if my guy will be as caring and affectionate. And it’s not because of the splendid tea you wake me up with very morning or because you wipe my tears with your handkerchief ( to check how active my lachrymal glands still are :P ) or because you let me hold your forefinger like a little baby learning to walk when we go out together. It’s so much more than I can ever say.

I want to get to have a holiday with you and Mom soon. A real family vacation. With lots of cooking and mess in the kitchen. Cards, classic movies, a few family get together, jogging and gym in the morning, my calling you up at office in the evening to get home early and a little scotch :P ( I’m allowed now, ain’t I? )

I understood what family really means after I was seceded from it for my education, job, etc etc. Now I want to come home for a while before I leave again- further ahead with my journey.

********

Dene wala jab bhi deta , deta chappar phad k…
True.. Par baaki time kanjoosi kyu karta hai yaar?

It is a profile that I’d have given my right hand for- had it been offered to me a few months back. But I am in a dilemma. My chances of joining my MBA this Fall are strong.

Bro was furious at me for not having applied to the university of his choice. I think he still deems me a little kid. I love his possessiveness but I also want to prove that I’m grown up enough to make a few decisions myself.

Honestly, it is not considered very wise to apply to only one university. People believe in diversified investments. But I had other ideas about my admissions. I thought if I want to get admitted this year, my score should be good enough to get me through "the one" university of my choice. If I don’t, I can always apply to the other universities next year. My GMAT score will be valid ,plus I’ll have more job experience.

But it’s also imperative that I begin my classes ASAP. No matter what I decide to do, I’ll let you know. Right now? Life’s Good.

A suitable girl-II

I imagined Mom saying to Dad, “ I told you we should get him married off before he leaves for the States to study. At least we should have gotten him engaged to a nice Bengali girl”. And Dad giving his characteristic what-will-be-will-be look and turning the pages of the newspaper as if nothing happened.

I got rid of the idea and glanced again at the picture that bro had mailed me. He was holding his girlfriend in it. They looked so happy together that I almost forgot about the impending disaster- namely, what if my parents found out that their only son is dating a Chinese girl. Or as a matter of fact, any girl of Non-Indian origin.

I debated whether to be a dutiful daughter and let my parents know about it immediately or to be a devoted sister and wait for bro to tell it himself. Then, I saw the mail addressee. It had Dad’s email id too. I considered it safe to call home and ask how they felt about it.

Tring-tring. Mom picked. There is no necessity of any sort of preamble with this person at least. “Hey Ma, did you know about Dada’s girlfriend?” She was pretty cool about it. And she said that he had told her about it. Now it was my turn to feel hurt. And he did not tell me! Hmmph.

I thought Mom was the more prejudiced among the two, but I found Dad to be more conservative. “Is he serious?” Honestly, I did not know. And how did it matter even if he is? Mom opined that she is happy as long as her kids are happy. And she believes that they know what they want for their happiness. I smiled to myself.

Later, when bro got online, I asked him : What is her name? What does she do?
The usual stuff. He asked if Dad had seen the picture as well. I replied in negative. But I made the weather forecast above the abode of the Kars presently. Cloudy. Windy. Expected turbulence from an unexpected quarter. He laughed.

Then obviously, my very younger sisterly attitude: Tui amaay agey bolish ni! (You didn’t tell me before!). And he laughed again. I was trying to get the details of the relationship when he suggested I should get a Russian boyfriend for myself.

Me: Russian? I can manage to speak some German but Russian?
Bro: Ok. French then? They are passionate lovers. I will support you in your decision. Don’t worry. I giggled at the serious concern of my sibling over the abilities of my better half. Then I said- Thank you for your generous offer. But I am very happy with my present state of things.
He must have felt disheartened by my lack of ambition and adventure in case of personal affairs. But I think my parents have enough to worry about already. :D

My best friend is..

Any guesses?
No points for those who know me personally- they know it aright.
It was almost an year since I last saw her. Ever realized how every second passes with great difficulty when you are awaiting someone? The clock almost refuses to move. Time seems to be frozen still and you wait with all eagerness for the moment when you can see that person again.
I was at the arrival lounge of Delhi Airport, expecting a certain flight from Kolkata to land, and for her to alight. I saw a celebrity walk past me, but my attention was focused on the conveyor belts to see which one would carry the luggage from home. And then I saw the distinct outline of the woman I love most in this world. The tears brimming in my eyes were the expression of a plethora of opposing emotions I was feeling inside- of longing and of getting, of missing and of meeting again. I held her in a tight embrace like a child clings to its mother. And I was feeling like a baby again.

She means "home" to me. A place that will take you back, no matter what. She is my refuge and yet my strength. She believes in confronting what she fears the most and she has taught me to do the same.

She means a unique flowery smell, the duplication of which I have not found yet. As a child, I would dig my nose into her clothes when she went out for work, just to feel her proximity. This is how I went to sleep in the afternoon after I came home from school .

Like every other emotionally insecure teenager I had problem accepting the changes in myself. She was the one who made me see the beauty in me. As she does in everybody around her.

I don't remember her hollering ever. When she gets angry, she doesn't lash out. She just clams up like an oyster. And that is what I fear the most. Her silence. It is more deafening than any rebuke I can anticipate. Every time I have been at fault, I have expected her to reprimand me, but she has answered me with quietude. Completely ignoring the fact that I have gone wrong somewhere. She prefers to say how things would have been easier if I had done the right thing, so I can analyze the situations myself. Her pet refrain then is " Nera beltolay jaay kobaar?" , meaning "How many time does the bald venture under a bel tree? The answer is Nera beltolay ekbar e jaay ! (He goes only once i.e makes the mistake only once) And I swear to make a new mistake the next time.

She also means patali goor-er payesh. Her sweetness is like my favorite rice pudding she makes for me. She is like the spring flower she offers to the deity in prayer. She is like the incense stick that doesn't make a screaming entrance but leaves a lingering fragrance even when it is extinguished.

Over the years I have learned to appreciate the words from a lullaby ..."Kiser maashi-kiser pishi, kiser Brindabon? Chotur dikey cheye dekho Ma boro dhonn" ( Something to the effect of.. "even Brindavan is nothing compared to a mother" )

I had conceived the idea to write this post on Mother's Day (US- 2nd Sunday of May), but then I thought- a bond such as this need not be celebrated on a restricted date.
Love you Ma

Holi khele Digambar...

Digambar refers to Lord Shiva, and literally means "space clad" or "one who wears the directions" ,id est, without clothes. (Pitambar on the other hand means one who wears yellow(pit or peet) clothes (ambar), and refers to Lord Krishna.)

I remember watching the song (Holi khele Digambar...) on TV which was being telecast live from Varanasi (also known as Banaras or Kashi), the nerve centre of Hindutwa in North India.

I was listening to the entrancing song describing how Lord Shiva plays Holi with his companions and followers- the bhoots and pisachs when suddenly I found everyone ( Uncle, Aunty, Dida, Didi) looking at me. I realized I was drowsing while sitting on the sofa!

Lesson learnt: Never underestimate the power of bhaang

It is a drink or thandai made from milk, sugar, dry fruits like badaam (almonds), kaaju (cashew nuts), kismish (raisins), and spices like peppercorn and elaichi (cardamom), ( sometimes fresh/dried rose petals are added too :the Gulkand variety) The powdered buds and leaves of Cannabis gives the drink an intoxicating (in my case somniferous and laughter-inducing) effects. It all depends on the concentration.

A word of caution to the naive and curious like me: Don't have more than a glass even if it is insanely delicious.


Someone had opined- "Holi is a festival for hooligans." I don't recollect resorting to Hooliganism while playing Holi except once. It was in 2005- and I was playing it with my Jija ji ( Cousin sister's husband: I call him Dadai) and we played so long that I ran out of colors. I decided to take out eggs from the fridge and I broke them on his head. He was cool about it but when I said I was going to work up some mud from a puddle, he gave up , raised his hands and said :"I surrender"

Last year, on Holi I was stranded at Dumdum airport and we were coming back to Delhi after Bro's visa interview at Kolkata. So it was colorless. I thought this year wouldn't be any different. Only if I knew....

I went out to my TM's (Deepika Ganguly) place with a colleague where she treated us to the special Holi gujiyas and then asked her husband to offer us "bhaang". An elderly gentleman volunteered to say -" Bitiya is mein bhaang hai"( "Daughter, this has bhaang in it").

I just nodded to show that I was well aware and gulped it down- one whole glass and my first time. Come on ! I was not going to let go of the opportunity. And anyways I was not driving :P
Then we went to Rahul Da and Emon di's place where we were invited for lunch. It always bothers me how to address them. She is related to me : she is my mamato bonner mamato bonner mastuto bonn (don't bother).

And I know Rahul da too coz they worked in the same office in my department before marriage. I can either address them as Dada-boudi (Elder brother and sister-in-law) or Didi-jamaibabu (Sister and brother-in-law). For some reason, I choose a midway and have continued calling them Emon di (short for Didi: elder sister) and Dada (elder bro).Chuck it. It's so confusing. It's the feelings that matters.

It was fun spending the day there. The icing on the cake was Rahul da's Dida ( maternal grandmom) who reminded me of my own thakuma (paternal grandmom) when she was touching my face to feel it and bless me when I gave her a pronaam. (bending to touch the feet of elders to greet and show reverence).

All in all. It was a great day. And we cheered to Lord Shiva by screaming "Jai Bholenath ki" before drinking 2 more glasses of bhaang again after playing on the roof at Rahulda and Emondi's house.
It was wonderful to watch the newly wedded couple chasing each other to put color.

Finally, we ended up playing Holi with water. Soaking wet, a cold breeze and the sun shining bright. It was a strange combination. Dida joined us too and it was great playing with her. I loved the way she was relentless in trying to color my teeth. I kept a closed mouth and the only thing that was recognizable about me later were my teeth (see pic below). The rest of me resembled one of the Bhootnath's (another name for Shiva) followers: those ghosts.




On the roof. Can't remember why I was laughing. I only recall I just could not stop. It seems I found an angle of humor to everything. And it was one of those weirdest smiles I ever had. Hardly a care in the world. (Magnify at your own risk. I'm not going to pay for the hospital charges if you have a heart-attack)

Don't remember looking more ashen and ghostly or feeling more awesome either. That was Holi for me .. maybe for a long, long time to come. And the first and the last time I had bhaang.