Its Saturday evening and am at pits
This life is a hospital in which each sick man is possessed by the desire to change beds. One would prefer to suffer by the stove. Another believes he would recover if he sat by the window.
I think I would be happy in that place I happen not to be, and this question of moving house is the subject of a perpetual dialogue I have with my soul.
-Chatwin’s The Songlines
Am at pits now. Have tried washing the bathroom, cleaning the kitchen, talking to RJ and running, don’t seem to be going anywhere with this. I think I would be happy in that place I happen not to be.
Aparajita
I had been wide awake for a while, and it was still dark outside, actually the day had just begun to slip in, and a blue haze hung outside my window. Occasionally a car screeched by. Broke the silence. It crumpled a bit, but then settled, a little crushed under the purple sky.
Last night was new. Spoke to mom after her surgery, she cracked jokes about the hospital tea, made sprightly small talk, and then as I cried and couldn’t stop she told me about the mountain stream, ‘aparajita’, and how she crafted her way through the might of the mountains. I had heard it before, this story of the unconquerable spirit, that rises above adversity and stands tall when all have fallen. I’m sure I have repeated it to people, sometime, somewhere, and it never sounded so exhausting till last night. Why is life changing, so fast, so uncertain? I know there will be a time when this change will be well lived in, it would have eroded our discomfort and would nestle in our lives, make its own quiet space. For now however, I wish I had never woken up, and that her cancer, her surgery, and my tired, worn out brain, had all been part of a twisted night’s sleep.
I saw my mother in the morning, thanks to skype. I love the way she looks, even now amidst all this. We talked of all the trips we want to take together, my never-ending apprehensions and work-woes, my grumpy boss making techs. in the lab churn fly food on a Friday evening, the loveliest summer dresses that I had eyed last time at Macy’s before they were taken off racks for this season, the mindlessly expensive bottle of Chanel RJ had bought me recently, and how turquoise the sky looked outside, behind me.
Its night again. Outside my window, its frozen blue, but the warm glow of street lamps has melted the crumpled silence, and its fluid now, flooding the spaces, the nooks and niches. I wish it was another time, that these silences that fill my head and linger outside my window were gone. There are no faces or voices around me, none of the familiar bonhomie of Calcutta, none of mom and dad, none of the eyes and smiles, the twinkling shadows of friends who meant the world once, none of the pock-marked roads that always led home. I guess somethings can’t be shared, like silence, like your quaking heart at day-break, like dreams that keep you awake, like destiny that you craft.
I think of my life, my choices, and the obscure way ahead. And it tires me. Its dead weight. Yet in the end there is the dream, that we dreamt together, mom, dad and me and through all life’s twisted ways, there always will be, that dream to fight for, to live and die for.
A different world or a different me?
The week had zipped past. It had been the same quotidian routine of doing experiments, reading papers (research papers that is), re-doing experiments, worrying about them, being ecstatic over small successes, and mulling about every tiny failure. But then that week there also had been this teeny tiny other worry as well. My mom had discovered this painful lump in her left breast and had been advised a pre-cautionary biopsy by the doctors. I was fairly confident it was merely pre-cautionary, that my mother was fine and that this lump was just one of those freakish things that you suddenly woke up to one morning during the whole post-menstrual phase. Nevertheless I had been uneasy all week, and amidst my numerous phone calls to Calcutta, trying to calm mom’s fraying nerves, I was also trying to reign my own fears, telling myself that they were unfounded.
I don’t exactly remember the conversation I had with mom over the phone, when the reports came in, except that I was struggling with a dozen issues at work, and had expected the reports to be clean anyways. But then I heard of this ‘moderately differentiated ductal carcinoma’ and there was a lot of whizzing in my head. All there was, was noise, some from the Diwali festivities running a riot outside our home in Calcutta, yes it was Diwali the next day, some from the casual bantering of lab people here, the usual Friday euphoria tipping everbody and then there was this noise in my head.
In the weeks that followed, the noise followed me. The doctors at Calcutta had recommended surgery, one had even advised mastectomy, and ofcourse the usual cock-tail of radio and chemotherapy. I was living my worst nightmare, so far away from the people I loved, perhaps the most, too far to comfort or share, to far to protect my world back home crumbling into unrecognizable shapes. I thought all sorts of things those days, my days and nights were overcast by the black noise of my thoughts, the searing pain shooting through my mind and then there was complete numbness. Meanwhile my parents were seeking advice from doctors at the Tata Memorial Cancer Institute, Mumbai. Mom went through every conceivable type of test and scan, and oceans away, for me there was the anxiety of what the next day, and the next phone call would bring.
But strangely despite the chilling fear that enveloped my every living moment I functioned pretty normally. And a phone call later everyday I scrambled back to the peace of my humdrum research. I think I never broke down all that while except one day when I just kept welling up ceaselessly. And before that day I think I hadn’t even spoken of what had been going on with people at work, it was too painful, almost as if putting the noise into words would make everything come true and that until that, my world was secure in a shielded spot, far from the whirlpool of the noise that had gripped me and given me nightmares every waking moment.
That evening I came back from work slightly ravaged. I hated that I broke down, that I had told people about my mom, that they had sympathesized and gone back into their lives. I hated that my life was on the brink of changing forever, while people continued to live in their cosy everyday shells, that none of their lives were turned upside down and that I could do little to stem the tide threatening to change the course of my destiny. As I walked home, the scorching Fall foliage was all around me, a brilliant bonhomie of burnt red, yellow, copper and aging brown leaves cracked under my feet, there were naked branches all around, the wind hissed through them and the orphaned leaves swirled in the air and were whisked to unknown pastures. It was a queer melee. I think I got back home and left with my camera. I walked a lot that evening, clicking pictures, of trees that were wrapped in their flaming reds but would be shoarn in the next few days, of leaves that flew about aimlessly, and of the noise that was till then just within me but now all around. To be honest am surprised with myself, I think all of what happened was all I always imagined would be enough to break me and yet and yet..not quite. As I await the final answers on my mom’s tests I want to believe that there will be quiet skies beyond these rough seas and that my world is now shaped stronger and more beautiful than ever before.
Opinions I’ve changed
I was reading a blog-post by R, about opinions she had changed since she was a teenager, got me thinking. So what has changed with me?
1. Jewellery on men. Why be sexist about men and jewellery? I always thought what looked good on a person depended far more on ones personality and attitude. And its not only jewellery, haven’t we all heard ‘oh pink that’s a women’s color’. So as long as one isn’t doing a Bappi Lahiri, I don’t really mind men with jewellery, in fact I think it makes a personal style statement if done nicely.
2. Bikes and SUVs. Growing up bikes were definitely sexier, epitomized freedom and speed. In some ways they still do. Although the recklessness aspect to it overshadows my opinion about this a bit now. Convertibles were always more elite and while I’d still love to own a bike, go for a spin, feel the breeze tearing through me, of course all done with caution (I was never the type without it), I always knew a car meant growing in the right direction in life. I mean when you think of achieving a degree of financial stability, social respectability, you think of buying your own house and car, and yes my priority is in that order.
3. Behenjis/Ammammas/Aunty types/Maamis. Well growing up we all laughed and cracked jokes at them, and of course the very thought that those terms could be used for me would send shivers down me. I think I have loosened up a bit on that count, now. I don’t fear growing into what some kid may refer to as ‘aunty’ someday, and although I’m pretty sure the stereotypes associated with being a ‘behenji’ or an ‘amma’ won’t apply to me, ever, although I will feel offended if someone actually calls me those, especially if it comes from a balding shopkeeper or a cab-driver ten years older than me.
4. Abortions. My opinion about this one hasn’t changed one bit. I always believed as a woman I have a right to decide whether I want to keep my baby. Having a child is a huge commitment and responsibility, and if I feel I will not be able to support a child’s needs financially and emotionally I will not have them. And I don’t exactly think earning a lot of money that will enable me to give my kid any and every comfort is enough. That’s only a prerequisite, its a given. There has to be something more than that for sure, to be a calmer place in your head and life.
5. My parents. As a teen there was something that wasn’t right between me and my Dad, we were close and he was ten thousand percent supportive mostly but there was an openness missing, and there were a million rough edges to our relationship. Our ideas and opinions always clashed despite the fact that in many ways we were like each other. However, I did always think that we three, mom, dad and me, were all very well knitted together despite that. This year on my trip back home, I think I figured out a piece of what it was that went around in my father’s head when I was younger. I believe it was just that he could never really let me go, almost as if he taught me to ride the bike and then refused to let go of the handles, all that time. And now, two years after I have been on the road pretty much on my own, his parental anxiety has faded somewhat, in fact there is pride in its place, to know that he taught me well.
I don’t think my parents are perfect, or anymore perfect than I am. They had me young and we have in many ways grown up together. And am extremely grateful that my parents had enormous faith when it really mattered the most, that I could have the most incredulous dream, and that I didn’t have to follow the stereotypes. And as I fight my demons, everyday, I am very proud of me, and all of this is because of my parents.
6. Clothes. I don’t remember being particularly crazy about them, which is weird because as a teen you generally are more conscious of your appearance. I wore my hair short, dressed in clothes that were nice but mainly functional, and for the most part I didn’t care a hoot about clothing or appearance, let alone think of personal style. There has been a sea-change on that count. I think how people perceive you has a lot to do with what you look like, and I believe if you dress with care you put yourself out as a person who is thoughtful to details, and that ultimately is a plus in the social spectrum. And for the past few years have developed on how I dress and accessorize, and I enjoy it immensely. In fact a lot of this may be because I lost oodles of weight and so its a tremendous high to fit in nice stuff which says size petite or small and more importantly to look like a million bucks in them.
7. Marriage and love. For the most part I was always pragmatic about marriage and love. In fact, I didn’t believe in marriage for a long time and love was out of the question because I thought it would be a distraction, would take me away from the things at hand, dilute my focus. In hindsight I think somewhere this thought process was a shield to protect myself, not from heartbreak really, that you can still deal with, it was more the disappointment with yourself and your choices. I still don’t believe in marriages if they are anything other than life-long friendships. More so, I don’t understand ‘arranged’ marriages at all and hats off to people who do that type of thing. But generally I think I got lucky, the guy am seeing is a friend, its a friendship that has built itself in time and has the comfort of something thats been lived in and worn out, and marriage seems a good idea, to get to celebrate our bonding, our being there for each other, and its heartwarming for me to know that things will be the same even after it.
8. What other people think of me. Growing up I didn’t care. Some people mattered and made a difference but for the most part I was going around doing and saying things after my heart. I value that honesty and straightforwardness in myself but over the years I have mellowed down in terms of how much of it I express. I do care about what people think of me, even if they are regular, everyday people like the janitor in our building or the office people in our Dept. However, I don’t go out of my way to make an impression, I’ll be nice and civil, hold my tongue and not be cut-throat in someone’s face but that’s pretty much it. I have learnt the art of harmless deception I would say, to butter the burnt side of the toast and not crib about it unless I just have to.
9. Money. Always always thought that was important. I don’t remember myself to be a reckless spender, ever, I value money and now that I earn my living I value it a thousand times more. I think its important to save, spend judiciously and invest for the future. However, I also enjoy the finer things in life and love to pamper my family and friends, but marrying into big money just to be gifted a luxurious life on a platter is not my thing. I would much rather earn it myself.
10. Dealing with changes. Talking of changes, I was never too comfortable when life decided to be temperamental. In fact, I never thought people change for the better or worse, to me it’s just how they have always been only that certain circumstances seem to bring out their real self. And sometimes to be let down is painful if they are people you value and hold close. But again, for me the disappointment of my own choice in picking my friends and who I value, always made it harder to come to terms with these things. I still can’t deal with it when people act awry especially if I really care about them, but I think I have matured and it doesn’t break me the same way as before. Other than that, I think life in the past two years has sprung some nasty surprises for me, and I think I did okay in most of those situations. It may be this survival gene in me, I refuse to sink and no matter how hard am hit, I will surface back. To quote Hemingway, ‘the world breaks everyone, and afterward some are strong at the broken places’. And I’d like to believe I’ll keep finding that strength in me no matter what the odds.
Moonshine
October. Its a quiet, overcast morning. The great American Fall seems to be making news as usual, almost every picture-album in of everyone you know living here, carries images of the rose and copper tinted foliage, neatly lined up against silken highways, in a lilting shadow down the lakes, and in ardent flames across walkways. Here, in Pittsburgh, its all of that, everyday, as I walk my way to school. I see Fall, winter on her heels, I think of October in Calcutta, the euphoria that overpowers life there, this time.
All my years in Calcutta, I never thought, I loved the million festivals we had this much. In fact, my last years there I had begun to hate the crazy crowds shopping like no tomorrow, the obnoxious ‘dhanteras’ frenzy suddenly gripping the imagination of the bengali middle-class, the exceeding festive rush every hour of the day, even nights on the metro, and of course the generous smattering of timely bandhs that came to prolong holidays, destroying the slightest intention to get any work done. I miss all of that now. And they are the wrong things to miss, I think, only that from so far away, those little things that made me mad don’t seem so vile, don’t engender the same revulsion. They seem to be woven into the same fabric as everything I really really loved, of everything I want to see here, in the scape of Pittsburgh, where the Fall colors and the ‘tricking and treating’ seem futile, they touch no chord, don’t leave me misty eyed.
I was talking to Ma, the past few weeks, living in her descriptions and image, this festive season. Our house is newly painted this year, right before Diwali, and although through the webcam I have seen some of it, it feels incomplete without being there amidst the mayhem, re-arranging, putting things under covers, debating over colors, and then smelling the fresh paint, feeling the invigorated walls. In my mind I can still conjure up images of Ma scrubbing things with Purnima di, our house-help, her magic weapons, the regular toothpaste and toothbrush, wearing out layers of dust from everything metal. She must have made her trip to the local market by now, bought diyas and fancy tiaras of lights for the balcony. And must be grumbling, how she must make these trips alone, because my Dad is hardly around to lend a helping hand, how the refrigerator is overflowing with a dozen different kinds of sweets, how my Dad starts his diet and shuns them all, almost religiously this time, every year. They will bicker about the flower settings, the menu for the Diwali dinner, even the clothes my Dad wears for puja, his taste in clothes never matching Ma’s, then he’ll relent, ending up being far more dressier than he would have otherwise chosen to be. They will light diyas together, and in the soft glow of light, Ma would look immaculate, so stunning, that you could see Dad falling for her all over again. Post puja, dinner and catching up with friends, they might set out aimlessly. A drive through resplendent Central Calcutta, watching fireworks, stopping by familiar kali-pujas, dropping at a childhood friend’s place unexpectedly and ending up spending a good part of the night bantering away.
I did all those things with my parents for the better part of my life. Sometimes we were lazy, and after puja we stayed in, did nothing, and watched movies. That was amazing too and I don’t know why. As I wrap up my day here in lab, its another weekend ahead. And there is the memory of a time when darkness was beautiful, and awash with a zillion lights, conquered.
Kolkata revisited
Looking back at my days in Calcutta.
1) The good ol’ school bus. The Sarkar babu school bus. That packed far too many children and often you squirmed uneasy when sweaty, messy CBS boys came aboard as well, adding to your misery. It was hot, you were standing on one foot literally, with the ever getting heavier school-bag and you squirmed every time this boy with ounces of dirt and a drippy nose came crashing on you.
But the school bus was where so many friendships began, where you mastered antakshari, shared private jokes, made caricatures of fellow bus people, studied fervently on exam mornings, saved seats (having jumped the line) especially when you were old enough, and where some excited voices loomed louder than all others and you wished the traffic jam would continue..letting you jabber on..the heat, sweat, and the grime notwithstanding.
2) Walking in Laketown. Its kinda hard to explain how the most unbearably pock marked roads and lanes can be the best walks ever. So many walks with so many people. On evenings when the power went off, you walked to VIP road, hung-out on the bridge across it..the only light coming from the whizzing traffic and the muri/paan wallahs. Sometimes you had the full moon or half for company, lurking silhouettes met you on the way, you jabbered till you saw the lights come on. Then it was time to go home.
Then there were times when you got off three stops before yours and walked through Laketown…summer evenings, after a thunderstorm, as the Gulmohar colored your walk red. There was also the bantering after tuitions..the occasional softy/phuchka times after aimless strolling around. Then there were walks before and/or after movies at Jaya. You were late..your mom buzzed you incessantly on the darn cell phone. You never went anywhere on these walks. And that never mattered.
3) Trips to Esplanade when you were broke. Pretty much broke considering you were in college lasting out on pocket money. Movies at Globe and Lighthouse, sometimes a fancy lunch at Scoop, mostly ten rupee chaats, cooling off at Sriram arcade (much before City-Center came to the rescue), I think I also did a trip to the museum one time. Bargaining for odd things you thought you needed. Taking the cab (it cost fifteen rupees then and you always split it in five or six sometimes even seven) to Presidency, to class.
4) Presidency…Unlike many, the canteen was never the be all and end all of my Presi-days. My only canteen memory being Pramod da being haggled by guys of our tuition group almost everyday, as they landed there after morning classes, and demanded their luchis, parathas, chops and cha. You sat around and watched him grapple with another day and cuddled the yapping pups before sauntering to class.
You spent hours on the corridors..and yes you did work there..copied notes, drew zoology lab pictures, and chit-chatted as the day grew old. People fell in and out of love around you, they schemed and plotted, sang and wrote poetry. Lover’s lane and all of Presi corridors scripted their own soap every day. Then there was also the science library, you hung out there when there was too much sun or rain ruining the corridors, it was musty and cool. Sometimes you’d settle in with a nice book, and an odd crow broke your siesta. Sometimes you were noisy and loud, then you dealt with the crazy librarian, she shouted you down.
And as you were homebound for the night, you’d catch the soft glow of the Presidency clock, it worked its magic everyday. And you couldn’t wait to return.
5) College Street times. Began in school, mom got me books from Chakraborty and Chatterjee’s each time I did well in class, and sometimes when I just nagged her unendingly.
Later in Presidency, boi para grew on me. You spent hours leafing through books, old and new. Got great deals. Found regular, rare and the must-reads. Saved up for the next killing.
Gradually the stall-wallahs stopped going ‘didi didi dekhun CAT/MAT/XAT er boi…MA er boi..GRE er boi’. They knew who you were, pleasantries were exchanged. You got better deals . You were part of the bonhomie..the culture..the ambience. You belonged.
There was other stuff at College street too. Great phuchka at great prices. Tasty and Coffee House for hanging out with just a plain coffee and hours of conversation. The adda.
Food station for cooling off and the b’day treats. You could close your eyes and you would see them again. The pool players in the background, the laughter and heartbreak rising above it.
You took nice walks with friends. People and books spilling all over you. The moment was perfect and complete. You knew this day would come back to you again. And its warmth will last forever.
6) JD Park metro station while waiting for the last metro of the day. This was how it turned out most days while doing my Masters at Ballygaunge Science College. Someone in the group always stopped for a soda on the way, the ever thirsty one, and you were afraid you’ll miss the train. Most days you almost did. You jostled and shoved into the last compartment by the stairs, the stench of the day hanging in the air. Rare days you got to the station ahead of time, waited for the last one, rabindrasangeet making you doze off on your feet. You saw the same queer mix of people, the disgruntled, the lech, the pining siamese twin kind lovers, and those who like you were too far gone.
7) Tram rides. Occasionally you weren’t in a hurry. You took the tram instead of walking from Hatibagan or Shyambajar to College Street. It snaked through the morning fog as the day picked up from the pieces of the night gone by.
Trams still epitomize leisure travel for me.
Rambling in burrabazar, shyambajar, gariahat. Clicking some of the most amazingly colorful, throbbing, pulsating veins of Calcutta, getting drenched mid-way with a sudden sputtering monsoon shower, stopping for some delicious ‘raastar’ lassi. Picking up cushion covers, coaster, and bindis for ma. Talking.
9) Idol making at kumartuli. The Gods and Goddess’ were barely clothed, a trifle incomplete and yet for once they were like people, born of the clay and mud, shaped into divinity.
10) The smell of the earth washed by the first spell of rains. You hated the monsoons, they were a sweaty, grimy, perpetually flooding, power-cut infested, miserable time. But there was always something magical about the first time the rains came, and soaked the earth warm in her own tears, and suddenly like her you were re-assured and hopeful.
F.R.I.E.N.D.S
‘There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain’
Its summer now. 2009. I live in Pittsburgh now. And this is home. Other places and people I belonged to have receded somewhere to the background. It was a conversation or a chit-chat via internet, I do not remember which, but it happened then. This person was someone I knew since aeons and yet I couldn’t be more bored by what was being exchanged. I couldn’t care less. It was perfunctory and mundane, as if we no longer had things to say to each other. The memories had lost their meaning. There was no chord, no resonance.
At times I wish I were a character out of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Just to know that people and places in my memory are irreplaceable milestones, that I can re-visit and no matter how many light-years passed in between, they will still evoke the same warmth. That it will be not only a memory bidding time but a feeling of home coming.
‘All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all’
-Beatles, In my life
Woohoo! the rivers and me
We went to the rivers last Saturday. Those three that crisscross their way through Pittsburgh, the Alleghany, Monongahela and Ohio. I think I saw them first as I flew into Pittsburgh, in those horrendously low-flying aircrafts, that feel like you’d never touch down in one piece. From up there, the mountain, rivers and Pittsburgh looked a perfect picture. And I wondered whether I’d ever fit into this frame.
Saturday. It was brilliant, beaming and becoming, as the waters lazily motioned beneath the bridge. The city was festive because of the weekend and the sun. Ranajit (and am sure countless other young men) were festive because of the soaring summer temperatures leading to pretty young things in next to nothings, providing the much needed shine to the shimmering river-scene. And I was festive just to be by the river.
To this the weekend seemed to add its own flavor. There were people lounging with a beer or two by the sidewalk on the bridge. A random burly guy moved shadily behind us as we walked across it. Ranajit refused to stop walking till we reached the other end of the bridge, was paranoid about it coming apart. A newly wed couple posed at Bessemer Courts en route to the cruise-dock. The fountains did a jig behind them. Happy Americans laced themselves with soda and popcorn, twaddling as the cruise-boat got readied for its umpteenth stroll. A stoic narrator aboard it, made having fun a serious business. Us being forced to hear random stories on the cruise-boat about a submarine from World War I, now a museum, someone’s sister making the terrible mistake of divorcing a guy who later turned a billionaire, regretting it ever after. The ‘oh ever so cute-not mine-thank you very much’ children and their din spoiling our moment of romance on the waters. And watching river carps feed on popocorn left-overs, growing extremely large and frightful, at the dock. Electic.
We took the Incline later, leading up to a secluded spot where the sun was searing just beside us. We watched it slip away, taking away the sparkle from the river, leaving it cold and longing. As the psychedelic lights from the near-by high-rises streamed on to it, and the city grooved into the night, it was another kind of picture than what the day had painted. It was a city and its mood-swings. For a moment, just then, Pittsburgh was me.
It’s been a while..
Pretty much so. But its kinda nice as well giving vent to my opinionated self! 
