I love winters, always did! Although honestly I think I love a little bit of any and every season as long as conditions apply. But maybe I have a special thing going on for the colder months and so here’s why:

Almost all my life winters meant the mild Calcutta nip in the air. Somewhere around Diwali, the nights came early, the woolens were pulled out of stores, you snuggled in layers of fuzzy warm shawls and heavy razais at all hours of the day and it was okay to be lazy. Winters were here. Like everything good in life your good times with it needed to be earned. Granted it was a struggle getting out of the comforter and readying for school or college. But once up you got to see a glorious sunrise, blow shapes of ‘smoke’ with your breath in the fog and if you took a walk outside on the grass, feel the dewdrops tickling your feet.

Winters to me are the ‘food season’. From matar ki kachori, gobhi, methi, muli ke paranthe, sarson da saag, gajar ka halwa to the most inviting notun guder mishti. No season indulges the taste-buds more shamelessly. But then who cares except that it means soul food at the fag end of the year. A little something to celebrate the highs, nurse wounds incurred from the year’s steep falls or find that little something that tastes like heaven and brings that much awaited dash of spice and excitement to an otherwise pretty uneventful year.

Winters are the time to remember that deliciously fragrant body-lotion that you were forced to take off from your summer shopping list because the unbearable heat and humidity left no scope of any real skin pampering. After all you buy something expensive with a great smell, can’t wait to start exuding that beautiful fragrance, and minutes after you get out of the bath, have barely finished applying it all over and step out of the air-conditioning, that it is all gone, now mingled with the sweat and grime, leaving you smelling nothing like that tub of fantastic aroma you wanted to be. In contrast winters are perfect to slather yourself with dollops of body lotion and actually have it last on you for a good while, also perfect to experiment with different kinds of smells and stock up with vengeance on the latest and hottest of body lotion fragrances.

I spent a large part of my life wearing short, boy-cut hair and actually you can do very little if you come from the insanely humid tropical climes when few things can be as blasphemous and torturous as leaving long or modestly long hair open. And so mom was always terrified I’d ruin my hair, lose its thickness by subjecting it to the relentless assault of the heat, pollution and grime, she also was pretty sure I was incapable of undertaking the necessary hair care measures and execute them to her standards of perfection, the result was my short, boy cut hair. And back then I didn’t care much for long hair especially if I was going to have to slog over maintaining it and then end up wearing it in boring pig-tails, plaits or buns. In later years when I moved to Pittsburgh, its long winters offered a perfect opportunity to wear my hair long, keep it open most times and of course experiment with styles. Furthermore with low humidity levels I think winters are somewhat easier hair maintenance times, needing far fewer washes, although you’d still need to moisturize enough, for which those hot oil massages should come handy and given the cold season perhaps a million times more comforting than in the sticky heat of the summers.

I’ve a thing for winter clothes, shoes and sundry. Granted I actually end up looking several sizes bigger once wrapped in some of those voluminous real winter beating jackets but few things beat the cold better than when you’ve donned a sexy leather jacket or a beautifully cut and layered coat teamed with a pair of jazzy leather boots. And when the holiday season sales beckon get yourself a mix of snazzy stoles, utilitarian woolen scarves in pretty colors and pairs of matching gloves to beat the winter blues.

Regardless of whether you’re a seasoned Pittsburgher who has withstood too many scathing snowstorms to care or someone like me coming from hot and humid India, experiencing snow is magical, even if for a little bit. You maybe freezing through your bone marrow, blinded by its steady outpouring, struggling as you trudge through so much snow that it comes up to your knees, you may fall flat on your face and end up with a blue elbow, have your travel plans go for a toss because of it, be forced to shovel your car out of the snow every morning before work, you may hate and curse it while its all happening and yet some days when you’re in no hurry to get anywhere watching the snow fall outside your window and render everything pristine is one of the finest things to experience. Add to it a good book, a bowl of your favorite soup or a large cup of hot chocolate and its a fairy-tale.

There are more things about winters that I love, memories of my kittens falling asleep on my father’s belly unnoticed on cold evenings when the power went out, finding their way under my comforter at nights, afternoons of watching old hindi movies from under the layers rendered complete with fried fritters of every kind, or gorging on oranges, exploring the many melas that came to Calcutta at this time, everything from the leather expo, the industrial fair to the small scale local affairs with a decent offering of eclectic junk jewelery pieces, inexpensive china, kitchenware, tonnes of other stuff, the Calcutta book fair, an annual affair that you waited for much of the year, the joy of exploring it one day, then again and again, tirelessly, invigorated by the crisp pages of new books and the endearing fragrance they filled you with, then coming home all swarthy, feet caked in dust and aching, hearts content but still wanting to go back again.

And somewhere between all of the winter action there is always the end to another year, a time to hold yourself back, re-think what the year gone by did or meant and then let go, build new bridges of hopes into the future, with the beginning of another new year tune yourself to a new cycle of seasons and open up to the countless possibilities they hold.

As shards of gold

Pierced the bellowing, dark skies

A dash of red petals

A sprinkle of green

Crinkled under our rain-soaked feet

That walk

The things we said

Like the raindrops

Made a puddle of water

That was forever

To be

Like a river

I ran through the woods

The mountains and wild shadows

There was a dream

I was chasing

There was nothing to remember

No corner of an old road

With a puddle of water

Only a blue haze

The frozen earth

And another night in the woods

To be fought through

My oldest memory of happiness was the week or two I spent during the winters with my grandparents, my Mom’s parents. I was very young, ten maybe younger, so this is from a long time back, and hence a lot of the details have withered in my memory. Nevertheless looking back, it fills me with a lovely warmth, to have known this couple before sickness and old-age left only a husk of them. I was always slightly wary of my grandfather, I think everyone was, he was a man of few words, had served as an engineer in the Air-force for several years before opting out with voluntary retirement, working with Indian Airlines and subsequently several private airlines post-retirement from the latter. His Air-force life had left an indelible mark on his life, he was a stickler for discipline, spent hours in dusting every tiny household article, even switch-boards and had a thing for shining shoes, which again he indulged in a large-scale, gathering every shoe in the house regardless of who it belonged to for cleaning. He also had a thing for routine and reading the dictionary for leisure. Sadly I don’t remember having any fun conversations with him, I don’t even think he ever had had fun, or knew what it meant, his life had been a hard one, and my window to it was through my grand-mother’s stories. My grand-mother was a lovely lady, in those days Calcutta was ravaged by frequent power-cuts, and so in the evenings when I was staying over, we would be huddled together in darkness, she and I around a couple of candles, with her tea and some evening munchies, telling stories. She told me stories of my grand-father as a kid, a dutiful young boy in a large, wealthy household, in Lyallpur (today known as Faislabad) in Pakistan, of old-world India, and lives that would’ve have gone on tranquil and content but for the devastation that was wrecked by the Partition. His family had fled suddenly, one night as flames burst through their town, leaving behind everything, home, their roots, lives and were flung into the dark recesses of uncertainty. I believe there were many things he lived through as a child, the painful process of being uprooted that left my grand-father blighted for life. It was never again going to be the same for him. I was struck with awe as my she described the struggles he went through to re-build his life, not falling in shambles, getting himself an education, working to support his family and siblings. Years later I remember my grand-father staying up the night, something I never otherwise saw him doing, because ‘The Train to Pakistan’ was playing on TV, because some of it had been filmed in Faislabad, and in his eyes I saw the deep longing for the place he belonged to, where he could never go back and for the ties that were severed but had lived on in the scars and ravages of a life that had ensued. There were other things I learnt of through my grand-mother, her child-hood, their wedding, evenings they spent as a young, newly wedded couple in Agra with the beauty of the Taj Mahal soaked in moonlight for company, such and other things which neither me nor any of my generation or the next would ever see. But most importantly somewhere in those evenings with her stories, my stories were born, she started having me write them, stories and poems, she critiqued and improvised, it was a lot of fun. It was a cycle that remained with us for some time , before she was dilapidated, and couldn’t maybe care, but even then I hope remnants of our stories, the warm glow of our time together lived somewhere within her just as it has lived within me.

Stories and me have had a thing forever, that continued in school as well. I told stories as some of us were huddled together in free periods, when a certain Hindi Miss had run out of things to teach or needed to slow down and she asked for volunteers in class, which was always me and again I told stories on the school bus. And the source of this story telling was in everything I was reading as a kid and a little bit in what I was coming up with. I was quite an avid reader, we got an assortment of children’s magazines, Nandan in Hindi, Target, Reader’s Digest, some other children’s stuff I didn’t like very much and fast outgrew. My magazines remained stashed nicely, they were most cherished, often re-read and for a long time after Nandan and Target stopped being published (which was some six to seven years after I had started on them) I just couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them. I think I finally did that sometime after I started college, and it wasn’t easy even then.

I think the other happy time in life for me has been in school and of course the school-bus. Our school bus was like a story in many ways, had its own characters. There was the group hanging out, the ever interesting gossip, games, even hide and seek with a certain durwan and the mashis to secure the best seats, complete with the blaring filmi music. Friends were made, and for a very long time everything in the world would be shared on these trips, everyday, to and from school. These were people you would wait to see again the next day, and when you were sad, unsure, afraid, you shared it with them. You sought advice, you trusted, you loved, sometimes you even grew apart for a certain number of days/years, but then you came together like is in a happy ending.

Presidency College, Calcutta. I will say this, I am immeasurably glad destiny got me to Presidency, can’t think of another time in my life that was as exhilarating and action packed as were those days. And if you are a Presidencian you will know what I mean, you will know that no other place in Calcutta has as much character, history and life than does Presidency. Cocooned in the alive and kicking environs of College Street, my college years at Presidency have been unforgettable. From making notes, drawing up unending specimens for our Zoology lab notebooks, to never ending adda, dissecting the dynamics of class politics, falling in love, discussing other people falling in love, their crushes, your crushes, music sessions, finding your very own pet amongst the campus dogs, deliberating, procrastinating, learning, falling, striving and steering through the crisis of growing up you did everything in those corridors, lover’s lane, even the library and canteen. From discovering intelligent Bengali regional cinema, being bitten by the hatibagan bug buying tonnes of junk jewelry as a result, the endless, seemingly meaningless hanging out at Coffee house and several other places around and about College street, the weekly group trips from college to New Market, the study-sessions, hangout sessions in the cool confines of the British Council, re-discovering the magic of pujo, my first ever trip to Kumartuli before pujos, to going on a wildlife safari and spotting tigers, a lot of firsts happened in Presidency. And even today, I can’t imagine going back to Calcutta without making at least one trip to revisit the college and relive the best it had to offer.

Seasons changed

The woods turned green

Gold

And naked

New dreams were woven into my tapestry

Like a river

I had come so far

And yet

Some days when the skies were raging

The earth wet and longing

A drop of gold

Breaks through

And it seems like I’m at the corner

Of an old road

With a puddle of water

That was forever

To be

The only possible brighter side of all this perhaps has been the acquisition of a previously unknown ease in dealing with ruffled feathers in personal relationships. So with people who I care about, its now easier to forgo the pride, somehow even easier to apologize when am not at fault, easier to build bridges and let go of the little things, and maybe that’s a good thing. I guess you mellow down with time, realize that holding grudges does no one any good, you begin to value people more, value memories, you wish you could go back in time to the place where that camaraderie was your anchor not your bane. You want to overlook the slights, the disappointments, differences, and remember the best, the best you can. Except at times you wonder if you’re giving up too much, being pushed too far, with folks who perhaps don’t deserve it, just because you are deeply rooted in the past, in associations and because you care.

When I look back, at me, today I can see why I was child. That when I ventured out to life on a separate continent, several time-zones away from any semblance of comfort or sense of home, I did it flying high on the wings of a dream. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t guarded by parents or in the shrines of matrimony, I did it alone, and so those firsts are very precious. All the nights at the internet trying to figure out what I wanted to research on, what is it that I was looking for in a prospective PhD mentor, what departments, what universities, and then of course all the prep, exams, applications, interviews, sifting through the acceptances, the all important decision making, then living alone, managing everything from school-work, research, to learning how to cook, keeping a house, managing money, accounts, paperwork, everything that seemingly maybe so simple and yet actually isn’t quite. In hindsight I wasn’t even fazed by the enormity of it all, and even when I was lonely and sad I wasn’t desperate and needing. Such that even being alone in a foreign country I wasn’t hankering to fill the rooms, the hours, the silences, the darkness with just about anyone, I picked my friends, just as I always had. And so sometimes when I look back at my sheltered childhood, all headstrong, tempestuous with no sense of diplomacy it brings a smile to my face, fills me with a tiny bit of awe you know, at how naive I was and how fearless. And all because of that first mildly chilly August night in Pittsburgh, when I was sleepless, hit by jet-lag, in a bare, sparingly furnished room that someone else from the University whom I met over the internet had rented for me, at the beginning of a long, hard struggle, unsure of whether and how any of this would ever pan out, or even what tomorrow might be like, when life was nailed right to the basics, I think that was my first taste of what a gut wrenching feeling fear can be, what it feels like when everything is at stake. And when you cannot be afraid, cannot give in because you’ve pretty much made your decision, and no longer have the luxury of a choice but to be brazen and stick your head out in the rain, hail, snow-storm, sun or whatever might come upon you.

And so while now I maybe older, hopefully wiser, mellow, and measured in my ways and my expression of what I think and feel, I am glad I was that girl who knew no bounds, and I hope I still am her somewhere deep within, that we will be reconciled someday, and that life will give in, in the face of our will and our dreams.

I feel ashamed that there are Indians that will fly in droves to the dungeons anywhere on earth like rats in a bid to often cover up for their incompetence and will actually live questionable, sometimes very demeaning, pointless lives all the while pretending to family and friends back home that all is well in paradise, in fact all is ‘pretend’ spectacular. And so many of them will disparage their country shamelessly to justify why they are here, ‘their’ India always conforming to the western stereotypes, a mystic land of gurus, sati, untamed wildlife and unending poverty. Its really amazing though that despite their seemingly deep and unquestionable reverence to their adopted land, America, they are essentially blind to what I think is the most defining and inspiring American virtue, to be proud of who you are and strive for excellence believing just that.

I do want to go back. Not because my parents are alone and I don’t have siblings, not because I can’t get to a higher rung of life here, but because having come here I’m able to value the education, the culture, the ethos that have defined my growing up years and have made me what I am today. I miss living in an environ that will give me a sense of belonging and familiarity, that will hold me up when am down, and I think if anyone is essentially striving to really achieve anything meaningful out of their lives they possibly can’t do it living life on a leash forever. And then what did I come here for? I came here to better myself, to experience a different dogma of education than perhaps what I had been exposed to, to hopefully take up something spectacular for my dissertation work, something that inspires me and an experience that will be a pillar for the rest of my life. I didn’t come to America to be a mediocre nobody, and most importantly I came here knowing I may want to go back, to take the best of what I have imbibed here to where I came from.

Life is easy nowhere, and there isn’t a paradise if it isn’t inside you. And in these four years I’ve experienced several ups and yes also I’ve been down the murky and blistered other side of the moon. I live a life that isn’t perfect or rosy, its a struggle, as much as the heat, humidity, inflated population, bad roads, corruption are struggle in India. And so it doesn’t deter me when I say I want to go back to India, to the peace of homecoming and to give back perhaps a wee tiny bit of all that India has given me.

Had a very good birthday this year, R pampers me to the hilt, the birthday was no different. We watched zindagi milegi na dobara, was disappointed other than some beautiful poetry and very affable Farhan Akhtar and Abhay Deol. Though this wasn’t even a thread of Dil Chahta Hai, an old favorite. Nevertheless loved scenic Spain, and can’t wait to be able to go on a road trip, hopefully soon, and to Europe. Also watched Harry Potter, I think it was a bit just for the heck of it, but was hoping it would be good, it turned out pretty ordinary and forgettable. Made me miss the effect the book has on one. And then we had an awesome oreo cake for me. I’m glad I still get birthdays like these, replete with gifts, cards, cake, dinners, wine and yes my new found love, dresses! Can never be too old for this, ever. R is very patient with me, more than most people can imagine, and like I said I can be very self absorbed, add to that my perpetual affliction, single in the head (SIH) syndrome, and you have a handful. Nevertheless don’t think we feel the strains of all that hard to handle baggage I bring to the table between us, in fact if I may, I feel no different from when I was single. Don’t think I express this often enough, how much I value R for all of this and more, and most of all, for our friendship. Life is arduous I know, far from what I imagined it would be, at twenty nine that is, but then there is no such thing as perfection, is there?

And when its finally over, you’ll know it inside. The fog melting into the water, as the sun dims, finally..behind.

This morning I thought of it, the end of the road, I’m not sad though, at least I don’t wanna be. I wanna remember the brilliance of our days, I want to be able to relive them afresh in my mind and forget the painful process of extricating the one million dots in my life from the eleven years of friendship. Is that even possible though, the disentanglement? Do I discard notebooks that really have no use anymore except for our random scribblings at their backs, each one a different day, a different story? What about the tiny Ganesh idol that she gave me when I left India and now sits with the rest of my ‘puja’ stuff, the matir gypsy-pen holder I so loved that I carried it with great difficulty in my hand bag, my second trip back from home after moving to Pittsburgh, its sits on my desk in lab now..my first ever mix-tape, we got it made together, we struck a deal that each of us would have it for a certain period of time and then we’d exchange it, I don’t think I even remember who has it now, maybe she does, the many trinkets we bought together for me when I suddenly embraced the culture of wearing them, the books and movies we loved together, the songs I can’t hear without reflexively thinking of her. And the walks. I’m sad now, just writing of it is uncomfortable. I think I can see why things went ugly, heartbreaking and beyond but never really petered out in the years of growing apart, because perhaps its easier to live with the growing disenchantment, we only a husk of our former selves, than extricate the never-ending details.

R says friendship has no real evolutionary basis, that the only way it gets explained is as a queer mix of reciprocal altruism and the matriarch/patriarch societies that arose in mammalian, importantly primate evolution. At this point apart from seeing his point, I’m also slightly worn. I don’t care much if its evolutionarily explained or not. I don’t make friends easily, but I cherish the ones I have, they are important cornerstones in my life, and I’m not quite sure what the end of the road looks like without one of them. But then who knows if and how things ever end, isn’t it all flowing together in one big continuum? Maybe we are all just one phone call away, and that when you are friends, if you ever were, its about how long before you finally turn around, after you are hurled far away into your own separate destiny, after the fog has lifted and the sun has set, and you walk back, as the stars dim in the wee hours of twilight and the day screams back, alive and afresh, and you trace your steps back to where it all began, and you are ready again to talk like it’d never end, like you always did, when you were young and life was meant to be very different.

R’s cooking paneer, he would like to have music (aloud) to keep him company but for the sad fact that we live in an efficiency/studio apartment and I’m an abysmal multi-tasker, who finds even writing into her blog difficult when there’s anything in the background, even music. I’d blame my sore throat, pharyngitis they say it is but then its always been this way, my attention is a one way traffic. Couple of minutes back I was showing him the new Vodafone ad on youtube, I thought it was ingenious to come up with it for that’s exactly what it was like, growing up.  He dismissed it as a girls’ thing, pagol naki?  chele ra erokom korena (are you crazy? this ain’t a guy thing). And yet a couple of minutes later he switched off the tv because I was beginning to feel frustrated, unable to organize my thoughts with it in the background. The little things you do for me…

..making me smile and no one else could.. When I think of growing up today, I’m slightly overwhelmed. One hundred and ninety five Facebook friends and a ton of social networking later its a tad bland life. There is sparkle now only in the memories, of the little things we did growing up..the wonder years.

.. stories: I think I told a lot of them, there was always ‘the gathering’ around me in the school bus. We began with my stories, then moved into antakshari, and the causal bantering, caught up in the Moulali traffic snarls, sneering at the boys from Calcutta Boys’ or the odd girl or two from Loretto Sealdah, the cliche Bollywood playing in the background and often a leering bus conductor. From the huge windows you saw a dilapidated NRS and the milling crowds run into oblivion. We were in a world of our own. We kept places for the others next morning, a far more sober lot, revising for the day’s tests. The stories were to be continued at the end of the day, with a smattering of alu kabli or an unfinished lunch. Then gradually from the hustle of the group you sifted to a few, the ones with whom there were more stories than ever to be told. And before you knew it your stories were intertwined, you saw things the same way, laughed and longed, and aspired and believed, together.

.. of messages and greeting cards: Remember when greeting cards, for birthdays and New Years were painstakingly chosen and written with a sincerity unmatched by any you are capable of today? When you remembered without any prodding from Facebook, you spent hours at the local Archies’ gallery, and with the perfect card you doodled, for it had to be written in the most perfect way. It ended up with a smidgen of ink here and there, but with a heart full of words written in a handwriting one would recognize from the frequent borrowing of notebooks for copying class-notes. You treasured these. Collected over the years, slightly musty and worn, but ever redolent with the emotions of the days of writing and being written for.  And occasionally you lent your notes from class, they came back with an extra page or two of a song you vaguely remember from the school fest practice. That is how I first came upon ‘Top of the World’, in my class XII biology notebook. I remember my hand being taken into hers, somewhere around the school chapel, sometime during when a frenzy for Galaxy had gripped CGHS, and she had sung it, for me. It was one of my first few times listening to the Carpenters’ number which in later years became my memory of that one afternoon, and the ever beautiful feeling of being cherished.

.. sharing your passion: Inevitably for me it always came back to stories. Books that had been read into the wee hours of dawn, that you couldn’t wait to tell her about, in the school bus. Books that were shared, not with everybody but with a few. You loved your books, they were not for everybody, and yet you were slightly sloppy, hardly ever putting your precious in newspaper wraps before reading and/or lending and yet they always came back neatly wrapped in the newspaper covers, exactly how they had been read after being lent. You appreciated the care, for a common joy. You re-read books and so did she. Remember English August? Together you gushed about the cheap second hands that were as good as new, sold off the stalls lining by Presidency College. Together you tore each others opinions of people you had met and places you had lived, in stories…in books. Occasionally you loved the same things, Rhett Butler. And together you found your peace, in the fragrance of a new book.

I think it was only again while in Presidency that I re-lived this joy. We hung out for hours at the British Council library, R and me. And having worked together at copious notes taking, we told each other stories, of things we had grown up with, in life and in books. And the evenings seemed to wane in a flash, but the stories would continue. They still do.

.. the telephone: Sometimes, and almost always you had too much to share. With a few you never thought of the time or place, rhyme or reason, before making calls and some calls from some people always had to be received and it never mattered how long they went or what they interrupted. You talked into the recesses of the night, as the overcast face of the moon lent its fading light into your room. Sometimes  it ended hurriedly, with a screaming parent, knocking on your door and reminding you of the ever burgeoning telephone bills. Although, usually you were called back. These were times when conversations never ceased, when everything from recently written poetry to class politics to the utmost personal turmoils were discussed over the phone. When everything from birthdays to elaborate Calcutta bandhs (strikes) to rain lashed freak holidays seemed incomplete, without dollops of winding, mostly purposeless conversation, that seemed ever so fulfilling.

.. long walks and adda (aimless chatter): Featured often. Walking from Presidency College to Hedua, only to walk back. You were always cajoled into coming down, you never minded, even though it sounded inane. And in all the years of studying in colleges that were practically adjacent to each other, this was always how it was. There were long walks, homeward bound after coaching classes, watching the pujo pandals being made, the gulmohars painting the sidewalks in a shade of red and gold, resplendent in the hues of the fading daylight. Sometimes you stopped by a local store to browse nail paint, a quick softy or a lavish feast at Coffee House. From rain ravaged monsoons to the crisp autumn evenings, you had walked them all. In the sultry summers, you hung out in the cool shade of the lofty Presidency portico, only to wander through brightly lit evening markets of Hatibagan and New Market, shopping for the ever desirable trinkets and a million things that you never really needed. Countless things were bought on the impulse and made into gifts, little things that wound themselves into an intricate web of stories, strung together, they are memories you made together.

.. the random memories: Of shopping, Pantaloons, City-Center, with a movie or two thrown in between. Of songs compiled together on cassettes, there was a time before the ipod, wasn’t there? Of ramblings at Music World (Park Street), College Street, City Center, and at a time preceding these at Shreeram Arcade and yes even the Museum. Of zoning out, deep in conversation on the forbidden vestibule in the metros. Of poetry that was written only for you. Of text messages that were saved for years on end. Of cell phone numbers that are hard to forget. Of little things we never did again. Was it time that out grew you or just that an era came to an end?

Am sure even amidst everything I have here, there are things I no longer remember, little things that made growing up so very special. Little things that don’t happen to me often, if ever, anymore. Little things that bore a promise of lasting forever, the kind of promises that can only come from the hearts of the very young.

I still make friends, by the lots at times, however, just not the same way. Growing up was a wonderful time, and looking back am all smiles.

At the end of this week it’ll be almost two months since we got married. Whoa! That’s what that feels like in my head. I think I miss the rush and the anticipation that came with it, the months of my skyping over it with my mother. I miss that I was never there in the first place to execute what I had planned in my head, and also that so much of it was so beautifully put in place by my parents. The wedding had come to be the undercurrent of our work worn and crammed up lives for a better part of this year. I enjoyed thinking about it, not knowing what to expect, and the tantalizing hugeness of the occasion, without the pressures of change and novelty. In fact, underlying all the wedding hullabaloo was the steady reassurance that nothing changes. And am grateful that we are where we started out, comfortable in our spaces, not stepping over each other’s toes. Essentially friends.

I landed in India, this year, close to midnight on 15th July. Fifteen days before my wedding. Battered from two days of travel and delays but fresh from the wedding euphoria that had gripped my last few weeks in Pittsburgh. Research is a hard place to be, its a tough thing to do, it requires a constant being at it thing, everyday, day in and day out. Despite all of it was there was the happy fervor of the upcoming extravaganza. And it was not only me but also the students in the class I had taught in spring, my lab folks (who threw the cutest bachelorette party ever with the most awesome cake idea) and generally anybody and everybody here, including the plump Italian guy at the pizzeria by my house where I sometimes stop by to pick up french-fries and onion rings. I realized that Indian weddings have a zing to them, they are the hottest kinds and I had in my many narrations of the rituals, customs, clothes and sundry come to believe that I was going to indulge in something fantastic, like free fall from 20,000 feet only more colorful and elaborate.

The wedding fest began with the very word go. And looking back I remember many evenings of being slumped at the back of our car, a billion kinds of bags poking at me, my head throbbing with the snarling end of the day traffic. The days were a blur, many trips to Burrabazar, lots of trampling through the water-logged streets, sweat and grime, drooling from a distance at the chaat and phuchka, waiting for D-day to be done so that they could be indulged in. Discovering the magic of the saree, wishing there was a reason to hoard them all, the odd pleasure trips to Ro’s place, playing with her dog, then City Center with her to catch Inception and Mani Square to shop for intimate apparel, out of the regular comfort-only zone and on to experimenting for cuts, colors, prints. On a rain-washed afternoon, in between catching up with old school friends, and then back to the grind of handing out the invites. A surprise Bengali bachelorette, aiburubhaat, thrown by Dad’s cousin, ending up in someone else’s saree and being fed a mighty lot of sweets, a full throated reception following it all, more of his cousins, many I had briefly met at odd weddings here and there, but surprisingly it wasn’t uncomfortable to be warped in their scheme of things, my father’s Bengali connection. I watched them revel, I saw what my Dad was like growing up, with his cousins, old friends, relaxed by a couple of drinks, belting out tum jo mil gayeho..to aisa lagta hai..yeh jahan mil gaya. Breaking out into a full throated badan pe sitaare lapete hue and then into an impromptu jig. In those flashes I think I saw his growing up years, snatches of his carefree teenage, his thirty year old romance with my mother re-surface and that remains one of my most precious wedding memories.  There was also the ever always bickering. I fought with my Dad because the pundit who was scheduled to perform the wedding rituals was being unreasonable, fought with my mom over trivial stuff like clothes, accessories, the pre-bridal package that I wanted but she didn’t. We were all massively over-worked and if there is a thing about the wedding I will never miss, it is the messy organization and the money binging that goes into an event such as this. To top it all we were harangued by our new driver who I am also sure was stealing from us. But aside from the brutal behind the scenes that go into making an Indian wedding as grand they turn out to be I had the time of my life. Had the most relaxing and invigorating pre-bridal at Lakme salon, have never been indulged head to toe the same way, had the most lovely time shopping, such finery all over, then of course had S do me up for my sangeet, which was the sweetest gift that can come from a friend and finally I think I had the best make-over dressing up for the wedding and reception.

R struck a calming note in this mayhem. He was there uncomplainingly for the zillion shopping trips, for picking up odd stuff from the faraway Burrabazar tailor, for his insights into the very Bengali affairs including making of the totto, the wedding gifts and actually helping out with much of it alongside my family. I think the most perfect thing was that he selected the nose-ring I wore for my wedding! I was in dire straits, the one I had picked wasn’t quite right, there wasn’t enough time to go scouting for another one through the rain ravaged city, I desperately wanted a nice, large one with kundan work like my mother had for her wedding but had reconciled to being married without one ‘cuz there wasn’t any time and he went out there and found something, all by himself. Applause. And with him there were the fleeting moments of peace, walking about in the Presidency College portico, quick lunch at Food-Station, a burst of late evening adda at Science College canteen followed by a return to the seemingly never-ending saga of shopping at Rashbehari and Burrabazar.

Couple of days before the sangeet, most of my close family began to troop in. They came from everywhere, Mumbai, Dubai, Delhi, Panipat, Pune, Hyderabad, New-York fills me with wonder at how spread out we are. Hadn’t seen them all together, ever I think. And with the elaborate mehendi being done on me, the house crackling up with familial commotion, the elaborate family lunches, dinners, bonhomie over haldi (turmeric) and chuda (wedding bangles) ceremonies, the quaint punjabi wedding songs being sung by my mother’s aunt, it felt the best home-coming ever in a while.

Everybody danced at the sangeet. Such revelry. We had DJs that I thought were rather cute at first, not thereafter though. And I think I discovered my insane punjabi side, the one that comes from my mom, and had me dancing in very uncomfortable heels, uncaring, unabashed. It was amazing. The wedding itself was a whirlwind act, I remember being very weighed down in my heavy lehnga (wedding gown) and slightly irritated with the pundit. R was very efficient I shall say, didn’t spill sindur allover me and got tying the mangal sutra right pretty much without any help and at the first shot. There was also the very nice night-long chat with Ro after my bidaai where she accompanied me for the first night something called kal-ratri I think, very like old times, where our voices rose together above everyone’s in the school bus, and my last day in Calcutta, was at her place playing with F being fed very nice gorom (warm) luchis that I wasn’t warned were being prepared. She’s leaving now for Delhi, horrible Dilli.

So aside from being my very own extravagant indulgence, I think my wedding has been a surprising medium of re-discovery, of little things I had forgotten, in parents, family and friends. Of little things I never knew existed. Of things that have risen like the phoenix, and I can see my roots traveling in them. And there is now a reaffirmation in the order of things, that everything at its core is set at the right tune.

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