where no roads lead home

I left home at twenty four. My memories of the Calcutta evening when I did are now somewhat like what the world appears to be through the window panes washed in quiet rain, the glass is covered in a cold haze beaded with strings of water from the downpour that swept my last August evening at home, and for most of the five years since I’ve replayed that evening in my mind, connecting through the beads and drawing through the haze a path that almost always ended in a faint assurance of leading back to where everything began.

Life has grown to amass a lot of clutter since. After all it is never easy to mend old habits and grow out of the comforts of a sheltered existence to find your foot-hold in the world. And for a long time after, every minute was a struggle, to teach oneself to cope, to hold oneself together, to put the bricks in a wall that you hope would be strong enough to hold the pieces of the everything that changed together, and the tiniest things formerly taken for granted needed to be fought for and just to be alive seemed like a grand thing. You left home starry eyed looking for a perfect beginning, only to realize that nothing is really ever perfect and yet amazingly every imperfection and the jagged ends of broken expectations will somehow come around to fit. The world is not going to be easier, it is going tear you down and almost blind you like does a burst of hard sunlight but if you can pull yourself together, it will be a glorious day, will seem kind, even forgiving, sometimes, and ready to accept your story in its colorful collage of absurdities. And to sustain me through the years I’ve always had home. In my mind. And I think I’ve never been happier than when looking down through a plane once in a year sometimes in two and have the jagged contours of the Calcutta sky line scream at me through the silhouettes of an inky blue sky. The snaking roads seem choc-a-bloc with a hundred million kinds of vehicles, the blustering yellow ambassador stands out, a  tiny speck in the milieu, every inch is taken by buildings of every kind that seem to be clamoring for their bit of the sky, they look like an architect has laid out a very terrible, cluttered plan, everything seems so massive, such a hotchpotch and yet it is the only place that I know in the whole wide world where even the chaos is familiar and disorder seems welcoming. And in the years of building another life, of working incessantly at self in trying to realize a gamut of little dreams lived with such passion, talked of and hoped for with friends on many walks into the brilliant, scarlet horizon of Calcutta evenings, in all the time of fighting everything and holding back the tears, in all the pride with which I held myself, putting everything broken back together again and again and yet again, Calcutta was always there, it was always my shelter, my reprieve.

I am older now. How did I come to be this old? God why have the years gone by?

However, it is not so much a struggle anymore, for one expects nothing. In five years I am schooled in putting out there the strongest there is of me, of relegating the more real into the recesses and camouflaging it with what is needed at the moment, even if it were a pretense. It makes me feel a little small at times for I was once straightforward and all from the heart. For a long time I tried to hold on to it, except vulnerabilities have no place when you are working your way through the world. You don’t make friends anymore, at least I didn’t, you make connections, acquaintances, some who will respect you, understand and sometimes share your passion for things, some who are important to know, resourceful, some that are fun, good to share a drink with or go shopping, and some that you will hate your guts out but never say. I have come to understand that the best way I function is closed. You reveal nothing, not the tiniest insecurity, shirk at nothing, be surprised at nothing and definitely trust no one because that will be taken advantage of and you will in all possibility be ripped apart. But to be able to keep up to it all, always, is tiring, weighs you down. And yet it isn’t all that bleak and terrible. People are nice when you are not expecting them to be. Being emotionally not connected to someone can give you a surprising degree of freedom, a refreshing perspective to your problems, and theirs, a carefree camaraderie, with no strings attached. You learn to judge and criticize less, be more careful in voicing opinions and thoughts, listen more and accept things the way they are instead of clinging on to what you want them to be. It is making the best of what you’ve got with measured sincerity, reserving the truest of you for things that matter to you, like for me my dream, family and some friends that I’ve always had and for everything else going with the flow, with little expectation and a lot of consideration.

Yet I think I am happiest when I remember the emotion and the simplicity it came with.

I guess each one of us is somewhat this way, riding the wave of big dreams, propelled by the unbridled joy of growing up in a time when everything seemed possible and you believed that nothing would really come in the way. And then as you go and live your life, you have to carve yourself, prepare to fight whatever demons there are, while the world seems honky dory, happy and singing, as it always does on the outside. You hear from a friend’s friend that your run into somewhere, you are on facebook and some hundred updates come hurtling at you, of people you once knew, who are going places, you are unaware of the things, the insanity they are hiding, their worms and baggage, you are inadvertently always comparing and weighing yourself, to adjudge where you stand, and at the end of the day you are alone. No one to see your effort, most will not appreciate it, and almost always they will strive to bring you down. I have been there and it is because I have and I know I might again that I have tried to free myself from this burden, tried to live for the little things in the present, for the big and real things I love, experience the hundred things that I never tried, to travel and see the countless places I had always dreamt of, to not take life too seriously, to put out there an armored self ready for the beating and save a little spirit and steam for big and the little dreams that came with that girl from Calcutta.

In being me and everything that I must be I was always sustained by my memory, of home. But sadly in coming so far I think it is just that, a memory. People move on, places do to. In me coming away so far, being molded by life as it happened, in dealing with it, in becoming who I am today, I think I have been swept away from everything that I always knew as home. Inevitably everyone I was deeply connected to, everyone who I identify with my memories of home has also been pushed and steered by their destiny and in brandishing their demons, they stand today very far away. As R would claim we are all in the path of evolution. I am sad. It is sad to know that you can never go back to the life you left back. That everything that you did to survive will come in between. Further, you will not, because you are not the same person any more, you don’t want the same things even if you think you do. And the people you’ve loved, held dear are fading away, they look at you differently, they need different things, they occupy a separate plane, you cannot walk together because there is no common goal.

I’ve always believed people make places. And while it is saddening to realize how everything changed, it is heartening to know that it was once all there. There is perhaps no real road to take me back to that August evening I left Calcutta, nothing to bring back that deep sense of belonging, to a place, to the people who were the nucleus of living and dreaming for a long time. And yet that memory is all there is to rejuvenate me when the chips are down. So to close my eyes and hear the faint tring tring of a rumbling tram ambling through a foggy winter Calcutta morning down an old worldly north Calcutta, walk into boi para teeming with comforting odors of old books, of crinkled, yellow pages that were read and passed on, to lounge in the corridors of Presidency with a gathering or two, to check a familiar text from a familiar number on your phone, to know that there are these people you can call in the dead of the night, these people who loved you for who you were, despite the worst you could be, that you could go farther than you’d imagine for them, and to know that once upon a time it was all there, is heartening. And reliving everything, my ordinary story of growing up seems so extraordinary, fills me with this sense of wonder and feels like I am a part of a special plan and while there maybe no going back, there is a little hope that everything I belonged to will find me once again, that life will surprise me in the end.

No such thing as perfection

Its a weird summer this year. I have these moods traversing a sinusoid, pitiless troughs followed by seemingly sunny crests when you tell yourself there is a lot awaiting you at the end of the tunnel, that despite the palling sense of doom that this journey sometimes feels like, there is a lot to look forward to, good and interesting things, the kind of life you imagined you were meant to live, but then that doesn’t linger. Everything around you seems like a pastiche, you are crippled with helplessness, you give in, time and tide it seems must sort things out on their own, only..you can feel that this might tear you apart. I’m not going home this summer. Thankfully I did get to see my folks, although since then I have realized that India means more to me than just seeing them. And its hard to explain that if you are not living a 36 hour flight away from home. Only that ever since I moved here, I don’t remember a single year bereft of the anticipation, the eagerness, counting months, days, hours till that one date, for me always in the summer, when I could fly back. I think its partly that that makes this summer slightly empty, in a way at least. I turned 29 a week ago. Meant to write a commemorative blog post, draw on the years of wisdom if you will, or the lack of it, maybe enlist twenty nine unforgettable moments/occurrences. Then sorta gave up on that, momentarily though, its still somewhere at the back of my head. Anyways was thinking about stuff, how I’m a bundle of nerves when it comes to my research at times, how rigorous it ends up being most of the times, and how despite all of that I’ve grown to love it more than anything else, ever. It governs my moods more than most other things, and I’ve wondered that whether am suited to the life of a scientist if it so does. I think growing up I had always envisioned things differently, I pictured myself growing up to a life where the waters would be less choppy, that by thirty I would’ve found tranquility, that everything I wanted would’ve more or less been well somehow within grasp, settled? Guess that’s what the world calls it, settled.  Doesn’t help that I’m quite a narcissist, I think about me way too much, also am somewhat a perfectionist, put all of that together with an idealist boss as I have, and you have quite a recipe. I crib a lot, but am also very thankful for it. For a life that for the past four years has been in every sense punishing but somehow extremely rewarding as well. When I was younger, in college and all I often toyed with the idea of going for an MBA, quitting science and hopefully enjoying lump-some earnings, I was always into academics, had good grades, did very well in school, college and thereafter, but was never sure whether research could be my calling. And so am grateful in a way that when I eventually did take it up, despite that it was never the easier option, despite the lonely hankerings of living so far away, despite the heart-break of things mostly not panning out the way they were planned, inevitable and inseparable from research, despite the foreboding sense of desolation that the fear of lagging behind imbues, and despite the small voice within me that was unsure and hesitant, it was like I finally found my place under the sun, and bigger dreams than ever to fill my nights.

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?

 

wonder-years

The little things you do for me..

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.

 

 

home-coming ’10

I’m horribly late. In the run up to my India trip this year I had pictured myself blogging everyday, at the very least a couple of times down the whole thing. Had this mental image of what was coming up and it was so picturesque, in my head, was sure I’d be penning it all the way through, best done in real time. Anyways, that never actually worked out. And it all started off pretty badly with my flight from Pittsburgh to JFK getting canceled, of all reasons in the world because of a flight stampede in the New York skies. I call it a result of half baked organization by half wit folks manning an airport that never sleeps. The end result was that I was drained out and somewhat bruised lugging my stuff to and fro the airport and only actually started flying the next day on 14th July. This meant that I spent my birthday, 15th July alone with several glasses of chardonnay at around 30,000 feet. Not sweet. Was pretty bummed out to begin with but it actually turned out quite nice and different from most birthdays I have spent at sea-level.

My plane for India was taking off only at five in the evening and so I ended up spending almost the whole day people watching at JFK. Was quite absorbing and far more engaging than one would imagine with hundreds of flights are zooming in and out every minute.  You keep looking at the flight times, arrivals, departures and its like the airport is on the move. Its surreal. And the people, ghastly crowds heaving in and out. The lone traveler, the incessant talker, the shopaholic leering surreptitiously at the duty free shops, the snooze king sprawling shamelessly on three seats or taking over an entire passage-way, the dripping with diamonds, bathed in Chanel  kind who flits aimlessly for a bit almost heading into the reserved lounge but then plonks right beside you, slightly embarrassed, a victim of the global slow-down. Families, very chatty, brimming with McDonald’s and Wendy’s, accents of a zillion kinds, and children far too many (!) Too many queues at the bathroom, at laptop charging stations, at Starbucks, horribly expensive airport food, abysmal french fries, poor phone connectivity. Airports can be a rut. But then you see the sun dipping into an orange pool, spilling over on the tarmac, and with every passing moment you know it’ll be soon time to fly..home. And that feels worth all.

I came home to my Mom, frayed slightly by a year or so of illness and glowing by a year or so of living up her dreams. She had endured and you could feel that radiate out to you. She had battled her demons, her chemos, her radios, and the loss of a parent while preparing and appearing for her final year MA exams. It had been a full year. And as we stepped out of the airport, the night zipping tight, it was the best homecoming ever, to everything as I had always known, only richer by the angst of the year gone by.

This year my Dad got me a cake, so did R. But significantly Dad did, he never has, I mean probably when I was a kid he did, not since then I think. He doesn’t do cakes (or cards). Isn’t demonstrative that is. And so 15th July, at about 23;50 I had cake on my face, pretty nice I say. But right after we fought over the TV remote, which is far more like what we always are, so was comforting. He gave up too easy though and then readily made my bed. My bed, new quilts and pillow covers, and the fresh painted walls. Loveliness, ah! He goaded me on the next slice of mango, I could sense langda (his favorite kind) had been rocking the season and our household. He goaded me some more for the remote so that he could catch the last news byte of the day. Then nagged over my food senselessly, like he does when I get home these days and fed me an almost second dinner. We trashed Air India and Calcutta airport like we always do. He loved my new Samsonite carry-on and I said I’d let him have it, at which his eyes gleamed. My Dad loves luggage and pens. He refused to let me unpack right then and ordered me to bed (yes, that still happens to me). I think I gave in after that and drifted off to the internet. And he victoriously slunk in with the remote. At my house, everything was in place, just as always 🙂

My second cake came next morning. It was from R. I had dropped Mom at her school, was terribly groggy and jet-lagged, totally running on adrenalin but it was the best thing ever cutting another birthday cake early in the morning at his place. Tom & Jerry and fancy fire-works. R pampers me like no one. Things were what they had always been. And that’s my high and my peace.

Happy homecoming

Birthday 2010

Weddings and wonderings

There is this weird thing about me this summer. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with curiosity (and information, lots of it too) on shaadis. So am not really the type who would count the number of nemontonos (invitations) for a particular wedding season, and if you haven’t seen someone who does that, trust me, for having lived a better part of my life in a city that thrives on the gastronomical delights offered in everything, especially weddings, I have met many for whom weddings are all about a good fill. Well for me attending weddings was a nightmare for the most part. But can you blame me? I mean it was mostly of people from the para, my Dad’s subordinates, Mum’s colleagues’ children, and relatives I hadn’t really seen or heard from in a long while. If it wasn’t for the food, which it clearly never was for me, the few of the ones’ I did attend were tedious affairs, made worse by the fact that I hadn’t been able to get out of going to them. Yes there were people I knew, friends, whose weddings I sort of figured I would be a part of. That then it would mean something, something I’d enjoy and celebrate with them. Not a monotonous evening, of going through the motions, plastic smiles in a dreary crowd of people in heavy silks, heavy jewellery, heavy make-up, laden with the fragrance of flowers so much  so that it made you noxious, cursory chatter that could well induce a headache, food tonnes of it that you didn’t really care for, flashes of the bride/groom you barely knew. I hardly remember anything from these evenings, the few I did end up going to, and I blame my friends (the ones’ that are married) for doing it at the wrong time, depriving me of a real celebration. That I now live here, in the US does make it worse, and am likely to miss more of the good stuff, as am sure more friends and cousins would tie the knot in the coming months and years.

And so I don’t know much about weddings, almost next to nothing, if you don’t count the stuff you imbibe generally, from movies and all. Hadn’t really given the idea of a wedding, leave alone my own, much thought. My parents..I’d think hadn’t as well, dunno if they reckoned I’d skip the whole rigmarole, or maybe we all kind of went with the idea that whenever, where ever, the stuff would put itself together. Its quite unbelievable then, that in less than a month I’ll be married!

I have been on the diet of wedding works, do’s and don’ts for the past few weeks, and thus my education into this elaborate extravaganza of the great Indian wedding has begun. So several things, pretty much every girl I know who has done it, wants to do it again, can’t say the same for the guys. And maybe I do come across as someone who knows next to nothing about sarees and jewellery and decking oneself up, which actually is true, and so there are gasps from aunts when they hear I’m actually gonna wear a saree, there are also lots of tips on carrying oneself in the days preceding the D-day and importantly avoiding the sun and all evils that might wreck my skin and what not for the day. I feel restrained, am gonna be back home after a year and this looks like a dreary prospect. Despite all this I’m full of anticipation for the whole thing once its tied together, I want to see how it all looks..I want to see me. I think I’ll be laughing inwardly at a lot of stuff. R’s meanwhile openly declared he doesn’t see me as a coy, blushing bride. Who wants to be a simpering bride! We might be hi-fiving for all you know while the  stuff’s underway. I like this. I like us, almost right out of our days in Presidency, in our heads that is. Glad that all this razzmatazz around this wedding is just that.  A huge balloon of frolic, doing the dolling up act, music, the works, and set in our mundane lives, it is just that, an occasion for living it up!

And so there it is. I’m flying home tomorrow. Dear lovely Calcutta. I’m bracing for what has been promised to me as an experience of a lifetime. A huge affair with all my extended family coming together, cousins, uncles and aunts I haven’t seen in ages. I am all for the fun. And I’m all for learning what Indian weddings are all really about 🙂

Life etc.

So I haven’t been blogging much (read: rarely). Have kind of been in the thick of things, the constant churning in my head making it difficult to put a post together. R moved in several weeks back, we now have a proper tv, although still no cable so the delight of it all hasn’t really sunk in. Last time I was at his place in April, I watched a good 3-4 hours of trash straight up, mostly American reality shows on Mtv (khik khik). Couldn’t believe myself. I had joyously graduated into declaring that I am above things like dwindling your thumb in front of the tv for hours at an end, that I don’t run back home to catch the latest on whatever and that I don’t have patience for this kind of frivolity, it is true I don’t, well mostly with occassional slip-ups. Nevertheless, my internet speed kind of sucks nowadays and that is probably the other reason why I can’t wait to get cable and do away with snailing the net for good.

I have also realized I don’t like red wine, had a great time sampling several types of white ones though, and I think I prefer white wine to beer as well. The other nice thing is that the book addiction before bed is back, currently have been reading Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows. Very late on catching up with that, but then this speaks volumes of how sparse my reading had come to be, of late. The book I think is engaging and all but its a tad too long and glaringly predictable. Still, can’t wait for the movie.

R went back to Calcutta. Yes Calcutta not Kolkata, terribly infuriating that someone keeps correcting me on that, telling me its Kolkata, Kolkata. I don’t care much either ways but I love the sound of Calcutta, I grew up with that. It is also very annoying to have someone correct me, but then that is true anyday for anything else. Went down to the post office the other day, to mail my PAN card papers (yeah I don’t have one still, have been meaning to get that done this year) and the US Post office doesn’t have Kolkata in its system, it has Calcutta, khik khik. The lady rolled her tongue trying to pronounce Kolkata and then threw her hands up in air declaring that Express post or not, the USPS can guarantee little with a place called Kolkata/Calcutta, the ambiguity over the name clearly didn’t go down too well with her.

So yeah R went back, its been two weeks now, and a lot has been taken care of. We were very apprehensive about how well things would be looked after if we both landed in India only a couple of weeks before the wedding. It was a trade off between me hating to travel alone and the prospect of scurrying last minute. Hardly a choice then. But I think it all has panned out pretty well. He has designed an amazing reception card, and I can’t stop gushing about it. I love it that this wedding now has parts of us in it, that it wouldn’t just be two hapless graduate students dashing in and out of the country and around the fire in between. And then there is so much more to a social occasion, so many loose ends that needed to be reined in, am glad he’s there for all that and more.

Its awfully exasperating at times though when all people can think of is how exciting and rewarding a time this must be for me, because for the most part its not, its dreadfully the same as anything ever was, simply because am still here, in my same old grind, guilty that other people may have to be running around for things I’d have otherwise done. Yes its exciting to think of it and to hear of everything underway but its all too far away, still. I can grumble a little more on that I guess, after all, I do whine and vent a great deal nowadays. Which brings me to the other stuff that has kept me whining and taken off a little sheen of my joys, work has been exceptionally taxing the past few months, getting the most obvious results harder than ever and all this frankly is making me a little scared. Its crushing to not have things go smoothly for you when it is seemingly so perfect for several others, it doesn’t seem fair and it had been plaguing me with self-doubts. Although, I am trying to wish all that away, maybe it will all turn around soon if I believed in it long enough, kept up working at the dead wall, tried as many more approaches as one can think of, or maybe in the end my whining will pay off.

Among other things I found Roofafhza at a local Indian grocery store, have been indulging in that everyday now. Its horribly hot suddenly, global warming or what. Doesn’t help that my apartment is not well ventilated, it gets searingly stuffy particularly in the afternoons. However, I refuse to get air conditioning, its a bad idea to do it just for a month or two and then pay extra for the rest ten months. So there it is, the only good weather I have at home is by the window in the restroom. Tonight there is also the moon, awfully lovely. Makes me want a nice, big verandah, at this rate some classic Pittsburgh weather will do as well, incessant rain and dwindling temperatures. Or maybe I should quit mooning over the rain, grumbling over all and sundry and go take a nice long mid-night bath.

Summer song

I have a new picture on my wall. With a new month, a new picture, a new kitten on my wall. This one is peeking out of a tub and has the most demanding gaze. Its now the beginning of summer, well hopefully.. and you wouldn’t want the temperatures to plummet, not for the moment at least. I hear a meek drizzle at my window, its been a dreary Sunday. Overcast, lethargic and marred by a smattering of mournful rain. Suddenly I miss the passion with which the skies burst out on you after a sweltering day this time of the year in Calcutta. This time. The crisp Spring evening and light chill slowly giving way to a scorching summer, but somewhere in between, was this time. Blazing sun, hard blue skies, wore you down and then when you were almost broken and giving up, would come a generous shower, the flying dust and grime would be laid to rest, nature would revel with the bellowing skies where sharp sinews of light were set aflame in spurts. The wind would come hollering at you and then would come the pouring rain. Sometimes they got you when you were on your way back, from school, work, sometimes worse when you were out shopping. And then you were trapped, caught in the snarls of a city struggling to find its feet against the fierce force of the ‘kalbaishakhi’ thunderstorm. You hated it then, except that it made the nights so much cooler and your bed more habitable. It was miles better to catch it at home, writing essay-questions from Hamlet, watching the umpteenth re-run of Mili, making marble-cake because you had nothing better to do with your afternoon. You attempted to keep the windows open, at least one, and let the vagrant streams from the sky get to your shirt sleeve. That and the tiny grains of dust that briskly sped on the floor gave you in. And you were made to shut the windows. It still made glorious shapes of light on the glass panes, caking it with a breath of moisture that you could pencil your name on. Sometimes it rained like forever. The power went out. Snowy was uncomfortable because his evening walk and pleasurable peeing by the lamp-post time was taken away, he would curl up in dismay at your feet, resting his belly against the cold concrete, wafting in and out of sleep, lulled by the coolness and yet very aware of the lightening breaking outside. Dinner was often almost in the dark, sometimes by a candle struggling against the wind sneaking in through the window opened to the tiniest bit. Sometimes you got the radio to play. Old songs. It is one wild night. Next morning everything is still frayed, its a hard blue sky. An impassive mask to the passion play of the night before.  But you know it would come again, in a few days. The skies would open up, the monotone would melt, with a kalbaishakhi you will find a little bit of your impetuous self and a heart that rings true with the rain.

Remembering Spring

Homeward bound. Outside a quiet blue evening was tinted with the sullen glow of sidewalk lights and a virgin layer of snow neatly caked the walkway from my department leading up the road. You stood outside for a few minutes in the snow as it fell petulantly, unmindful of the chill, that actually seemed to take some of the day’s chafing weariness away. You reached the sidewalk and looked back to see how those footprints turned out. The flurry was a steady shower now, your footprints appeared heavy and lonesome, almost not befitting of the inspiring newness they had walked on. Your mind flits to the warm spring evenings in Calcutta this time of the year. To the burning vermilion skies you walked with everyday for years on an end. To the rainbow that bolted out all of a sudden, awash by a quirky bout of rain and then melted into the riot of holi colors. To the patchwork of gulal, broken by a maze of random feet, that made new patterns along the college corridors. To the newbies amongst the pups that were born in those corridors, that you cradled in your arms for as long as forever, that never yelped or yanked to be freed but snuggled into the palms of your hands and slept with an envious bliss. To helping your mother grade her exams. Staying up nights talking with her. To the chatty evenings at home when the power went out, when your father was most animated, the darkness lifting a queer veil letting the most hilarious tales to be told unabashedly. And when the power came back on, to finding kittu, then only a kitten perched lightly on your father’s belly. To when you walked aimlessly just so to be with people and the words chimed in brimming every distance so that you walked again and endlessly. That was a spring far away. The lamp has gone out now and I am writing in darkness.

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.

8) 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.