Jumping Jack

Remember that scene from Salaam Namaste where a very pregnant Preity Zinta craves a dessert and Saif gets it for her. I too have a craving but not for a dessert. For my city.

My roomie left for the weekend, her home is just a 4-hour journey by train. To mock my pain, God sent a close pal from Kolkata to this city during the weekend, and we met just before she boarded the flight to Kolkata and I took an auto back to my PG.

In other news, I made the blunder of watching Contagion on a Saturday afternoon. Film's nice and all but you don't want to spend your Saturday watching doctors cutting open the top of Gweneth Paltrow's head and you definitely don't want to watch Kate Winslet dying of some disease before you grasp what exactly she's doing in the film. hmm but worth a watch. Watch it okay? good.

I have also brought home a number of books from the World Book Fair knowing quite well that there are several in my cupboard still waiting to be read and also knowing quite well that I generally don't read beyond 2-5 pages from Monday to Friday. On weekends either I am reading a manuscript with terror in my heart ... afraid that I will let go of some stupid typo and discover it at a stage when it can't be rescued. My career, chosen after much deliberation and an effort to combine what I love with a job that pays me enough so I don't have to beg... has left me with very little time to do what I love. Read. I read at office but all those books just staring at me with their mournful eyes in my cupboard--I ignore. Quite sad.

I joined an aerobics class. While some friends (so-called friends) will jump to the conclusion that this is a sincere effort to reduce the waistline and boost my chances of getting a life-partner, let me tell you it is a very reluctant effort to save my neck from collapsing after I torture it for more than 10-12 hours a day by doing nothing except sitting, staring at the screen or lying down and staring the screen.  Huge probability of me developing adventitious roots or a tail - depends on what you prefer-Botany or Zoology.

The classes are very very entertaining. There are two instructors. Apes. Long hair with a "spring" in their step. They have only one motto in life -- to make people jump. SO I jump. Which would have been fine if I didn't have to bother about the view but they have very thoughtfully placed wall-to-wall mirrors so that we can see ourselves jump. Nice. Thankfully others in the class are -- an overweight aunty, a sweet punjabi woman and my roomie who does not have bones and is slim.

When I am sick and tired of looking at myself, and seeing every ounce of fat bouncing up and down in an effort to reach the firmament and be a part of some royal constellation of fat globules shining in the sky (if it sounds vulgar then thank your stars that you don't actually have to see it!) , I look at others and seeing them in the same plight I feel comforted.  And the icing on the cake is the music. Once while walking back home my roomie was singing this song...weird lyrics by a gentleman called Honey Singh (the nurse had looked at him in the delivery room and said "Honey Sing...") ... okay so I asked her what song this was and she gave a hopeless gasp and replied that few minutes ago we were jumping to that song... OKAY, equally incredulous I countered that what we jumped to were more akin to bongo drums and whatever it was there were no lyrics involved. The discussion ended. We were tired and hungry. Phew.

Oh did you know that shahi paneer in this part of the world is RED and not WHITE?

Okay bye.

A couple of months in this city and I have realized Home is where the fart is. You won't understand if you stay alone and enjoy the pleasure of farting as and when you like.

No I am not going to continue on that gross note.  So ...

Autos. 

They continue to entertain. 

At about 9.40 am. I am listening to music and trying my best to ignore the blast of cold air that's freezing my face. When...

Autowalla: Sholay picture dekhi hain?

Me: haan kyu?

Autowalla: Us mein double role kiska hain?

Me: kya? ... silence ... pata nahin.

Autowalla:  Sikke ka. (loud guffaw)  kisiko malum nahi...chahe jisko bhi pucho.

Who needs earphones...

Parents

After demanding a recital of my daily diet my mother hands over the phone to my father, who, upon hearing that my roomie is a cleanliness freak asks me whether she is having any problems adjusting with me. I had to remind him whose father he is. (Scandalizing!)

Work

Was going okay till I found a photo on my desk early one morning. A photo from a book launch. There were  5 people in the photo including me and the 4 humans apart from me occupied 50 per cent of the photo-space, rest of it was my territory. If all this fat were Helium, you'd see me as a gloriously inflated gas balloon waving at you from the Delhi-sky. 

Food

The funny thing is my roomie prefers to have ice-cream in winter as they don't melt. The not-so-funny thing is that I fall for that logic and hop down the stairs to get chocolate ice-cream at 9pm from the guy right across the street who by the way also sells mumphali. Huh.

PG

The fact that you may reach home and find that there's no water and that people will just say that and continue doing whatever they were doing calmly was not what I had ever imagined. Anyway so far I have been quite lucky. Have edible food, adequate space and a gem of a room-mate.

No this place is not home. I miss my friends, I miss those silent moments browsing books,  the loud chuckles in the restaurants and cafes, and debating for 15 minutes with Baba about who should make the evening tea. 

Yes the place is cold, commercial, rape-capital and whatever else you want to say  and yes every time I walk down a road alone I imagine the worst whenever a bike approaches but---I don't know at which precise moment it started---there's a tiny part of me that feels bad when someone criticizes the city. That does not mean that I'm not spending at least a few moments every single day planning my next visit to Kolkata. Home.

Last Christmas

Last year on Christmas Eve, we were at J’s house, and that was the first time we heard the news that S would probably get married. There was the French-Loaf-cake and the candles that wouldn’t stop burning. Now, a year later, S is married but is in Kolkata, I am in the capital thinking of amazing ways to avoid getting stuck with an ostentatious Bengali family on a picnic where little that matters and little that will make sense will be discussed. What would I like to do? Of course be in my city, with both of them, have a rocking time roaming around somewhere, quiet fun lunch, loads of coffee and gossip. But that’s not happening. A career is what should be happening. But even over that a big question mark looms. Sigh.

Having spent almost a month in this amazing city, I don’t know what I feel. The opportunities here are unmistakable. There is the promise of a career, independence, warm people (some at least!) but at the end of the day it’s not home. But then without a career, even home ceases to be home. It becomes a cauldron of unfulfilled expectations and frustrated aspirations. One just has to move out and suffer, or stay and suffer. Since if you stay you’ll have more leisure, the suffering is more acute and prolonged. But when you are here, submerged in a million worries--- job,house,rent,food,safety---it is easy to forget the pain. During the day of course. At night it’s a different story. The pillows hear the saddest thoughts. Faces of parents, worries, and the pangs of separation. Separation from parents who nagged, from the room inhabited for years, separation from friends, from the streets, sights, sounds and smells that meant ‘home’.

Anyway, Christmas was spent rather happily. Thirty minutes of standing in the balcony and staring at trees, a park and a lethargic security guard, talking with friends who were having their own adventure in Park Street (read lost phones, police stations etc), huge mug of coffee, bread eggs, a book, and a blanket. Who needs Santa!

Times of Rajdhani

Going for an interview can be pretty nerve-wracking but not when you find they have a dog... who enjoys being petted.(His name was Fluffinder) :)

The magic word while dealing with autowallahs is confidence... they can smell fear... so when they ask for 80 and you plan on paying 60, the answer is a super confident :
 "80 KYUUUUUU? 60 mein jaatein hain roz... ."
No batting eyelids, no shaky voice. Act as if there's a fleet of BMW's waiting for you and you are doing him a HUGE favour by choosing this mode of transport. (Don't be foolish enough to try this after dark, when you are stranded with limited transport options! )

Also the metro here is disconcerting, intimidating but not frightening... if you can read that is... everything is clearly labelled, so don't go asking for info from suspicious looking stupid people who will give you the wrong info very confidently, instead if you really want to ask... ask young student-like fellows... they know their stuff and are usually helpful. The first compartment is reserved for ladies and be prepared to get elbowed more in that compartment. Somehow ladies in the ladies compartment feel that now since they are in familiar territory they can poke around... it's cute...like the familiarity between lovers who make a pashbaalish out of each other's well-endowed legs. And the ladies are fun to watch, there are aunties dressed as 18-year-olds, there are office going well-groomed ones who eat cream-cracker biscuits and touch up their makeup, and there are kids... I shall stop right there.


Also..


You know God is kind when you expect to be bossed around at work and instead you are blessed with extremely nice seniors.

I think people in this city have their own warehouse where they dump their winter clothes in summer... where else will one keep all this junk? Don't ask me about colder countries... I have no clue how they manage.

And staying at a relative's place can be quite entertaining...from feeding crows on auspicious days, to offering water to the moon...it's a nice live show. I still haven't had to face the PG drama and though things are not exactly as home, at times you gotta be thankful that you don't have to worry about a nice meal when you get back and that someone will care enough to buy a Corex syrup when you have a cough. I shall enjoy this luxury while it lasts.

And now the blanket beckons.

Good Night!

It breathes! It thinks! It's not a mutual fund!

Hello. I have rather too polite in many of my previous posts, perhaps because I was blissfully sitting at home, meeting friends. But thanks to the wondrous occasion of Bijoya, coupled with the fact that my father is the youngest of 7 children, I have been touring the city to seek blessings from my relatives. I usually go on these trips, not because their blessings work, but because the visits don't last for than 2-3 hours. I can be on my best behaviour for that long. A little longer and the mask slips.  So it's usually few funny replies, a lot of very sweet smiles and some banal question-answer sessions. All of which is routine for me.

But there are  few individuals who scare me. Within two hours, they almost damage my ability to think straight for the next twenty-four. Now we all have some relatives who are self-appointed career and relationship consultants, offering advice at an alarming rate. This gentleman I will now talk about belongs to that category but transcends it. In the guise of giving me advice he talks about himself and his daughter.

He asks me what I intend to do. This is where things get difficult as my intentions don't always make sense to them. He asks me the "scope" of my chosen profession. I stare back not knowing what he means by the word scope. Then he proceeds to explain what he means.

What does an editor do? (Of course he assumes I am one. Which I am not. Yet.) So I explain. He then asks "Why will any author except a new one listen to what an editor says?" I try to explain that editors are not superior mortals trying to make everyone listen to them. They try to do what's best for a book. He nods.

Then it dawns upon him that I am not one. So he asks whether what I am saying is based on assumption or facts. I have forgotten my reply.

He then proceeds to express his view that this is a "behind-the-scene" job and asks me why have I not chosen one  in which  I can be "on the stage". The metaphor is quite lost on me. My mind drifts to the time I played the Shojaru in Ha ja ba ra la. Anyway, realising that it is a metaphorical stage,  I say not everyone wants the same thing in life.

Then he comes to the point. The point that has been the most annoying part of any conversation that involved me for the past few months. Since I have cleared the entrance exam for college lectureship and I can get a scholarship for further studies if I get into any research program it is a great puzzle why am I not doing that. 'Why am I not doing what?' I ask. Appearing for interviews, applying for a Ph.D etc. I say I don't want to teach right now. Also, that I don't have a proposal for research. Except that I don't say it bluntly, I ask "Who will write the proposal?" The sarcasm is lost on him. He replies "no one writes it for anyone." Thank god he told me!

Anyway he tells me that proposals don't just happen, one has to go very deep into the subject and discuss ideas. He talks non-stop for a few minutes.  My  I-am-a-patient-woman expression is almost giving way to an I-am-a-patient one, when he stops. Stops to tell us that his daughter's IQ is above average and that he is known by everyone in his para, from rickshaw wallahs to vegetable sellers. Then he returns to his favourite topic. Me.

"I am not discouraging you," he begins,  and tells me that this line has no safety and security.  I say I can't teach now, because I need to sleep at night. His wife, so long busy serving refreshments, gets offended and asks why do I think teachers don't sleep at night. I hurriedly explain that I meant if I don't do something that I really want to do, I won't sleep at night. ( All this is extremely ironical because I am a chronic insomniac, but they don't need to know that.)

Then to highlight the insecurity of this line, the gentleman entertains us with the tale of a journalist who headed a respected newspaper few years ago and is now the head of a recently launched daily which is not that great. I wonder what line he was talking about when he comes to my rescue and explains - this media line. With great emphasis on media in the way people talk about escorts, brothels and stuff. I don't even bother to explain that I am not in that media line.  I am too busy eating an egg-roll - the only saving grace of the evening.

These paragraphs obviously represent an edited version of what happened.

Am I overreacting? I am sorry if you think so. Though I agree I need to be more indifferent because at the end of it all, these people don't matter.

No, I do not come from a house which has not allowed me to do what I want. I have done exactly what I want, at every step of my life. My parents have never objected. So have many of my friends. But it has not been easy. I know some did not even have this luxury and face more serious challenges. But I can't speak for them. I know parents and relatives want the best for us. I do not question their intention. But what they think is best for us might not be what we want.

They have spent huge amounts bringing us up, have given us the best that they could in terms of education and I'd like to believe that the more responsible among us, keep that in mind. ( Some don't. Like the ones buying 5 phones in a year. I am not talking about them.) Their investment is not only financial, they invest time, perhaps the best time of their lives, and also I can't begin to talk about the emotional investment. However, that, and that alone does not give them the right to dictate how we live our lives. Safety, security and status (of how I hate that fucking word) are relative.

So dear would-be parents, if you want to treat your yet-to-be-born kid as a mutual fund that must provide a high return on investment, then take my advice and invest in a high-quality condom.

Good Night.

Durga versus Meredith.

A delicious Moha Shoshthi spent at home watching TV, reading, chatting on the phone, suffering headaches and power cuts.

I have watched many, many, many episodes of Grey's Anatomy. What is that you ask? My dear intellectual friend, kindly bring a paper and pencil. Good. Now draw four, or five or may be six dots. Name the central dot - 'meredith' , name the most shapely, adorable dot 'Shepherd', others don't even bother. Now draw lines. Lines connecting the dots. Lines hovering around the dots. One line passing through three dots, making triangles etc. Now over the lines write "sleeps with", "dies", "marries", and "has a baby" ...  you now have a blueprint of the plot. But it's still very watchable. Don't you dare judge me.

As usual I have digressed, what I really wanted to say was, that I feel like a surgeon and I shall analyze the syndrome of thakur dyakha.  No one actually sees the Goddesss, which in some places is a 15 inch thingy worshipped by a puroot (I spell it this way, since it rhymes with churoot, and I always imagine the former with smoke coming out of their orifices) . So the Goddess that symbolizes this Divine power, exists as a schizophrenic entity- the gigantic one to enthrall us, and the tiny one, worshipped by the puroot. Then we go about messing with our Pujor chuti and do more hectic stuff than we do on non-chuti days. Pujo-madness, pujo-frenzy, pujor-jama, pujor-egg-roll ... all to lull us into the comfort of believing that we are very sane people who don't shop all the year round,  people who don't touch junk food at all etc. Baudrillard baby would have had a field day with us. We would be like field rats in his lab.

Anyway.

There are species like me, who are very enthusiastic as long as they are well-fed, not feeling pee/poop/puke-ish and not experiencing any leg ache trauma. Then there are species like my father, who are self-proclaimed nastiks (atheists), yet will visit a pandal in the North Pole if they can. Just for fun.

Of course he visits the pandals on his own. Now that I am an adult (an obese one by the grace of God), I can't be dragged into these adventures.  So he comes home in the afternoon and all I have to do is ask , and he rattles off half a dozen names- Shuruchi Sangha, Badam Tola, Cheshotti Polli, Mudiali.... I beg him to stop. He proceeds with the description of each pandal and each idol, and the opinions. Camera? That's for less articulate losers. My father told a man with an umbrella that he was doing a great job by carrying an umbrella, that saved not only him but others behind him in the queue from the heat. The man apparently was very happy because others had been complaining about poking and stuff... losers of course they were. huh.

Once we went to visit the Mohd, Ali Park Pandal , where the theme was peace. The Durga idol had pigeons instead of weapons. The symbolism was lost on my father, and he asked the already-exhausted organisers- "ki korechen dada? payra, payra, payra ...eta Durga?" ... we pretended we did not know him.

Then once I was dragged into a 'bojra', a 'launch' which sailed on the Hooghly between the two bridges and it was supposed to be beautiful. However it was not because the loos were dirty. Then Tanusree Shankar's troupe was supposed to dance on another 'bojra' and we the lesser mortals were to view this divine dance from our own 'bojra' after that there was hindi songs and ... Biriyani.

The grand ride home was in the car of a  friend's crazy relative who took revenge on a driver who did not know the directions by not giving him the directions. Crazy relative kept mum as the driver took wrong turns and kept asking 'dada kon dike jabo?'  Friend, who sat  beside me , sms'd "I am sorry" throughout the ride as I glared at her. My bladder would have burst. It did not. I live to tell this tale.

There was a time when my entire maternal family went for a whole night trip. One aunt of mine, eats a lot, her children too eat a lot but she always thinks they are starved, UN-calendar, rib-cage-exposed-type babies. Anyway so she ate a lot and just before the car reached College Square- nature called. Very loudly. She was led towards the pay-and-use toilet. A concerned relative offered a bottle of water you know just in case. This relative's son immediately screamed ... "Ma ota jol na...Sprite."

I don't know if one has ever seen the Goddess on these trips. I haven't. (Had I been a guy I would have been pleased with other kinds of Goddesses but even that is impossible. ) The point is, I have seen enough to stay at home and watch Grey's Anatomy on Shoshthi. Shantih.

PS:  Latest Updates-
a.Bitchy woman doing her research in yankee-doodle nation is back town.

b.Father mistook one person's wife for another's and wondered why the father-in-law of the wife1  was spending so much time with wife2. Mother revealed that Father-in-Law of wife 1 is the father-in-law of wife 1. Mystery solved with a hearty laugh and zero embarrassment. Welcome to my family.

c.If someone asks my youngest niece her name, she says "Ami Ghosh", her mother's name is "Maa Ghosh" and father's...of course "Baba Ghosh".

Okay Bye.

Influenza

Don't you just love the word Influenza? Of course you won't if you think of a mucus filled snout but just think of the word as a word and forget the meaning ( Signifier ... Signified...remember? Yes now forget it.) If you still don't love it... then say it out loud...I n f l u e n z a....  it has a certain musical quality.

If it wasn't a disease it could have been ...erm...

"I am Princess Influenza ..."

"I'd love to visit the exotic land of the Influenza tribes."

"Harry Potter stared at Professor Gogoretti as he performed the 'Influenza' curse on the mule, of course Hermione wasn't looking, she knew it by heart."

etc.

Hmm. Beautiful.

Now let's come back to mucus-filled snouts. The problem is all good things in life are fast disappearing. Earlier whenever I had a cold, a tiny part of my heart felt great, because it knew that I would have two teaspoons of that delicious, orange Triaminic Syrup. Then it became Numenic Syrup. Then it disappeared.

I also loved the white tiny sweet Homeopathic pills which never did any good. Now that my mother allows me to do what I feel like, I don't choose Homeopathy treatment, but I miss the pills. Then there were green rubbery capsules filled with some kind of oil. You just had to put one in hot water and inhale the steam, capsules dissolved and emitted a nice smell. That has been banned.

Now all I have is disgusting Otrivin which leaves a bitter aftertaste and Cetzine without which I can't live through a cold and which makes me sleep like a log.

Anyway. Bye.