An Immigrant and Carl

I was fresh off the boat those days when I landed a job in a downtown hotel as a Select Guest coordinator. New marriage, new job, new country – life, then, was a little overwhelming, very exciting and full of hope. I was trying to understand this new country – its culture, tradition and most importantly, the accent. There were many ‘aha’ moments and then there were ‘oh my goodness, is that true?’ moments. At work I was somewhat of a novelty. In the mid nineties, I was the only Indian in that company so the questions I got ranged from ‘did you go to school on an elephant?’ to ‘are you an Indian princess?’ to ‘are you so quiet because if you talked loudly the tigers will come and get you in your country?’ (yes, I have been asked this question in complete seriousness. And yes, I used to be very quiet once upon a time, mainly because I did not understand what people were saying, the accent, you see!)

They were days when I looked down upon unfamiliar American sports and considered baseball as a poor cousin of the king of sports, cricket and considered American football bestial. Sean tried a few times to expound the virtues of baseball (faster than cricket) and of his team Red Sox but I argued relentlessly to prove him wrong. He made fun of cricket and I made fun of baseball.

As a Guest Coordinator, I had to attend meetings every morning with the Assistant General Manager of the hotel along with the heads of reservation, front desk, hospitality etc. One time, the hotel was hosting a big event where love and pride of Maryland, the star baseball player of the state was going to feature. So at the meeting, I said, “So when Carl Ripken arrives….”. I was cut off quite rudely as the room erupted in laughter. There were loud guffaws all around me. I looked at them puzzled. What caused this eye watering mirth? The Assistant GM said, “What did you say? Carl Ripken? Hahahahaha. Guys, we have to take her to a ball game. We need to educate her in baseball! It is our responsibility!” More hahahahahas followed. I was still puzzled. “What is so FUNNY?” The head of Reservations was a very nice woman who finally wiped her tears and said, “His name is CAL Ripken and he is a legend in these parts!”

See, growing up in a country which was under British rule for many, many years, I knew the language relatively well and I was certainly familiar with names like Tom, Dick, Harry, John, Johnathan, Carl, Bill, William, even Julian (Enid Blyton, Famous Five, in case you are wondering). I was not aware someone could be named Cal. I thought my American mates said Cal but they just pronounced Carl in a different way than I did. And yes, I perhaps never encountered Ripken’s name in written words. There are many excuses I can provide but the bottom line is, I never lived down that story during the time that I worked at that hotel. I was often the target of a friendly banter about ‘Carl’ Ripken.

Cal Ripken is coming to my library for a book talk. I have a baseball crazy almost 11-year-old, who has read Cal’s books and would dearly love to see this legend and perhaps shake his hand, if he is allowed. The tickets to that event sold out in four minutes and I could not get him a seat. His face fell when I told him that. Now our only hope is to try to buy a book and see if he can get a picture with Cal. In between calling the library to secure a spot and trying online, I remembered this story from the past when I did not even know the name of this man at one point. And here I am, getting excited that he will use a room close to my office as his green room before he talks about his book, and I may get a glimpse of him. I have indeed come a long way!

I don’t think about it often, after living in this country for so long, but I realized yesterday what a daunting task it is for immigrants to any country to learn whatever they can about the cultural, social and political history of the land they have emigrated to. The venture is exciting, enlightening and yes, overwhelming.

Just another day in paradise

It was a regular Tuesday evening – get your homework done, did you get a snack, alright get in your swimsuit, if we don’t rush out of the door now we will be LATE! RYAN!!! These are the sentences heard in my house every Tuesday evening in my shrill, high pitch, annoying voice. This particular Tuesday was no exception. I am not sure what came over me but before we headed out I told Ryan jokingly, ‘Go give your sister a kiss!’ Even as I said it, I jangled the car keys in my hand and took steps towards the door knowing the gagging sound that would follow this command. I expected an emphatic “NOOOOO!” What I got was, “Ok, I will!” I was surprised. This display of affection is VERY, VERY…..I mean, truly rare.
Sahana, from her room indulgently cried out, “No need! I don’t need a kiss!” But I saw her brother go in her room anyway! And then…….

A BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM, “MAMA, HE RUBBED DIRTY SOCKS ON MY FACE! I AM GOING TO KILL HIM!”

The brother ran out giggling with the sister in hot pursuit! “I am going to kill you!!! He rubbed his dirty sock on my face! Uggggh! Gross!”

The culprit was caught, thrown on the couch, sat upon and tickled. There was squealing and laughter as well as a valiant effort on my part to separate them. Clock was ticking. We were late. As I watched them wrestle, I had an out of body experience, watching the scene from up above – two of them laughing, wrestling, squealing and me laughing as well as I shouted above the din to stop and get going ‘this very minute’!

The moment did not last long. I hauled the boy out of the house, into the car and sped towards the pool. However the little moment of mirth made a difference to the Tuesday routine. These little moments are the ones worth cherishing. So these little moments find their place in my blogs.

Pears Soap

As my mother unwrapped a bar of Pears soap and slid it on the soap dish in our common bathroom, we knew winter in Kolkata was official. Those of you who have grown up or lived in India would attest to the fact that winter in India (at least most parts of India) is a season of relief and joy. After the stifling heat of the summer came refreshing monsoons. Then monsoon and constant rain became an irritation. The roads were a mess, waterlogging brought life to a standstill, commuters looked up at the sky with a frown as they tried avoiding the raindrops from their neighbor’s umbrella. Monsoons gave way to hemanta (fall). For us, Bangalis, that was the time to look up at the cerulean sky spotted with cottony clouds and dream of Durga Pujo. After the pujos were over, there was a let down period of a few weeks till the blessed cold season descended upon us. And the advent of winter, for me, was the fragrance of Pears soap in the bathroom. I think that soap had a decent amount of glycerin in it to moisten the drying skin during winter time or so the company boasted in it’s advertisement. I believe this was a family tradition – this bringing out of the Pears soap. My grandmother heralded winter with Pears and so did my mother and aunts. Why stop a good thing?

I wanted to eat fish today. Not the fillets that you get in the supermarkets here. I wanted fish with its tail, head and eyes intact, just like we have it at home. So after cooking dal and a vegetable dish for family dinner, I braved the cold, jumped in my car and raced to the Indian grocery store to buy me some fish. As I put in dal, spices, paneer and other staples in my cart, I came across a nicely built pyramid of Pears soap. I picked one up and breathed in. It made me smile. The fragrance reminded me of myself as a little girl demanding the lep (a comforter stuffed with cotton) to be brought out in October (the temperature did not dip down then, only the evenings held the promise of cooler days). Ma and baba teased me for being ‘Sheet kature” (not sure of the exact translation, perhaps cold wimp). It reminded me of Tuhina, the one and only body moisturizing solution that was bought in our house. Do any of you remember Tuhina? Is it even manufactured anymore? Winter in Kolkata meant family outings at the zoo, complete with boiled eggs, nolen gur er sandesh (sweets made with special molasses) and oranges. Winter in Kolkata meant school picnics in the grounds of Victoria Memorial. Winter in Kolkata meant badminton games, fruit cakes, brightly lit Park Street, Christmas. Winters in Kolkata meant Kul er achar. Winters in Kolkata meant Saraswati pujo and yellow sarees. Winters in Kolkata meant Kolkata Bookfair. Winters in Kolkata meant colorful shawls and vying for a spot in the sun. Winters in Kolkata also meant falling in love with the love of my life.

The whiff of Pears at the Indian Grocery store reminded me I loved winter once. I have not felt the soft caress of Kolkata winter for a very long time now. My thin Indian skin can not bear the intense cold that I experience here. I find no joy in bundling up, feeling my face freeze or slip and slide in ice. I still have not learnt to walk on ice or drive on snow. But I have learnt to love parts of winter here too. The silhouette of bare trees stretching up to the sky, waiting patiently to fill up with leaves, is beautiful. Snowfall is beautiful. My husband’s exuberance after a snowball fight with the kids always tugs at my heartstring. The snotty, red faces of my two children as they sip hot chocolate after a particularly cold day are a joy to watch. Sitting on my favorite couch on a winter afternoon while reading a book makes me feel completely content. The warmth that envelopes me as I open the front door and enter my little house reminds me I am lucky. Yes, I have learnt to love some parts of winter here too.

I bought a bar of Pears soap and I used it when I came home. It reminded me of my mother. Now I am surrounded by fragrant memories of winters left behind. This winter afternoon, all of sudden, became beautiful!

100 Day Saree Respect

I was made aware of this celebration of sarees on a social networking site. Women posted saree clad pictures on Facebook and told a little story or memory associated with that particular saree. I believe the notion was to highlight the elegance of this beautiful ethnic wear and boost this industry. One particular friend of mine wrote beautiful memories with each and every saree she wore. Not only did she look beautiful, but her stories made a fascinating read and her sarees, to me, became much more meaningful. Stories and memories inter-weaved within the threads – what a fabulous concept.

My sarees are well-loved but not much worn. They stay well guarded in a closet in my basement as I live my life in jeans, trousers, sweaters and shirts. Sometimes I harangue my husband to take me out on dates so I can drape one of my lovely sarees. Swim meets and baseball games get in the way. So when I open the closet that house my sarees, I stroke them longingly and make plans……one of these days I will wear this one or that. And then the weather turns frigid. However, the hope remains – next spring, next summer, next fall. In the mean time, I acquire more sarees. They come bearing love – love of my mother and father, my sisters and brothers (cousins), my aunts and uncles from home.

Two of my sarees have a story or memory with my mother that I want to share. I had heard the name of a saree store called Byloom in Kolkata. I had seen photos of sarees bought from Byloom. Their texture, design, color combination seemed different, unique, more to my taste. Two days before I was scheduled to return to United States, my mother and I decided to pay a visit to this saree store and see with our own eyes what the hype was all about. The plan was to simply pay a visit, look at their wares and then turn around and come back home. My suitcases were full, and my purse was light. I had a little bit of Indian money left in cash and I decided to take just that with me. I took out my credit cards along with my debit card and left them at home. If I did not have plastic, I would not be tempted to overspend. Wait, why was I thinking of spending? My suitcase was full, right?

My mother and I are both geographically challenged so after asking at least 3 people for directions we arrived at the store. The last direction was asked right in front of the store, so when the gentleman who pointed to the store right across the street and gave us a strange look we felt slightly embarrassed. We walked in and promptly got lost again. This time we lost ourselves in colors, patterns and texture. The salesladies were amazing at their job, the colors were splendid and rich, the textiles smelled of home and comfort. I, not a fashionista or lover of clothes by any means, was hooked. My mother, an impulsive shopper and an ardent admirer of fashion and clothes, was miserable. I had instructed her not to bring money. We were just going to look, remember?

We had never done better math in our lives!! I bought a saree for my mother. That was it, I had money (cash) for that – parting gift to my mother before I left India. And then the salesladies did their magic, “Didi, look at this color on you!” They draped a pink saree on me. Three of them came over to ooh and aah over it. My mom joined in. Then they found a blue one, a little more expensive. They double ooh aahed over it. My ma joined in again. The oohs and aahs went up exponentially with the value of the sarees – just an observation. I was calculating fast in my head. I had two days left before my flight departed, no one would make blouses for those sarees. I had to buy ready made blouses for them. Groan! More calculations. Finally, when I had hardened my heart against amazing sales pitches, when I had closed my eyes against the splendor of colors, when I had shut my ears to my mother’s berating at making her leave her money at home, I headed to the cashier with my grumbling mother in tow. I told the cashier I bought some stuff but I had X amount of rupees. I was not savvy enough to calculate the sales tax in my head so I may not be able to buy all that was being packed for me. He smiled politely and said they accepted credit cards. “Ummm…I am not carrying my credit card!” I mumbled. My mother, I think, growled.

As the cashier tallied up my purchases, I realized I held my breath. Fortunately, I had enough money to pay for it all with about 15 rupees to spare. Feeling buoyant and happy we sailed out of the store swinging our bags. And we laughed joyfully. The memory is not about having enough money to buy those sarees though. The memory is about getting lost with my mother, hearing sales pitches with her, being admired by her, being scolded too and finally laughing giddily over our joint naughtiness. I am not sure I have rightfully penned the day, the story or the feeling. My mother and I were more than simply a mom and child that day. That day we were co conspirators, we were math whizzes (somewhat), we were rule breakers (rules created by us), we were quick planners, we were fast shoppers, we were fellow gigglers, we were happy bag swingers. We were perhaps more friends that day than parent and child. We were also hiding some tears behind our laughter at the upcoming goodbye. It was our last show down before the curtain of years fell till we were together again.

On her birthday, this memory stands out. Happy birthday, Ma! Here is to many more years of rule breaking, bag swinging, saree conspiring, and of course mindless laughing after being naughty. We Bengalis do not say “I love you’ because it does not need to be said, I know. This Bengali has learned to say it anyway. Moreover, she loves to say it.

I love you, Ma!

Here are the sarees, which have this precious memory!

String bean

No matter what you do, never ever call a 10 year old would-be athlete who is flexing his muscles in a skin tight, two sizes small Under Armor undershirt, looking extremely skinny – a string bean. You will get an uproar of protest and you will be subjected to almost half an hour of persuasive argument that his muscles are not string beans and you will be made to witness him flex his muscles in different (very funny) ways to prove his point. I am warning you, don’t do it.

I did not do it either. Of course, I know better. It is the big sister who did it. On a lovely fall Sunday, our resident would-be athlete was getting ready for his game of baseball. It was the first game, we did not have the team shirt yet, so he was going to go in a stylish black and grey, hand-me-down Under Armor undershirt. He wears that particular one for superstition as well as style. However, it is a couple of sizes small on him. I watched the entire process of trying to put that shirt on with different maneuvers. I tried to intervene when I became alarmed at the prospect of his limbs getting stuck in the tangle of the sleeves of the shirt but I was paid no heed. What do I know? I am just the mother. So I left the scene to pay attention to other chores that needed looking after. In the mean time, he got the shirt on (I really am not sure how) and went in front of the mirror to check his reflection. He must have immensely liked what he saw since he went to his sister’s room to brag. I was told he started doing some ninja moves in front of his sister to show off the muscles and “six packs” (two packs max) that were highlighted by the tightness of the shirt. Ryan is by no means skinny but he is on the slender side. However the shirt had constricted his muscles so tightly that he looked like a straight line. Sahana watched him spring around her room for a while with bemused expression and then said with an indulgent smile, “Dude, you look like a string bean!”

The dude was in the throes of vanity and hence the term string bean did not bode well with his ego.

“I am NOT a string BEAN! Mom, Sahana called me a string bean!”

This was said with chagrin. His self worth was bruised, ego affronted. He ran out of Sahana’s room to do his ninja maneuvers in front of me to repudiate Sahana’s comment.

“Do you see my muscles?” He asked hopefully.

The only words popped in my mind were….you guessed it…string beans. And laughter – bubbling, uncontrollable laughter threatened to frizz out of me at his antics and his skinny arms, flexed hard to show off. I controlled my twitching mouth and oohed and ahhed appropriately to salvage the vanquished pride. I said he was starting to look strong and if he ate right and continued to exercise he will grow big and strong and most importantly, healthy.

Sahana continued to call him string bean but he is used to her teasing so with my support, he dealt with it better by trying some ninja moves on her. Before the situation could escalate, I said, “Oh look at the time. You need to get going. Get your bag and water!”

Baseball saved the day. But Sahana and I had a good laugh behind his back about his skin tight shirt and his stringy bean ness. But don’t tell him that 😀 !

Please figure this out for me.

On every Mother’s Day, I get a gift of seeds. When Sahana started this tradition, I was immensely touched by the thought behind it. I am a nurturer, nourishing my saplings so they become big, strong trees. Ryan has kept the tradition alive. This year I received pretty flower seeds, chilli pepper seeds ( since I hail from the land of hot peppers) and a tomato plant.

After careful nurturing and waiting and observing for the better part of summer, the pepper plant has beautiful peppers, the flowers are gorgeous and the tomato plant has plump, green tomatoes. We are all very, very excited because we are not a family of green thumbs. We end up killing our green children. This one time we did not and understandably we all smile widely as we walk by our flowers and our produce.

My resident entrepreneur, however, is at his mercenary best.
“Mom, I have decided to give you a family discount. For you, and only you each tomato is going to cost 75 c and each pepper is going to cost a nickel. For others, tomatoes are a dollar and peppers are 20 c.”

“Wait! What?? How did the produce become yours, might I ask?”

“Well, I weeded and I watered them. So I labored and so the tomatoes and peppers are mine. But I will sell them to you at a discounted price!”

“But they were my gifts! You gave them to me! And I paid you for weeding! You were my employee! You can not claim ownership!!!”

A hot debate ensued. He did not understand my logic. He was illogical to begin with. Finally, I became the mom voice and said, “Forget about it. The tomatoes are mine, the peppers are mine. You, my friend, are mine! So deal with it!”

He has not given up yet. The issue of tomatoes and peppers come up often. Nothing has been harvested. I am expecting a blood bath when I actually pick the vegetable. Stay tuned for the epic war.

Never a dull moment.

The ‘talk’

A few months ago, my nine year old came to and said in an exasperated voice, ‘Can you please do the talk with me?’
My response was a clueless, ‘What?’
‘The talk! Sahana says I can not watch her show with her because I need to have the talk first. Can we please get the talk done so she can let me watch the show with her? She won’t tell me what it is!’
I, somehow, deflected attention from ‘the talk’ to lion whisperer Kevin Richardson or life cycle of a toad or something of that esoteric nature. Deflecting the attention of a nine year old boy was not hard. I simply was not ready and I also wanted his father to talk to him about puberty, changing body first while slowly initiating ‘the talk’. And moreover, I wanted him to read books about it. I made a mental note to look up books. Then I forgot.

This summer Ryan has zeroed in on his career goal. At the ripe old age of 10, he has decided he wants to be an animal behavorial scientist and in preparation for that, he has been watching innumerable animal videos, reading informational books, researching and writing page long essays on them. All this was good till I heard another curious call of ‘Mom can you come here for a minute?’

I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel and followed his voice to discover my son enthralled in a video of kangaroos mating.

‘What is this? Why do they jump on each other like that? I have seen lions do this too on lion videos?’

There was no deflection then. I mentally gnashed my teeth at my ever traveling partner as I took a deep breath and launched into the ‘talk’! There were myriad emotions on the face – curiosity, bewilderment and finally disgust.

‘So do people do this once in hospitals and then babies are born?’

‘No!’ More explanation.

‘So did daddy…’

I cut him off right away saying I will be happy to entertain questions related to the whole process but I will not answer any personal questions.

He gave it a minute and said a disgusted ‘Ewww!’

There were follow up questions of course. And I answered them to the best of my ability. I also reminded him not to discuss this with friends because it is only fair that their parents get to give them books and right information. He agreed. I mentioned to Sean that I have had the conversation with our son. He laughed a ‘phew, thank goodness’ laugh and I hit him on the arms.

However, I emphasized to Ryan if he ever had any questions about this, he can always come to me or DAD! DAD CAN ANSWER HIS QUESTIONS TOO! ( please note the emphasis)

I must say it was not as hard as I thought it would be. I did have a little pang of regret that this somehow signified a loss of innocence for my last baby (which I admit, is silly). But now I have books for him to read and of course Google to research if I can not answer questions that, I am sure, are coming my way. Interestingly enough, when I offered him the book that I picked out from the library, he did not want to read it or look at it. He got lost in Gabriel Finley’s world of ravens and riddle (Gabriel Finley and the raven’s riddle by George Hagen). Oh well, puberty and knowledge can wait. They are going nowhere.

Is it worth it?

“The Old Rag Mountain hike in the Shenandoah National Park is one of the most popular hikes in the mid-Atlantic region. With many spectacular panoramic views, and one of the most challenging rock scrambles in the park, this circuit hike is a favorite of many hikers. But be prepared for the crowds. This is the only hike we give a star rating for solitude.” So says http://www.hikingupward.com/SNP/OldRag/ and yes, they were right about the solitude. There is no solitude to be had if you plan your climb later than 7:00 am.

Although we had planned to get in the car by 5:00 am and be at Old Rag by 7:30, ready to climb, we over slept. By the time we arrived at the parking lot, there were quite a few hikers spraying sun tan lotion and readying their hiking sticks. Our journey began quietly. Sahana, being almost sixteen requested to hike alone, without us. She took off from us as soon as we reached the base of the mountain, lugging her back pack on her shoulders where she carried her own snack, a liter of water, her own sandwich and a surprise that I will reveal later. Sean, Ryan and I were left to our own devices. Sean, of course, was the mule of the hiking party, he carried 2 liters of water and our food. I carried my camera. Ryan carried himself.

Old Rag is a very popular hiking destination with a summit elevation of 3291 feet located within the gorgeous Blue Ridge mountains in Virginia. From different elevation points one can get breathtakingly beautiful panoramic views of the farming fields of rural Virginia down below and the peaks of the Blue Ridge mountains surrounding Old Rag.

This was my second climb, Sean’s fourth and the children’s third. They were professional climbers of Old Rag and they cheered the newbie (me) on with very encouraging endearments like, “you are doing great mountain goat, mama!” “What a mountain goat wife I have!” so on and so forth. I had half a mind to tell them I don’t appreciate being called a mountain goat but I was panting hard so could not talk. We all knew the trail started innocently enough and then slowly increased in grade. Personally, the walk through the woods does not excite me much unless I spot a gorgeous yellow butterfly, or an interesting worm on the trail, or perhaps a nameless flower growing on the side. The view is hidden by foliage and the only sound you hear are the bird songs, if you pay attention, or the voices of fellow hikers or the soft rustling of the stream at the bottom of the mountain. The gurgling of water fades away as you ascend towards the top. I stay focused on my own breathing and the burning of my leg muscles to truly appreciate the quiet beauty of the woods around me. And I get irrationally competitive. If I see a hiker pass me, I scramble up quicker to pass him or her. It is a silly quirk.

After about nine switchbacks and 2 miles of woods we reached the first vista. And from that point the rocky scramble started. My family goes back to Old Rag again and again and endures the 2 miles of walk in the increasingly steep trail in the woods just for that rocky scramble that leads to the summit. And a scramble it is. Some times one has to pass through a tiny crevice within the boulders, sometimes one has to jump from one boulder to another quite a distance below. We scraped our arms, Sean took a tumble, I was on all fours most of the time, yet we had big smiles on our faces every time we crossed or hopped over a particularly challenging boulder.

Sahana had pushed herself to reach the rocks first and waited for us there to catch up. I apologized to her for keeping her waiting: “I am sorry I took so long! I had to rest in between to catch my breath and drink water!”
The ever polite girl replied, “You did great mama! Just climb at your own pace, I did not mind waiting at all!”

And I could see why one would not mind waiting:

We laughed as we hurt, we teased and we got scared together! We bonded over our jumps and encouraged each other on. “You can do it” “Just Jump, don’t think about it!” “Don’t look at the ledge, your legs can easily jump that distance!” And we did not think, we did not look at the ledge, we sometimes gave each other a little push, an extended hand.

And then, all of a sudden, we had reached the top. There was the cerulean sky above us, the huge boulders holding us up and blue mountains surrounding us.

The hikers who were climbing with us, who gave us words of advice, told us where a better foothold was, took our help too, arrived a little after or before us. People of all ages, shapes, sizes had climbed the mountain. We encountered true solidarity when hikers unknown to each other yet with the same goal gave each other a push, a little help, a hand to overcome a particularly difficult stretch of terrain. Finally we all made it to the top and we all had the euphoric feeling of achievement, we nodded at each other and smiled. Then we competed with each other to find a shady spot beneath the rocks for a picnic lunch. The sun was strong and we all looked for shade. At this point, my daughter brought out a copy of “A Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley to read at the summit of Old Rag Mountain. She had carried the copy in her backpack to read at the mountain top after a hard yet satisfying climb, surrounded by mountains. She thought that was a fitting book to read in that ambiance. I felt a surge of pride at her nerdiness.

We ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crunched on some trail mix, almost finished the water leaving just a little for the hike back and simply soaked in the purity of our surroundings. I wish there were fewer people but oh, well! Old Rag belonged to them as much as it belonged to us. After climbing even more boulders at the top and seeing the panoramic view from every which angle we decided to make the long trip back down. There are two ways one can come down – one take the fire trail which did not have any rocks but a simple downward trail or the same rocky trail that we came up. Guess which one we chose?

As we started down we realized that was a popular time for people to hike up. There is one passage in the rocky part of the trail where only one person can pass at time and there was actually a back up. Our option was either to go back to the summit and then go down the fire trail or use an alternate route which was by the edge of the cliff and if one did not make the right jump, could roll down the hill to one’s death. Sean went first. There was a young man who was helping his family navigate this particularly rocky terrain. He took Sean’s back pack and pointed to the dead man’s drop. He said, “Sir, you don’t want to get down on your right, you better move towards your left!” Sean crab crawled all the way down the rock and then slid down at least 6 feet since the drop was deep. The children were hesitating so I went next. I did not think and I did not look at the drop. With adrenaline pumping I did not even feel any fear, I was focused on my crab crawl till Sean caught hold of one of my foot. I gave myself up to the slide and slid quite uneventfully to solid ground. Ryan came next and Sean got him down deftly. Sahana, after she slid down made one comment, “That took twenty years of my life away, guys!” She summed it up for all of us.

The rest of the downward rock scramble was uneventful and then the easy part started – walking down the woods. Sean and Ryan left Sahana and I in the dust as they surged forward. We did not mind to be parted except when we realized they had the precious water with them. But the thought of cooler full of ice water in the car kept us going till my left ankle landed on a twig, gave out from underneath me and I fell hard on my left side – on the easiest part of the trail. There was a young dad who came to my rescue asking if I needed help getting up. I was gritting my teeth waiting for the pain to subside, so I nodded my head and said through gritted teeth, “No thank you, I’ll be fine. Just need a moment!” The family stood nearby as I pulled myself up and tried a few steps gingerly. At this point, my valiant daughter dropped her back pack, stretched a bit and offered to carry me on her back for mile and a half till the end of the trail. I laughed out loud through the pain. She was all serious, “I can do it, mama! I can carry you!”

Sahana and I were having a heart to heart chat as we climbed down, before I fell. After my fall our conversation ended, I slowed down considerably so as not to injure my throbbing ankle any further and we both wished the end was near so we could rest our weary and injured muscles. We strained our ears to hear the gurgling stream which would indicate we were nearing the start of the trail. We heard only silence. As we hobbled down, we came across a middle aged couple sitting by the trail, panting heavily, quite red in the face. We said the customary hello and moved on. But then the gentleman asked me a question which I did not hear. I stopped and turned, “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked is it worth it? The climb?” He asked.

Sahana and I looked at each other. I was hurting and she was tired and achy after the long hike. The entire trip is 5.2 miles and takes 5 hours. It took us over 6. Was it worth it? It is a emphatic yes for me. It was worth it. It was worth all of it – getting up early, driving two and a half miles, getting bug bites, the muscle pain, the lungs protesting, the scraped arms and knees, the fear of failure to cross the ledge and then finally standing at the top and looking at the view. The view was breathtaking, to be sure. The grandeur of mountains have lured hikers and mountaineers throughout the ages to scale the heights, not simply for the view although that is a reward indeed, but also for the sense of achievement and for believing in oneself that one can do it. So yes, every climb is worth it. Every time we push ourselves even when we feel we can not go one more step is worth it.

It made me think of life – the journey, is it worth it? With all the obstacles that is placed in our way, is it truly worth it to overcome them. When in moments of weakness we sit by the trail of life exhausted and question if it is worth it, we need to remind ourselves that it is. The view at the end is a gamble, I know. It could be breathtaking, it could be ordinary, it could be downright ugly. But the view that we see up there depends on our expectation, our wants. We can look at it with the lens that we choose and make it worth it.

Tease worthy.

If I hear any didactic speech about not having Facebook envy I will be very angry. A few friends went back to my city, Kolkata, to attend not one but TWO weddings of mutual friends. I had invitations to both but I could not make that trip. That thing called life got in the way. Instead, I did the next best thing, I hung around Facebook and kept track of their every move. They made it easy by documenting their every move on Facebook also. I am pretty sure, their aim was not only to keep us connected but also to evoke envy (in a fun sort of way, of course). They were wildly successful at that. I was so envious that I glowed green – Hulk like.

But this is not about my Hulkness. This is about Bengalis, their culture, their city…..and last but not the least their pet names or dak naam. The boys were primarily named Buro and girls Buri during my parent’s generation. Buro in Bangla means old man, buri? You guessed it, old woman. Why would anyone call little babes, Buro, Buri is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps because of the ‘child is the father of man’ concept, or the resemblance of a toothless child with toothless old age. I don’t know!

When I was growing up, girls were called some form of ‘mother’ in our vernacular, and boys – father. Different variations of ‘Mam’, Mummum’ Mamoni, Mamon, Mammai and boys were Bapi, Baban, Babai so on and so forth. My parents, however, called me Piyu. Piyu has no particular meaning really, it is how a particular type of bird’s call. Piyu is a bird song. How beautiful and ethereal is that concept? When I met Sean, he called me by my pet name too. I liked that. However, Americans pronounce the letters P and B with a puff of air which Bengalis do not. So Sean’s Piyu became Phiyu.

Fast forward to our wedding afternoon. The beautiful ceremony in the morning was over. My desire as a little girl was to wed in a gorgeous white dress. Having been born in a Bengali family I always knew that would only remain a dream but it so happened I married someone from not only outside of Bengal but outside of India. And in that man’s culture and religion, women did marry in gorgeous white dresses. However when the opportunity arose, I opted to wear a saree. Not a ravishing red one like a Bengali bride wears but a gold and black one. After the ceremony and reception, Sean and I changed into something more comfortable to socialize with the family and eat catered Indian food for dinner. I heard Sean calling my name as I was changing out of my saree: Phiyu, Phiyu!
And I heard my sister-in-law exclaim, “Sean!!!! Don’t say that to her! How terrible of you. Saying that to your new bride on your wedding day!”

I came out of the room and gazed at both their faces blinking foolishly, clueless as to where the conversation was going.

Sean was also perplexed.

“What did I call her?” He asked.

“You said PHEW. You bad man! She does not stink! You have a terrible sense of humor!”

Both Sean and I burst out laughing. He explained that is my pet name and no, he was not referring to his bride as a stinker. We all laughed.

This post started with Facebook envy, went on to talk about Bengali pet names and ended with a story of my life long time ago. Thank goodness I write for myself 🙂 ! I am quite purposeless, even in my writings!

An hour on the streets.

Instead of using the very useful tool called Google search I still go old school, like arriving at a mall without checking first what time it opens. I did just that in Kolkata, when, after dragging my feet for a couple of days, I bit the bullet and went to shop for some summer kurtis for myself. I must have written before that I detest shopping with a passion. I believe it has something to do with making decisions. I have a mental block and the damage is irreparable. I found myself in front of West Side Mall in Gariahat at 10 am because I wanted to beat the shoppers but parking lot seemed unusually quiet. I asked the gentleman guarding the mall, ‘Kota e khulbe? (When will it open)’ I was there right at 10 presuming the whole world operated on US store hours. Well, I was wrong. India entertains its consumers an hour less than they do it here. The mall opened at 11.00 am. I had one hour to kill.

So I decided to walk the streets of Gariahat market, my old stomping ground. I know this area like the back of my hand. I thought I would immerse myself in memories by walking from one end of Gariahat till the other – from Ballygunge Station to Anandamela, cross the intersection and walk back on the other side of the road.

When I lived in Kolkata and walked the streets of Gariahat I always had a purpose. I was either going to Ballygunge Institute library, or going home from the bus stop, buying fish and vegetables or out for puja shopping. I threw myself in the crowd and elbowed my way in to get to where I was going. The events occurring around me did not register at all because I was part of the incessant movement. This time however, I was purposeless, an observer, a pilgrim of sorts, out to pay homage to my past and the place that has seen me grow.

I watched the shopkeepers sprinkling holy Ganges water in front of their make shift shops on the sidewalks of Gariahat road as they opened for business, hoping to appease the gods for a successful day. Some were opening their big bags of ware, slowly taking them out to display. The men seemed to be in no hurry, they laughed and chatted with each other, teased and talked about politics and cricket with their competitors as the items came out from huge gunny sacks.

The store keepers who had legitimate stores had opened slightly earlier. They were sipping their morning tea in small earthen cups, called bhaar, from nearby tea stalls, as they sat comfortably turning the pages of a crisp newspaper. I assumed they were the shop owners and not employees, just going by their demeanor.

The tea stalls and food vendors were busy preparing ghugni, luchi, aloor dam to feed the travelers getting off at Ballygunge Station, the shop keepers and the parents and children from neighboring South Point School, whose elementary section must have let off just then.

Little boys and girls with tired, sweaty faces were being dragged by their mothers. The saree clad, mostly young mothers carried their heavy bags while the children allowed themselves to be gently pulled, almost in a daze. Some mothers bought oranges from fruit vendors and after feeding the children the healthy snack, they said loudly, “Ektu jol din toh” (Please give some water) to the man selling fruit. And then to the kids, “Aiiii, hat bhalo kore dhue ne!” (wash your hands well).

Saree shops, shalwar shops, bindis, costume jewelry, magazine stalls, cake shops, watch shops, luggage shops, plastic toy stores – you have it all on the streets – at a good price, if you know how to bargain.

College boys and girls stood at the bus stop flirting, touching each other at every opportunity they got, playing out the age old flirtatiousness between the two genders, flouting the morality of a repressive society when it came to relationships. I watched the innocent, youthful flirtation and joyous laughter safely hidden behind my shades as I waited for the lights to change so I could cross to the other side.

On the other side of the street was the store where ma and later myself, bought our inexpensive blouses and petticoats. The employees were elderly men and as I passed by the store I saw them still – frozen in age. I wanted to peek into my old library which had kept me entertained throughout my childhood and then youth with dusty copies of Noddy, Famous Five, Nancy Drew, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Rebecca, books by Eric Segal and then Richard Bach, but somehow I missed it as I kept walking. Kolkata changes with passing years, Gariahat, somehow, does not. Even the shopkeepers that I knew from childhood – their structure, their clothes seem to be replaced by the next generation having the same structure, same outfit, same demeanor, same dialogues with customers. This continuity was very reassuring. A little part of Kolkata refuses to step into the contemporary decade. A little part of Kolkata remains incongruous.

I passed a group of boys and I stiffened for just a second till I remembered the confidence that silver hair can provide. As a young woman, when I passed a group of young men, I braced myself against an unwanted touch or some kind of unwanted remark. A lone boy hardly ever said anything, but a group of them was a different matter altogether. I remembered the feeling of apprehension as I passed groups of boys, my eyes to the ground, my pace increased, as I got silently ready for some kind of shame. That day I looked back and felt a little bad for the insecure young woman I used to be. I looked the boys in the eye as they took in my short-cropped hair and shocking pink shoes. I smiled and nodded; surprise registered in their faces, unsure of what their reaction should be. I chuckled as I moved on, peeked in Bharat Shevashram, lamented the loss of trams in the Gariahat area as I took in the construction that was going on to cover up the tram lines there and arrived back at West Side Mall after 11:00. The door man, looking dapper in his navy blue uniform, opened the door for me and smiled an unsure yet happy smile as I looked him in the eye and said a big, smiley “Thank you!”

The feeling of walking the streets of Gariahat is fast fading but as I write these little snippets I travel back to that hour, to that day, to that place. We live so many hours, a few stand out and get etched in memory. This particular hour was one such.