“Take care of your husband.”

My extended family, neighbors and some friends did not quite see what Sean saw in me. Many wondered, and not in their heads mind you, “What did this handsome man see in her?” when we started dating. Don’t get me wrong. I thought I was adorable. I was a late bloomer, yes, but when I finally bloomed, I was cute. However, I did not measure up to Bengali standard of beauty so although my extended family loved me dearly, they were surprised that Sean was taken by this tall, dark and very slender girl. One person, however, wondered whether Sean was good enough for ME! And that was my momma. She was independent, smart, sassy and a trend setter. When the norm among Bengali housewives of her time was to cook and clean for her families, she loudly declared she did not enjoy cooking and cleaning and would rather read a book. When the other women extolled the virtues of long, black tresses as a sign of beauty, she went and got a page cut. She was one of the first among her female cousins to wear sleeveless blouses and then later salwar kameez and even jeans and top when wearing anything other than saree was frowned upon. While other middle class Bengali moms told their daughters to learn to cook so they could satisfy their husbands and in-laws, my mom pooh poohed the idea saying my future husband should be learning to cook as well to satisfy me. And as far as I can remember, her skin care and beauty regime was more for her own satisfaction than to impress anyone. She taught me men and women should share equal responsibility when they run a household. She insisted that I always claim my half of the sky because that is my right.

Anyway, the point of the story is how this fashionista and trendsetter has changed since Sean came into our lives. It so happens that often when I talk to my parents, Sean is doing the dishes. He comes to the phone, holds up his sudsy hands and complains loudly, “Ma, look your daughter is making me wash the dishes again.” And she mock scolds me for making the poor ‘chele’ (boy) work so hard. I loudly protest that I cooked so he is cleaning. Neither acknowledges my protest. Over the years, Sean has continued to complain to her and she has continued to take his side. 🙂

I must have looked especially unkempt during one of our video conferences a few weeks ago. She gently chastised me for not making an effort to look more ‘put together’. Especially now that Sean is home. Shouldn’t I make myself more appealing?

I, of course, protested loudly. Talked about feminism. Did she realize we are in quarantine? I only dress for myself. I fought the good fight.

She said, “Be quiet. Take care of yourself. Sean is home.” Then she laughed. She knows how to push my buttons. Is it payback for my teenage years?

This morning we were talking about how we both are working from home. I was complaining how loud my office mate was and how I have to retreat to the bedroom from our shared office space to listen to zoom meetings. I also mentioned Sean is so busy that he missed lunch yesterday.

This is what she said to me, “What? He needs to eat to get energy. Why can’t you make sure that he is eating lunch? You can make something for him.”

“But I am working too, Ma.”

“No, still. You need to make sure he eats.”

Seriously? As I am about to start my tirade, she laughs again.

Thousands of miles away, not in the best of health, she still puts a smile on my face as I start my day and her’s ends.

What grief taught me

Out of nowhere, a catastrophe struck. One Saturday, I took my Sage to the emergency vet’s office because he was slightly shivering. I was concerned but not worried. Maybe it was something he ate, maybe he just needed some medication to settle his stomach. He had not been eating his kibbles for a few weeks but ate everything else with relish – chicken, beef, treats, fallen cheese or tit bits while I cooked. So yes, I just wanted some medicine and go home. The vet came out to tell me that things did not look good. The news was devastating really. My beautiful boy had hemangiosarcoma and he did not have time. As she spoke, my brain did not quite process her words. The finality or the severity of what she said did not hit me till they took Sage in for some more conclusive tests. That is when I called Sean and asked him to come meet me at the emergency hospital.

Within a week we said goodbye to our companion for over 10 years. We wanted a week to love him and make sure the family was with him to say final goodbye. He did not seem to be in pain, just very tired. He went quickly and peacefully. It seemed he was ready. His decline in that short week was incredibley fast and heart breaking. On Friday morning, the day he was going to sleep forever, I took him to a park which he always loved since he was a puppy. He did not have any energy so we just sat on a bench and watched Canada geese in the water. He got up a few times to say hello to some humans walking by. He got a few pets and scratches behind his years. He also gave me the stink eye from time to time because he wanted to walk not sit. I sat there looking at him and allowed tears to stream down my face. His life from the day we got him passed by in my mind. So many memories, so much happiness, unconditional love. His love of snow, his frolic in leaves, his play bows and long hikes, his devotion and unconditional love for his humans. When we tried to go back to the car, he could hardly put one foot in front of the other, he was that weak. I knew right then it was time to let him go. We loved him too much to let him continue to lead a life that was no life at all.

The loss of Sage seemed unreal till the next week when I was all alone in the house. The grief of losing him taught me a thing or two about myself. I grieved and yet I was afraid for the world to know I grieved. I told a few friends how I was really feeling – I did not want to get up from bed, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, I anticipated the clickety click of his claws hitting the hardwood floor but when there was silence I was crushed anew. I looked up at his collar and broke down crying. I opened the door to emptiness when I came home from work. I sat on my reading chair and the space beside it remained empty. The empty space just put a dagger through my heart. My hand was restless to pet his furry head because that was our routine. It gave me a glimpse of what depression can feel like. I sat down on a chair and simply could not or did not have the will power to get up from it. When I forced myself to go for walks I felt I could peek out of a chasm of sorrow but coming back to the house drove me right back into a vortex of despair. I felt physically weak, unmotivated and very, very alone.

Yet when friends asked me how I was or whether I wanted company I was afraid to tell them the truth. I said I was doing ok and I knew it was a matter of time and I would be better. I was afraid to burden them with my overwhelming sorrow. I was afraid of being judged, “Wow, she is going overboard grieving a dog.” In the grand scheme of things, Sage’s life did not matter to others as much with all the sadness and devastating things happening in the world. I was comparing my sadness to the vast sorrow that others feel. So I kept it hidden, I put on a brave face and I laughed and carried on, till I came home to an empty house.

I did (and continue to do) my well wishers a disservice. I am projecting my fears of being judged on my friends who truly would sit with me and let me cry. And not only my friends, I was afraid to tell my husband and my children about my grief. I did not want them to feel bad for me or feel responsible for cheering me up.

Then a friend forwarded me an article. The article talked about not trivializing my loss because there are bigger losses out there in the world. It is not a competition. Only through grieving would I find peace.

I will not get over the loss ever. I know I will heal, I will find peace and I feel I am on my way there. But this loss will always be part of me as will the 10 years of unconditional love that the universe gifted me in the form of Sage. What a gift I was given!

My happy place

I woke up the next morning, sat up on my bed and saw the ocean peeking in through my bedroom window. After almost three weeks, I still remember the overwhelming feeling of contentment that I experienced at that moment. I often feel extremely blessed in what I have in my life. That was one such moment. There would be many moments during the course of our stay on that island where I felt an inexplicable gratitude towards the universe for allowing me to witness such beauty. I felt most spiritual, most connected with the universe in my solitary moments while I sat alone on a rocky beach with no human in sight. Just me, the vast body of water in front of me and scraggly yet majestic rocks that rose above the low tide.

We quickly settled into a routine on the island. I generally went for long, solitary walks traversing the entire length of the island after a leisurely cup of coffee in front of the water. On those walks, I saw the island creatures – colorful garter snakes, deer, wild turkeys, a ferret like creature who lived near our house. Those walks were also times when I introspected about this life that I was leading, where I was at present in this journey and where I was headed. I spent time with myself, which is a rare thing to do in my daily life. I am a mother who juggles too many balls to ensure the ones dependent on me have a smooth life. I don’t have much or any time for myself. This island break gave me a week to spend with me, the person, not me the mother, wife, worker.

If asked what was most memorable time in that island I will say it was the thirty minutes that I spent by myself sitting on a secluded rocky beach with the vast expanse of sky over me and inky blue water crashing against the rocks. Little sail boats gliding gently by, the regular swish of water against rocks, perhaps the shrill cry of a gull once in a while and the excitement of an extended cormorant family complete with babies, moms, dads, uncles, aunts, grand moms, granddads cavorting on their rock. Many thoughts crossed my mind, solitary thoughts, personal thoughts, peaceful thoughts, reassuring thoughts that beauty like what I was witnessing abounds our planet, despite man made divisiveness and destruction and the fact I was lucky enough to witness just a tiny part of it.

The second most memorable time I spent on that island was with my girl. We walked over to the secluded rocky beach of the island and then hopped on the scraggly rocks to see where it would take us. Our path was difficult hence the adventure was thrilling. We strategized, mapped out, warned each other of wobbly ones and slippery ones, squealed when the cold water lapped up to our toes and scrambled higher. We hugged the coast and made our way around the island boosted by our strength and ability to haul ourselves up. I apologized to home owners whose private beaches we trespassed, they cheered us on, while Sahana apologized to each and every spider in our path since we were breaking some spider webs. We made it to the tipping cove, scurried through tall grass fearing ticks and eventually took the boring path home. But we were conquerors of the unknown and we bragged about our conquest till nobody cared any more.

Ryan disowned his own family and hung out with his ten other cousins, eating, roaming, diving down the dock at the wake of the ferry and working at the only tiny pizza store of the island for candy as payment. The boys judiciously watched the clock between playing baseball, tennis and hide and go seek. As soon as it was the time for the ferry they left everything they were doing to go to their jobs of unloading supplies for the store from the ferry. The vacation, for an eleven year old was idyllic and most importantly, free – something that children in cities and suburbs have forgotten.

Remember the kayaks, Sasha and Hexel? Well, they were put to good use as my husband took them out with his brother, his son or his daughter to explore the nearby islands. Sometimes they were gone for three hours or more.

This is what we all needed. Time. Time to connect with each other and also time to disconnect and seek solitude. I believe we were immensely successful. We left the island almost two months ago, yet today, on this dreary, rainy, gloomy day, the island’s memories are a beacon to me. I can go back in my mind to this happy place and I am not gloomy anymore.

Jaguar mom?

I am not a tiger mom like Amy Chua but I can certainly be classified as a jaguar mom. I thought of using hyena mom or jackal mom but jaguar sounds better. I hold my children to high expectations and I push them to do the best they can. I know what they are capable of and I don’t accept anything less. There is a margin for mistakes, I know everyone makes them and they are not a bad thing at all as long as we learn from them. I let them know that I expect A’s in their work, tolerate B’s but question C’s. If the C is due to a concept they did not understand, I can work with them till they ‘get’ it, but if the C is result of sloppy, careless work, there are lost privileges. So, yes, I am a jaguar mother.

I have made Sahana redo her projects several times if she did not do her best work. She learned quickly to do her best the first time. Ryan has recently started working on projects that I pay more attention to. Recently, I made him redo a science project he was working on. First the work was untidy, second time the spellings were not reviewed. It was late at night and we both were at the kitchen table. He finally finished it, I was satisfied and we went to bed.

The next day, Sahana and I conspired. I told Sahana to give him a friendly advice that this mom is mean. She says from experience when she advises him to do his work neatly and well the first time. Mommy will make him redo the work till she is satisfied. The following evening that is what she did. As I checked Ryan’s homework, she called him aside and said, “Ry, mom is really mean when it comes to school work. You will have to do and redo your work if you don’t do it well the first time. Trust me, I have had to do it several times.

Later she told me his response to that. He said, “Sahana, mom is not really mean. She is just trying to make us better and make sure we do our best!”

Ohhhhhh!!!!

A few days later, an ecstatic boy came back home. He got full marks on the project. And his project has been chosen to be showcased in Evening of Excellence in school.

“MOM!!! Thank you for making me redo the project several times!! I got the best grade and my teacher kept my work to show it on Evening of Excellence!”

“How does it feel now, buddy?” I asked him.

“Top of the world!” he said.

“Remember this feeling, darling! If you give your best shot, most of the times you will experience this feeling of being at the top. If you don’t despite your best efforts, you will always have the consolation that you tried your best and that is the best you can do!” I said to him.

Do I truly care if they get A’s every time? I was raised with such expectations and to some extent I do. But what I care about most is the effort. Making that effort to be the best that can be. I am ready to be the jaguar mom, cheeta mom, feral cat mom so they learn that lesson early in life. Tiger mom, I leave to Amy Chua.

Lastly, when I asked my husband if he thought I was a jaguar mom, he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t care if you are a jaguar mom, tiger mom, leopard mom. As long as you are not a cougar mom!”

Yes, never a dull moment!

Before stepping off the mainland.

I forgot to pack my notebook as I packed some grubby clothes hurriedly in a newly purchased tote bag to take to Cliff Island off the coast of Maine for seven days. My extremely outdoorsy husband had purchased two kayaks because the kids ‘needed’ it you see and was planning on bringing them. The children declared they absolutely needed their bikes to ride around the three and a half mile long island with their cousins. There was a tennis court on that tiny island, so how could we not bring tennis rackets and balls? There is also a baseball field, we could not simply leave behind baseball glove and bat, could we? I sighed as I looked at the accumulating junk and dictated folks to take bare minimum in clothes so we could each carry a bag pack and keep both hands free so we COULD CARRY JUNK! The island does not have a grocery store for provisions so we needed to plan and buy seven days worth of groceries, and then figure out a way to carry them!! I forgot to pack my notebook though, in the hustle bustle of planning. I planned to write down my stream of consciousness as I sat in front of the ocean. In the absence of tangible medium, I wrote and painted in my mind’s canvas. Before life gets steadily busy, I hope to put down those thoughts on these blogs.

Like many others on this planet with children, our lives are hectic and rigidly scheduled. As August came closer, all four of us counted down days to break free from work travels, deadlines, swim meets, baseball practices to reclaim our time together, doing what we love to do – reading, walking, talking, listening to music, swimming, playing. We planned a retreat from real life with Sean’s siblings and their families in a tiny little island off the coast of Portland. We rented a house for a week starting Saturday, right on the water. However, my family headed north early, on a Thursday morning at 5 am to jump start the vacation. The plan was to meet our one day old niece in Boston and then drive up north, find a place to stay for two nights, Thursday and Friday, and then get on the ferry from Portland to head to the island on Saturday.

We started our long journey before the sun rose. Sean had secured two kayaks on top of our minivan and two bikes behind the car on bike racks. I had a niggling fear that one of those would go free, go flying and hit fellow motorists. That did not happen thankfully. We arrived in Mass General Hospital with all our JUNK intact but went round and round the busy city of Boston to find parking for our heavily loaded car. We held and kissed our baby niece, full of joy at the miracle of life and hit the road again after bidding the proud and tired parents goodbye. We wanted to visit some of the beaches of New Hampshire or maybe Maine, get a couple of days of sandy beach fun before we met others at the ferry and headed over to Cliff Island. First stop was Hampton beach. We tried to get a hotel for two nights but nothing was available. It was coming up on dinner time and the day was slowly losing its luster. We decided to move on, drive up and find accommodation somewhere farther up north. We were not worried. Next stop was Ogunquit, Maine. The beach was gorgeous, the town seemed inviting. Four of us started to feel hopeful about finding lodging and eventually some dinner, but ‘no vacancy’ signs greeted us as we passed cute hotels, motels and bed and breakfast. A resort right on the beach showed vacancy sign. We parked and jogged to the reception desk. The children, cooped up in the car for 10 hours, ran to the beach to touch the water.

The resort offered one night’s accommodation for almost $400. Friday night was full. Crestfallen parents called the kids back to the car to continue the journey, but the lovely restaurants and the handmade ice cream stores were too tempting to pass by. We stopped for dinner at Hamburger Harry’s. The kids got busy ordering while the parents desperately searched for lodging on their smart phones. The children, with their bellies full of sumptuous burger, kept reassuring us they could sleep in the van if needed. I glared at them instead of appreciating their effort to be accommodating 🙂 ! I recognized their effort later, when I relaxed finally in a comfortable bed. After several attempts, we found accommodation for two nights in a hotel in South Portland, only to find out later that the Boston Marathon bombers stayed in the same hotel before their heinous deed (the knowledge would not have made any impact on our decision of staying there at that point anyway). We drove up to our hotel, after ice cream of course, and crashed.

We woke up Friday morning ready for a beach day. We wanted to have the total boardwalk experience with all the glitz since we knew we will be in isolation in an island far away from the madding crowd. We found Old Orchard beach that fit the bill, complete with an amusement park, boardwalk fries, tattooed skin and crashing waves. The kids ran towards the amusement park before they said hello to the ocean.

As Sean and I stood in line to buy a few tickets for a some rides, a man walked up and gave us two passes for unlimited rides, FOR FREE, just like that. He had to leave the beach and had no use for those passes, he gave them to us. Before we could collect our wits to thank him profusely for his generosity, he left! The children rode every single ride till Ryan threw up and decided enough was enough and sometimes too much. After a mediocre lunch in a taqueria, which had an interesting name with a frog in it, we finally headed to the beach. My thin Indian skin can not tolerate the coldness of the Atlantic Ocean in Maine, so I slept on the sandy beach while my family rollicked in the waves. Completely satiated with our day of sand filled and sun filled activities, we headed to our hotel to get ready for our big preparation day on Saturday. The day we had to figure out a way to transfer our kayaks, Sasha and Hexel (yes, they are even named), our two bikes (no names), luggage, books, towels and seven days worth of provision across the ferry from Portland to Cliff Island. But before we did that, Ryan got lost. I will leave you here with a cliff hanger like mystery writers do, so you will wait with baited breath about the fate of my son, till I write the next installment. I am evil like that. 🙂

Neighborhood grandfather

I consider reading as a means to freedom. Freedom of thought and freedom of expression. Reading takes you places that you did not think existed, reading introduces you to new ideas and lets your ideas soar. Reading sets you free. I was concerned my youngest child did not take to books as my oldest did. After many pushes and shoves towards books I finally realized that I can not shape him into any mold, instead, my job will be to expose him to new ideas via means that appeal to him and let him spread his wings on his own terms – discussion, research, news on television, non fiction books.

If you read my blogs you probably know, my young Ryan is a deep thinker. Since he was little his thoughts were different – he probed deeper. His teacher, in a recent meeting, reconfirmed our perception of him as one who thinks outside the box. Ryan seems to be an exception to my rule that reading sets one free. He has set himself free by observing, evaluating, thinking and reading books that appeal to him.

At dinner, the other night, we were discussing dreams. He was asked, “What are your dreams, Ry?”

“I don’t have dreams, I have goals.”

“Well, what is the difference?”

“You can dream but they don’t seem that solid. But you set your goals and you work towards achieving them. I set goals.”

Coming from an eleven year old, that sounded somewhat precocious. We asked him what his goals are then.

“My goal is to become a neighborhood grandfather.” He solemnly replied.

“Errr…what?!?! A neighborhood grandfather?!?!” His father and I exchanged bemused glances.

“Yeah, you know. I am going to be that grandfather in the neighborhood who is always there for someone who needs help, advice.”

“But you are just a child. Why are you jumping to old age and grandfather? What are you going to do in between?” It was hard not to laugh.

“No, no! There are many goals in between that. Being a neighborhood grandfather is the ultimate goal. Before that I will go to Stanford, swim in the Stanford swim team. I will open my own business and create lots of jobs. I will help a lot of poor people so they can have a good life. I will marry someone nice and have kids. And then I will become a neighborhood grandfather.” The fork rested on his plate as he got a dreamy look in his eyes. “Or maybe I will become a professional baseball player or an Olympic swimmer. I will be famous, I will earn a lot of money and I can help even more people that way.”

Dreams and goals got entangled at this point, but we smiled at our child as he dreamed on and set goals for himself. As I see my two kids grow up, I glance upon the innocence and beauty of childhood. I feel myself a mere observer and perhaps a chronicler of these beautiful times of their lives. I write them down judiciously so I can offer these moments up to them when they are all grown up. When asked about aspirations, a child mentions a profession – teacher, engineer, scientist…..
My child’s aspiration is to be a neighborhood grandfather. Personally, I think that is a superb goal. We need neighborhood grandfathers to bring back the human connection which we seem to be losing fast in our digital age. Grow up to be a neighborhood grandfather, child. Bring people closer. Bring them out to the porch again. Re establish the connection.

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!

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!

The rendezvous

I never get into arguments about Kolkata…anymore. I had to qualify that statement with the word ‘anymore’ because in my young and foolish days I asked my foreigner boyfriend to leave the city because he made an innocent (and true) comment about the dirt piling up in the corner of a street. I have wizened up since. I have finally realized that if I look from an outsider’s perspective, Kolkata does not appear very lovable. Kolkata needs to be discovered. It does not open itself up easily. One needs to have a deeper insight to dig within and discover the charm that hides underneath its veneer of dirt, dust and traffic. And this wooing the city takes time and effort.

I met a young American woman at the Dubai international airport as we waited to get on our connecting flight to Kolkata. Upon hearing Sahana and I converse in Bangla she asked if she could practice her Bangla with us. She was exuberant about the city. She, we found out, goes to the city often for her dissertation.

“My fiance is from Kolkata. He lives in US but he introduced me to the city and I fell in love. How can one not fall in love? It is full of these new discoveries that one can make almost everyday of their stay if one is looking. The people are wonderful, the food is to die for, the street dogs are adorable!” I had found a kindred soul. Her praise of Kolkata made me all shy, tongue tied and all warm and fuzzy. Praise of Kolkata does that to me, every time. 🙂

Since my love of the city is deeply personal.

I woke up before everyone on my first morning. Part jet lag, part excitement of being home, part anticipation and partly – desire to be alone with my thoughts and the first glimpse of Kolkata as it awakens into a new day. I tiptoed out so as not to bother the tired help, sleeping in the living room. I perched myself on the wide window sill of our back windows which opens up to a wide vista of the sky line of South Kolkata. A few tall buildings, coconut trees, the solemn white dome of the Ramakrishna Mission, the terraces of the neighborhood houses and the wide expanse of Kolkata sky. I sat still, savoring my first hello to Kolkata after two years, soaking in the slowly lightening sky, the sights, the sounds of the city – so familiar. My very own rendezvous. In the cooing of a lonely dove, the eccentric flight of numerous crows, the whistle and distant rumbling of the first local train, in the sound of water filling up a bucket, Kolkata embraced me deeply, meaningfully. The city opened up its palm to show a glimpse of my life that I spent here.

‘Nothing is lost. I have it all here within me. Safe’. First morning of Kolkata said to me.

I arrived truly, at that very moment.