Desicritics Category: Culture: Personal History

Twisted Memories

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 2 Sep 2008 12:41:44 EDT

Buried Memories brought forth by recent turbulence around the country

The Guest on Our Doorstep

I still remember a dignified old lady knocking on our gate. I was barely sixteen at the time. I looked over the balcony and answered “Ji, Aunty?”

She looked up at me and I was taken in by her rosy complexion. My grandfather had that kind of translucent pink complexion; he was from Himachal Pradesh.

Maybe she was one of the old fogies from my grandpa’s generation who ma knew.

“Beta, mummy ghar per hai? (Is your mother at home?)” She asked and I assumed she was safe enough to let in despite my not recognizing her.

I let her in; asked her to sit down and told my mom a guest was waiting in the drawing room.

As she went down the stairs Mom told me to get water for the lady.

I went up the stairs grumbling about being made to help out.

When I bought water down I saw the lady crying and my mother sitting next to her. Had there been bad news? Had someone died?

Being a teenager I didn’t want to know. I offered her water. She wiped her eyes with her white lacy dupatta and drank the entire glass. It was a hot day. Maybe she had walked a lot.

I left the room and went back into my room, put on headphones and head banged to Bon Jovi’s – Lay your hands on me.

The desert cooler’s loud grumblings receded to the background as I increased the volume of my new Sony walkman. I was in Bon Jovi heaven.

My mother came in and spoke. I couldn’t hear her. I was annoyed. What now? I thought.

“Don’t let people you don’t know in.” She told me.

I took my head phones off

“But ma I thought she was from the neighborhood. She looked like one of those ladies Bauji knew”

My mother sighed and sat down on my bed.

“She was a Kashmiri pundit. A refugee. Her entire family was killed. She was visiting some relative and needed money. She is living in some temporary camp. No one wants to take her in.”

“Why did she knock on our gate?” I asked

“She was asking for money.” My mother didn’t use the word - begging

“I gave her one thousand rupees. “

My mouth fell open. In the nineties one thousand rupees was a lot.

She smiled at my disbelief

“I cannot begin to comprehend her suffering. It’s such a tragedy. This was the least we could do for her. But you don’t let people in if you don’t know them. Tell them to wait and I will let them in. Okay?”

“But ma – it’s rude to keep people waiting by the gate and-“

“And what? Do you know how many home break- ins there have been?”

She began to scold me and I went on arguing.

Cat Eyes

“Ohhh! he is coming our way.” My friend grabbed my hand and barked into my ears.

“Who?!” I asked loudly

“That fair dude with those cat eyes. Why is Shaan getting him here?” She tried to tug my hand and pull me away.

As the lights swung around the dance floor and people danced to trance music I watched the two guys make their way towards us. One of them was the subject of a serious crush by my friend.

“Let’s go Dee!!” She began to drag me.

I grinned and slowed my pace and let the guys catch up.

“Hi Shaan” I gave him a happy smile.

He blinked. I could hear him think- Why is she being so nice to me?

I generally stayed aloof with my friend’s crowd. I wasn’t really a discotheque goer but getting to know my friend’s crush was interesting.

“This is Asif.” He introduced cat eyes to the two of us. My friend’s face fell. He was a Muslim.

“And get this – he is from Afghanistan.” My ears perked up. From Afghanistan?

Asif shrugged and looked around at the people gyrating on the floor.

“We can’t talk here. Let’s go to the coffee shop.” I smiled. He too had noticed my friend noticing him.

Shan grinned and knew he was putting my friend in a spot.

“Sure! Let’s go to the coffee shop.”

We walked out of the discotheque and up into the 5 star hotel to the coffee shop.

The music changed and we got to hear the soothing tones of Kenny G playing his sonorous tunes.

We were led to a table that overlooked the pool. My friend sat next to me and clutched my hand. Her palm was clammy.

The guys ordered coffee for four. I was miffed.

“We could have wanted something else.”

“Yes Shaan, that was very sexist of you.” My friend finally showed her fiery side.

Shaan had been her chaddi buddy since school days. She bullied the man who silently loved her since first grade. He always indulged her.

He flung his hands up and said “Look we two can only afford coffee.”

I raised an eyebrow and remarked “We’ll ask for separate checks. Cool with you guys?”

Asif smiled “Where I come from ladies don’t pay.”

“Really Asif?” My friend asked and I pinched her knuckle for asking a stupid question.

His face became somber

“You girls don’t know what you take for granted here. Our women have lost what little sense of freedom they had. It’s a tough life there.”

“When did you come here to India Asif?” Shaan asked as he sipped his coffee.
He was no longer tipsy and that was a good sign since he had to drop us back home.

“Few months back. We didn’t have much choice. It was either grow a beard and follow their mazhaab or die. We left and this is home.”

“Why didn’t you go to Pakistan?” Shaan asked and my friend glared at him

Asif caught the look while he sipped his coffee

“No; it’s okay. It’s a valid question. I am studying at Delhi School Of Economics. It’s my first year.”

My friend’s face fell. Muslim and four years younger. I tried to control my smile at her quelling heart.

“So, wouldn’t you like to go back?” I asked

He nodded “With all its problems it is my home and I love it but they will kill me there.”

“Why?” I asked

“I am worse than an infidel. I am a disbeliever. I drink wine, I smoke, I date and I let my sister enjoy the same freedom. They’d shoot me at sight.”

His green eyes seemed to become like liquid sea of sadness and we all became quiet.

“Does that mean you will never get to go home?” Shaan asked as he made a gesture for the check to the Steward.

He shook his head “Not in the near future. We may move to London later on. We have family there. My parents like it here though. Summers they go to the mountains and winters they stay in Delhi. My sister and I have made friends. Life is good here.”

The check came and we girls grabbed it.

“We’ll pay.” We were adamant.

Shaan laughed and flung his hands up

“Fine! That much money stays in our pockets. We are poor people. We can’t afford to dine you people all the time.”

“When have we asked you for a treat? You are so ungrateful.” My friend stuck her tongue out at him.

Asif laughed and his cat eyes gleamed.

My friend and I gaped; enthralled by the handsome Pathan before us.
Shaan shook his head and sighed.

Waiting for the Train

I folded my arms and stared straight ahead at the dirty tracks. Naked towheads behind me ran screaming with joy; oblivious to the cares of the world. I ignored them just as I ignored their parents who went about their business around their hot shanties.

The smell of urine and defecation smothered my senses. I wanted to retch and struggled to look for a handkerchief in my shoulder knapsack.

“God! Don’t these people have any shame?” I muttered and stepped aside as a little tot yanked her pajama down and began to poop next to me.

“It isn’t their fault you know. The latrine there is full and the corporation doesn’t clean the mobile latrines.”

A Sardarji, barely five feet tall, spoke to me. I smiled at him and tried to act reserve.

“The train is taking very long today.” He spoke up again. He wanted conversation and I wanted silence.

I sighed. There was never an excuse for rudeness. He wasn’t a salesman I could look through. He was just some lonely uncleji wanting a word or two.

“I will miss my first two classes but taking the train to the campus is better than boarding Red Liners.” I responded.

The smell of fresh poop left by the little girl made us move a few yards further towards the ticket booth and away from the shanties.

“I’ve been taking this train since before you were born. “ His eyes twinkled and his bearded jaw wobbled.

“In fact my house was one of the first to be built in this locality. That time we had horses riding in from the Cantonment.”

“Well, our home was also one of the first ones to be built here.” I told him proudly. “It’s a nice place to live in; quite peaceful.”

He gave a dry smile.

“Yes, the locality is nice here but not the slums surrounding it.”

I shifted my bag. My shoulder began to hurt under its heavy load.

“Why do you say that?” I asked and wished the train would hurry up. He was a nice old guy but I could feel the wave of irritation surrounding my mind and drowning me in a filthy temper.

“During the 84 riots men from the surrounding slum area burned my house down.”

I stared at him in shock. The irritation in my mind ebbed way as if a plug had been pulled.

“My son was in the house. He died. I had gone to meet our neighbors and they didn’t let me out. I went mad trying to get out but they held me back. I couldn’t save my son.”

Tears rolled down his eyes and I averted mine. What was I to say? I remembered the circle of fire I watched from the roof of my house. I watched the Gurduwara flag waver and fall; I watched homes being set on fire.

The perfect circle my nine year old mind had thought.

It was clear memory. But what was I to say to him?

“I lost everything in that fire. From the window I recognized one of the thugs.

He worked in the electrical shop next to mine. And he still works in our locality.

He was never brought to justice.”

He gave me a wan smile.

“But people are nice here. A builder bought my land. I live on the ground floor and the other two floors have nice young families. The neighbors are nice, they look in on me but it’s not the same.”

We heard the train whistle and the chugging of the wheels. Army soldiers hung out of the door-less boogies. Pristine clean in their camouflage uniforms they looked fresh and happy.

Office goers crowded around the halting train and in the melee of people I lost sight of the slight sadarji.

I let myself be pushed inside the train and bumped against a Jawan who quickly stepped aside.

Grabbing the handle bar I stood and blindly stared out of the boogey at the naked kids as they waved the train goodbye. I never saw the Sardarji again.

What I Learned in China

smallsquirrel — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 11:09:26 EDT

Watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics in Beijing brought back a lot of memories for me. Long ago, in what seems like another lifetime, I was once engaged to a Chinese man. All those endless rows of Chinese men beating their drums in perfect synchronization, tireless, faces showing what seemed like rehearsed emotion, reminded me of my strange adventures with that culture.

I met this man, we'll call him Zhong, in graduate school. We were peers. We dated and eventually planned to marry. During our relationship I tried very hard to understand his culture. He was from Beijing. Both parents were very successful. What I knew about China then I could fit in a single paragraph.

We eventually traveled to China so I could meet his family. I remember once Zhong had stringently told me that foot binding was a myth. It was "made up by the stupid Americans to shame China." So imagine my shock when his aunty answered the door to the family home tottering on teensy nubs. I learned later from a family friend with a penchant for chatter that she had been married off as a young girl to a successful Army man. As a symbol of his wealth, so that she would be forever reliant on servants, her feet were broken after the marriage, folded over on themselves and bound tightly in cloth. Not two months after they were wed, the aunty's husband was killed and she was shipped back to her family... crippled. When I tried to ask Zhong about the aunt, he ignored me. When I persisted, he wheeled around and hissed at me that we would never speak of it again.

This was my baptism into China.

China is an amazing place, full of beauty and preternatural grace. Walking through the streets of Beijing I felt as if I was in a movie. But just under the surface something was lurking. It made me uneasy. Now this was thirteen years ago, and I am sure that some things have changed. But I cannot imagine that the strict structure that girds that culture has shifted much at all.

I noticed that everything in China seemed to have a purpose. Nothing was random. No one said anything in an offhand manner. Words were measured. Even emotions seemed calculated. I started to be able to place a finger on what was causing the nagging doubts I had been feeling about my engagement. I wondered, also, when I would be given the script so I could at least play my part competently. It never came.

I did come to learn that everything in China revolves around appearances. I finally understood that I would need to ask Zhong to brief me on how to act before every meeting with a family friend or relative. The instructions would go something like: "Wear something conservative. Mention your Master's degree but only after he mentions his PhD, so he knows so are inferior to him. And make sure you look down when you talk to him. Also tell him that you like to garden and other simplistic tasks." Um, I hate gardening. No matter? Oh right, I have to create an image.

At one point we had to go visit an old friend of Zhong's father. I found out on the way there that he was a former ambassador. He would be serving us a certain kind of tea, which I despise, but I was to drink it. I was to drink two cups, actually, and praise it. I was to say the bare minimum, and I was to answer all the ambassador's questions in a deferential manner. Under no circumstances should I talk plainly with the man, and I should not mention my degree in Political Science. My hands should remain folded in my lap.

We got to the ambassador's house, and it all went wrong from the start. I am a terrible liar, and so when the ambassador asked me what my undergraduate degree was, in I stumbled. As a result he came to know I was a student of politics. Even though he seemed very friendly and eager for honest discussion, I tried to keep my views very benign. Then I excused myself to use the restroom, as I had begun to feel quite sick.

As soon as I was done spilling my guts into the toilet and tried to gracefully recover, I realized that the toilet would not flush. I was horrified. I stood in silent panic for what seemed like eons. I tried it again, begging it "please please please flush, dammit!" but nothing was happening. Finally I peeped my head out the door and whispered for Zhong. He could not hear me. But the ambassador saw me, and came to my aid.

"Oh!" he said jovially "the flush is broken, you must do this..." and began to fill a bucket with water. Zhong glared at me as if I had done this all purposefully. I stood by in horror as the ambassador worked to flush my vomit down the toilet, all with the same demeanor as he had when we had earlier been discussing the former Soviet Union.

In the taxi on the way home the only words that were spoken to me were: "Do you have any idea how much you have shamed me? My family? I cannot look at you. Do not speak. I asked you very simple things and you cannot even do that much."

Later I did not even bother to argue when his parents insisted that the whole "Tienanmen Square fiasco" was mostly invented by the American media. Interesting view, considering that the family's apartment was close enough to the Square that they would have heard the whole "misunderstanding" clearly. They actually would have been stuck inside because of police barricades in that whole area. Never mind that we all saw it live on TV. But we never spoke of that again, either.

The list of things I was never to speak of grew to epic proportions that month. Human rights, alternate sexuality, my views on democracy, my views on anything, really, except scholarly insights into neutral topics like linguistics. I was not even allowed to have an opinion on cooking, since each time I ventured into the kitchen I made terrible blunders. For example, once when chopping vegetables to help with the evening meal, I was met with strange sideways glances from Zhong's mother. When I was done, I noticed that she shooed me out, and threw the carrots away. When I asked Zhong what had happened he informed me that "everyone knows that the carrots for that chicken dish must be julienned. You made slices. And they were uneven."

When we returned home I broke the engagement. It was better for everyone. I simply do not know how to beat my drum exactly in rhythm with 2007 other people.

Grappling With Cowardice

Ritu Chandra — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 01:33:47 EDT

I feel relieved. A situation that I had been dreading to face is over. Not really over but I have conquered the first and the most difficult step.

I am the youngest member of a large Hum Aapke Hain Kaun kind of family. I have lots of uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. A 'close family only' affair in our setup usually means a minimum of fifty people. No, we don't sing 'Dhik Tana Dhik Tana in the lawns of palatial houses, or play cricket with dogs as goal-keepers and we bicker more often than not over many small and petty things, yet we stick together especially in times of crisis. Crisis such as illness, misfortune or deaths.

Death. The inevitable. The inescapable. The ultimate truth. It has to happen and happen to each of us. Everything and everyone around us is transient. Yet, coping with death is the most traumatic thing for a human being. I often wonder why nature did not make us immune to death. Why have our genes not evolved so that the emotional knowledge of death is hard-wired into us. The truth is that emotionally an average human being lives as if death does not exist. Why this delusion? It is because of this head in the sand temperament that every time death happens it causes trauma. If death is as true to existence as breathing, then why has nature not built the mechanism to not get affected by it? Is there some divine design in there?

Ever since I have been a child I have seen that deaths are times when you rally together and show support through continued physical presence. In the earlier days a death in the immediate family meant packing your bags and going and spending as much time possible with the bereaved family. It was through this extended social circle that people coped and healed. A crutch that is unfortunately disappearing in our isolated life-styles in the new world. Through family conditioning, I have learnt that this is normal and expected social behaviour under such circumstances. That is the 'right' thing to do.

However, I am also the youngest. That made me into a socially redundant kind of creature. Every time there was a call for a social duty, my presence was considered superfluous. She's a kid, she does not need to go. Or even if I did go, I was not required to offer any words of condolence. I was just to sit quietly. Rarely ever did I have to go anywhere and offer condolence as an individual. There was always someone else better equipped to do it. Thus, I grew up without having to face and deal with such situations myself.

I don't know if it is the conditioning or my basic nature that makes me into a coward. I have always been scared to face someone who has faced a tragedy. I don't know what to say, how to behave and though I feel a strong degree of continued compassion for a person in trouble, I don't know how to express it or console them. The only thing I know is to give a tight hug. But you cannot do that to everyone. Thus, there is always a conflict within me. My value system says that I need to go out of my way and be there for the person and my cowardice says run away, you are useless anyway, why face a difficult situation?

After growing up and developing a social circle of my own, away from the family I have had times where I need to face such situations. My usual escape is to take the support of common friends. I manage to get by.

But there is another more sticky side to my existence. Since I live away from the family here in the US I have become a representative of the family back in India. I need to be present at places and that too most of the times alone. This is where things get very very difficult for me. The last time a tragedy happened, I shirked and then made an extremely belated appearance. No one ever held it against me, but I still regret it. I should have picked up the courage and gone for the funeral.

This Tuesday, I was faced with the same dreaded situation again. A distant relative living here in the US suddenly passed away. Even though we were not closely related, she was a fine lady. Extremely sweet, helpful and full of life. I rarely made an effort to keep in touch, but she would call me regularly and enquire about my well-being. She carried none of the expectations and baggage that inevitably get added the moment you say 'relative'. I was genuinely fond of her. When her son called me early Tuesday morning to break the news I was shocked and distressed. My initial reaction as usual was emotional. I don't know what I said to him, but I think I said the right things.

However after that my old problems resurfaced. I went into the terrified mode again. I need to go and offer my condolences to the family... as a gesture to my bhabhi who lost her aunt, and as a gesture to the family with whom I had established an independent relationship. The truth is that unless you reach out and express your concern, no one ever knows how strongly you feel for the situation. Yet, that reaching out and expressing is what gives me nightmares. I have always been better at expressing through gestures than words. For a person who talks nineteen to the dozen and writes long articles it sounds strange. But that is true.

I have been putting off making the dreaded call since Wednesday morning. I found many excuses... they need to break the news to the father, they need to be left alone to cope, they need to be left alone to deal with the logistics... when the mind decides to conjure up excuses, it can give PC Sarkar a run for his money. The whole of yesterday I dillied and dallied.

Today morning when I woke up I knew I had to call as soon as possible. There was no way out. But the coward that I am, I put it off till afternoon, giving myself the excuse of a heavy work day. From afternoon I pushed it to early evening. Finally, in the evening something inside pulled me up harshly and said.. NOW!. I must have taken ten gulps of water, clicked on my email's 'send/recieve' button another ten times, hoping an important mail would show up to give me an escape route. But nothing happened. I finally picked up the phone and dialled, my heart thumping against my chest. The phone rang, and rang.. and deep within I hoped it would keep ringing. That would assuage my guilt complex of not having called and also relieve me of doing the talking. And that is exactly what happened. I got the voice mail. I was so relieved. I left a message and hung up.

Then in the evening, he called back- the son. My heart thumping again I picked up the phone. 'I wanted to know when the funeral is', rushing headlong to the point and fumbling stupidly. 'Oh we did the funeral yesterday', he said simply. 'um.. a.... are you going to be performing some pooja in her memory then? I really want to be there', I know I was sounding extremely fake. 'I don't know', he said, suddenly sounding very vulnerable. 'I have no idea what needs to done, I am just following whatever instructions my aunt gave to me'. My heart went out to him. Here is another person who has suddenly found himself in a situation and he has no idea how to deal with it. Suddenly he has been pushed to a position of responsibility. I felt an instant kinship with him. Death here in the US, for many families is far more difficult to cope with. The therapeutic effect of the houseful of people in India is underestimated. It is a lonely battle here.

That broke the barrier. After that we spoke easily and naturally. The last time I must have spoken to him must be three years back. I hardly know him. Yet, he spoke. He spoke of his mother's last moments, her intuition about her death, his fathers reaction, how he and his brother handled it. I offered him all the inspirational support I could, straight from the heart and without any guile of 'duniyadari'. When I put the phone down, I felt sad, but I felt good. I had done the right thing.

Just before his call, my neighbour had popped in for five minutes and I was whining about how difficult it is to deal with such situations. How much I am not looking forward to making the drive on the week-end. 'Listen, I have never bought a house before, but I am going through the process of buying it, aren't I? So, even you need to do somethings for the first time'. Strange logic. But it made sense.

So, this week-end I shall make the drive. It is not going to be easy, but winning over my cowardice is making me feel a better person. Truly, there is no better way to deal with a situation than to face it!

Fiction: Dreading Ugly Girls

Chaitanya S — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 13:22:46 EDT

The sun beat down harshly, immediately distorting the contour of my expression. With crinkled eyelids I stared blankly at the buildings below as a whiff of smoke escaped my tanned pursed lips. I paced around slowly. The brain was ticking and the lungs were puffing. The terrace of my office building was an ideal place for my “brainstorming breaks”. Creative ideas blended with a dash of black coffee and a hint of smoke made a magic potion. The potion on which I believed my modeling agency thrived on. Minutes would turn to hours at times; thinking of the next fashion show or the next magazine shoot. Faces of fashion photographers, choreographers, designers, stylists and models would emerge through the smoke and spin in my head like a jackpot machine. The risks and benefits of every combination would be calculated in my head. Suddenly there would be a glimpse of light in my clouded mind and I’d run down to break the plan of action to my team.

My mind was focused on a print shoot for a ladies denim commercial for the Middle East. I had already zeroed in on the photographer. The only bone of contention was which young ladies to select. They had to look beautiful, nothing else, simply gorgeous. Tall, slim, good features, nice long hair and fair. The industry demanded fair girls for print shoots. Dusky girls with average features were useless for this. They were good enough for the ramp if they were tall and slim enough. But even they were taken grudgingly. I was an integral part of a shallow world. But that shallow world paid for the comfortable lifestyle which I led. Changing the world or people’s perception wasn’t my concern. My mind shifted to the numerous aspiring models that came to me for work. I didn’t give two hoots to their “talents”. If they did not fit the “conventional” look, I offered them tea; chit chatted, took their photographs and assured them that someone from my office would get in touch soon. I didn’t have the heart to say, “You are no good. Your looks will never work. Please go back home and do something else.” The pictures were immediately confined to the welcoming bosom of my trash can.I still wasn’t part of the shallow world though. After every such meeting, I needed a fag to get over the uneasiness. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me. The hope and trust which I strangled, the moment the pictures touched the bin.Then slowly I turned cold. I assimilated myself in that world. My job was to sell dreams. I started living in a dream myself. My smile became my mask. I became a parody of myself. I started disliking people who were not good looking. I felt they were coming to office and wasting my time. The same time which I could dedicate to “deserving” people. At times I made it a point to tell them that. Mostly I did it in a politically correct manner. Sometimes I was blunt. But I didn’t care. I had a business to run and salaries to pay.Gradually the sight of bad features, bad hair, bad dressing started making me uneasy. My soul turned shallow, then dry and finally I could feel it die. I know it died because I felt empty. It lay buried somewhere in the four walls of my agency. I never quite realized the subtle transition of my soul into arrogance. The only thing that remained of my previous self was my “carton of 20”. The hopeful eyes still haunted me though. But I knew a drag was all it took to cloud those thoughts away.Outside the office, I was myself again. Maybe that’s why I always liked going to the terrace to think. The fresh sea breeze felt liberating. It allowed me to think in peace without being disturbed. My soul felt alive again. It was the only place where I could be at ease with my “oral companion”.

A trickle of sweat ran down my neck and made me wince. Another drag before I shifted base to the cooler confines under the parapet on which the water tank rested. It was when I moved there that I realized that I was not alone on the terrace that evening.

My soot stained lips broke into a genuine smile on seeing her pudgy dusky features. However, the hint of coldness in my heart screamed, “For that skin tone, at least use a hint of bronzer to liven it up”. Her hair was tied neatly in a tight pony tail, a far cry from the cute step cuts which were in vogue. Her simple denims and tee did not make any attempt to hide her ample frame. In my office, a girl looking like that would have been spurned. I disliked bulky people. I just felt they were too lazy to exercise. “I hate people who abused their bodies”, I would tell my near and dear ones even as an extra layer of soot collected over my lungs. “How many times have I said no wearing sneakers on flared denims”, my heart wailed. She was a stark contrast to the girls who visited my agency and those who worked there. But that day she did not flash her pearly whites on seeing me.She worked in the office next doors. We would often meet in the corridor or elevator and exchange pleasantries. Then we started having brief conversations since the car park where I kept my car and her bus stop were in the same direction. She was a well read girl and we would discuss books for that brief period. She was sharp with her words and fluent in Hindi and English. She could think on the spot and had a ready wit. I called her a walking talking lexicon. These qualities helped her become an accomplished telemarketer. At the end of every month, she would proudly tell me that she had over achieved her targets. I always appreciated and related more to self made people.

She never quite knew why her boss never sent her out for client calls. Such marketing offered higher financial rewards and better networking opportunities to further ones career. She definitely had the capabilities of pulling it off. I expressed my curiosity to her boss once when I bumped into him in the elevator. He smirked and patted my shoulder. “We sell high end perfumes, son. I don’t want to scare my clients. He gave a chuckle. You know what she looks like! And her dressing, she needs some tips from your staff!” We had reached the landing to our office as he completed his sentence. My soul always disappeared on that floor. I smirked and chuckled harder than him. I was amused by my own stupidity.

I walked up to her. My grin was genuine and my mind was clear of the modeling world. “Hey. And how are we doing today? Good girls shouldn’t be sitting in “shady” places all by themselves”. I ruffled her hair playfully and sat down on the cement flooring next to her. She gave me a blank look; her eyes were of a crimson hue. She’d always been cheerful whenever I’d met her. This was something I wasn’t used to.

She sniffled and looked me in the eye. “Got another drag?” I crossed my eyebrows. I wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah I do. I didn’t know you smoke. I don’t think you should.” She eased my companion out of my fingers and took a deep puff. Her eyes burned with a sanguine radiance as the smoke hissed out of her lips over my face. Then she coughed and tears ran down her dark cheeks. Immediately taking the stub out of her hand, I extinguished it on the floor. I put my arm round her comfortingly and smiled lightly. “Don’t worry. I’m here for you. Let those tears flow and it’ll make you feel better.” My shoulder got wet as tears flowed on it. I sat still, not knowing how to react. I needed to think. To think I needed a quick drag.

I stroked her hair comfortingly while my brain raced. “Maybe she’s had a fight with her boyfriend”, I said to myself. Immediately a voice from within smirked, “Do you really think she will have a boyfriend. I mean look at her. I wouldn’t date her if she was the last woman on this planet”. “Love is blind”, I countered. “Of course it is. Else ugly people would never be loved.” I quickly pulled out a cigarette and popped it between my lips. With slightly shaking hands, I flicked open my Zippo and readily inhaled the soothing draft of air. It had a magical effect and squabble within me ceased immediately.

She moved her face off my shoulder. I gazed into her pink orbs and smiled lightly. I could see pain, hurt, confusion and embarrassment all rolled in one look. I handed her my cigarette. That was the only cure which I could vouch for and the only one which was at hand. “Thanks”, she muttered coldly before closing her eyes and taking a drag. A tear rolled down the side of her eye as I lit a cigarette for myself.

Weeping girls made me panic. Most of the girls I knew could open a faucet within themselves at the drop of a hat. They could use those tears as a weapon to attack you or as a shield to defend their actions. Either way men had no chance of fighting back. Reasoning was always futile; I had learnt the hard way.

I glanced at her. The nicotine in her blood stream seemed to have a calming effect on her. Balancing the cigarette in my lips I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her. I took her hand gently in mine and took a drag before speaking in a low voice, “Hey, thank God you don’t wear any makeup, these tear stains would have definitely ruined your pretty face”.

“Pretty ! Pretty ! You think this face is pretty !”, she exploded. She hadn’t released the smoke before screaming and her words were drowned in a bought of heavy coughing. She jerked her hand out of mine and gave me a hard look. “You bloody well know I’m not pretty. And it’s no secret either. I’m ugly, goddamit and you would be the first person to notice that”. My eyes widened and I took a couple of quick fags to calm down. What she said wasn’t completely untrue. It wasn’t what she said that shocked me, but the way in which she said it.

“Who the hell told you that? Of course you are pretty”, I spoke calmly. “You’ve got a wonderful personality and you are a good person and it shows on your face……In your body language. Trust me, I’m your friend.” I smiled lightly as I watch her aggression subsiding.

“Then why the fuck do guys reject me for marriage on the basis of my looks?” she mutter meekly. For that I had no answer. I did not even know her family was out looking for prospective suitors. Marriage was an alien concept to me and it hardly ever crossed my mind.

“Every time I meet someone, the reply the very next day is the same. NO. My parents are too embarrassed to tell me, but I’m not stupid. I understand. My parents drop subtle hints, asking me to lose weight. I can do it for health reasons, but why should I change myself for someone else?” Tears started bulging under her eyes again and I quickly gestured towards the handkerchief.

“I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I know it’s my looks. But how can I help it if I was born this way? I have dreams too; I want to have a family. I want to have kids. But everywhere I go, I get a look and I know what it means. Guys want fair, slim girls. Why is dark considered ugly in this country?”

I listened quietly. I had never imagined girls could face such problems. Why an independent and intelligent young lady being reduced to tears because of a frivolous thing like marriage was beyond me. But again it was a question of priorities. She wanted a family and kids of her own, and I respected her priorities.

“I wanted some good photographs, remember? I’d come to you and you said you’d get back to me regarding that. You never did. I wanted them for a marriage website and I’d heard you bragging about making people look prettier than they were”. I cringed. I remembered that meeting and how I had reacted. I always felt shooting someone ugly was an insult to my skill and my camera. I was an artist and I chose whom I wanted to shoot. Despite being avarice, I’d rather give a monetary loan to somebody than shoot pictures of a person with average looks. “You know how busy I’ve been”, I muttered timidly.

I managed a smile and took her hand again. “Forget the photographs for now. You don’t need all that. You are an amazing girl and that’s what’s important. You don’t look ugly. You’ve got lovely features; you just need to smile and show off your pearly white teeth to accentuate them. And there is nothing that a nice haircut can’t fix. We just need to change your dressing slightly and you’ll be physically all ready to have guys drooling when you walk. And don’t feel as if I’m changing you, you’ll still be yourself. I’m just suggesting some minor tweaks. And don’t feel you are doing it for a stranger; just think you are doing it for me”.

“Once that is taken care of, you’ve got everything a guy would want in a girl. You are intelligent. You can talk on varied subjects. And have I told you I love your sense of humor? You are the only one who makes me laugh so much after a long day at work. And your poems are some of the best which I’ve heard in ages. And you have a way with words which is very flattering. I love the way you speak sweetly over the phone with your clients”. She had tossed the cigarette aside and was gazing at me and listening intently as I spoke about her. I highlighted all her positives and it took a while since she really was talented. I mentioned how good she was around people and how she made everyone comfortable in her presence. We continued to talk for almost an hour after that. She smiled and finally she was laughing again.

I glanced at my watch. I had a client to meet in office downstairs and even she had been away from her desk for a while. As the sun started setting in the sea across our building, the sky was filled with a crimson hue. It was the same hue which was visible in her eyes an hour ago. As the day was coming closer to its conclusion, so was our conversation. We got up and took the stairs down to our office floor. I was repeating all her qualities to drive them in her brain and boost her confidence. She was smiling and she seemed to be in high spirits again. I could see the joy in her eyes, something which I hadn’t seen for ages. I tossed the cigarette aside. I could feel good without it.

Just one more flight of stairs down and we would have reached our destination. Words were flowing consistently through my lips. “So anyone who says no to you isn’t worth your time because you are precious. And you know….Any guy who marries you will be the luckiest guy in this whole world….And…” “She grabbed my hand and turned me to face her. Her hope filled gaze was locked in mine. She spoke in a low expectant voice, “Will you marry me?”

My soul always disappeared on that floor. I turned cold. My job was to sell dreams. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me forever. “No”, I said coldly.

The hopeful eyes still haunt me. Even a drag isn't enough now to cloud those thoughts away.

The Purity Of An Idli

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 14:06:09 EDT

Idlis have special meaning for me. My grandfather was the one who taught me how to eat idlis the wrong way. He'd put sambhar and coconut chutney on top of the piping hot idlis, smash it all up and eat like rice. Even now thats how I like to eat my idlis- smashed, sticky and ever so divine.

I can eat idlis at all times - breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack time, post snack time- just about any time. Idli is the ultimate comfort food for me. Idlis somehow even in their bland taste remind me of innocence. How wrong can one go with idlis?

Its all in the batter, the further its made away from South India the more diluted its taste becomes. At least in Delhi, despite visiting the best South Indian joints. I could never get the kind of Idlis that we get down South.

The melting softness and the tangy sambhar can only be enjoyed here. If you have the urge to eat idlis the best place to enjoy them is at a nameless little shop in a small lane in Commercial Street. Ask any Bangalorean and they will take you there.

They serve idlis during evenings and they are positively swoon worthy.

Looking back, the best idlis I remembered eating when I was young were made by my dad's friend's wife. I was less than five years old and barely reached the kitchen sink. I remember Aunty showing me how idlis were made. I was in awe. My mom never made idlis.

Her delicate fingers indented the idlis with ghee. I remember her patiently answering my questions. And when she sneaked me an idli ahead of everyone waiting in the living room, I was in heaven.

It was hot, soft and soulful. I was in love with the idli and awed by the idli maker. Its funny how I barely remember what she looked like, except that she was slim, delicate, and in my nostalgic mind - pure like the idli she made.

Related Article : Dal Makhani: The National Cuisine By Shantanu Dutta

Clean Your Own Crap

Ritu Chandra — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 09:13:51 EDT

I walked into a sparkling clean house today. It was the cleaning service Monday. As on all the other Mondays, when I stepped in I felt a pang of guilt. Guilt? Yes, you heard me right. Guilty pleasure.

For this to make sense I need to rewind back and play this from the beginning.

My mother suffers from OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). She cannot tolerate untidiness or mess of any kind. Our house is dusted twice a day, all things are neatly in place and it is sparkling clean. It is not only my mom, her sister is afflicted by the same disease. It runs in the family. We refer to it as 'Safai Ka Mania'. Needless to say my mom and my aunt are very house proud. And however much they might rubbish it, I suspect cleaning is the most cherish able part of their existence.

Now, to this genetic composition add some conditioning. My mom was raised in a large, well-to-do family with Gandhian values. Along with many other things they were taught to be self-reliant. That translates to - do your own chores. Keep your room neat, make your own bed, put away the dirty dishes etc. etc. If my grandfather had not passed away before I was born, I would have surely asked him what the point was of having a battalion of servants if each member had to do his own chores. Ah well....

Everything was hunky dory for my mom until her world turned upside down. I was born(upside down of course). By some quirk of fate, I escaped the oppressive cleanliness gene that ran in the family. I am deliciously dirty and lazy. My desk was always cluttered, my room had things lying all over and my cupboard resembled a laundry bag (mom's words not mine - if you ask me, I think a laundry bag is a very respectable thing). Needless to say, I was the biggest challenge to my mom's value system.

Help came to her in form of a standard three Hindi lesson that comprised of a story called 'Apna Kaam Swayam Karo' (Clean your own Crap). While the details of the story have faded from the memory, the lesson remains as fresh. Mom made sure, that it would not fade away - Do not leave your work onto others. Even though we had help at home I was supposed to do my own chores. The same set of outdated values that she learnt from her folks. So I grew up basically cursing my fate, trying to do my chores and shirking away from them whenever possible, convinced that as soon as I would escape my mother's tyranny I would live like a pig.

However, God has a terrible sense of humour. Growing up, is basically about being a butt of this sense of humour. It was when I first escaped home to live in a hostel that the curse of my conditioning dawned upon me. I made the dreadful discovery that I had not escaped the family affliction. I too hated mess. I continued to be lazy about cleaning, however I now realised was that while it was fine for me to create a mess as long as someone else was around to pick it up, but, once there was no one to clean it, the mess got onto my nerves. For me to be completely relaxed I needed a clean place!

My perfectly normal gene had been rendered defective with constant conditioning.

My life was never the same after that. There has always been that tussle between giving in to my inherent laziness and to keep my environment the way I have been used to having it.... clean.

When I moved to US, the 'Apna kaam swayam karo' motto took on a whole new meaning. Actually, it is a very Gandhian thing... as they say 'Majboori ka naam Mahatma Gandhi' [loosely translates to 'Necessity thy name greatness]. There is no other option. In addition to the personal chores now one had to run a house. In the early days when I shared an apartment with friends everything was great fun. Even cleaning was fun. We would spend every Saturday morning scrubbing away at the bathroom floors, vacuuming the house, cleaning the kitchen and getting everything in order. After that we would venture out to Olive Garden for a good meal and then for a long drive into the countryside. Doesn't that sound too good? Now, even I wonder if we actually did enjoy the cleaning or is my memory coloured by the good food and good drive that followed it.

However, as time passed cleaning was becoming a bigger and bigger and finally a monstrous chore. Busy schedules would leave me too tired to clean and a dirty house sat on my conscience like an overweight chipmunk. Finally a couple of weeks back, while scrubbing the bathroom floor I decided I had had enough. I was not born to clean bathrooms I declared to myself. Time has come for me to relieve myself of my janitor duties and the conditioning of my upbringing... I called the cleaning services.

The first time Cleaning Unlimited came to clean my house it was a disaster. The truth is that the maternal OCD genes were just dormant not dead. When I walked into the house after the cleaning, the first thing I did was lift things off the floor and scrutinize corners to make sure they had been cleaned properly and then threw a fit to find that they hadn't (and later went faint when I realised how much I really am like my mother).

The second time, they promised me a thorough job and truly, when I walked in this time, my house was sparkling clean. And then I felt it....yes, the guilt. The guilt that someone had actually walked in and seen my mess. The mess that I zealously clear away if I am expecting someone in my house. Not only had someone seen my mess they even cleaned it for me. The guilt of having shirked from good old, hallowed hard work. It made me feel less virtuous somehow. The 'Apna Kaam Swayam Karo' motto flashed before my eyes in a manner that is remniscent of the way the weighing scale flashes before your eyes after a large bowl of decadent chocolate sundae with whipped cream.

Today was the fourth time that my house was cleaned by someone else. I must confess, the guilt is somewhat ebbing as the benefits of the exercise are showing up. I find much more time for more constructive things. I don't spend the entire week-end doing chores (or feeling guilty about not doing them) and feel far more at ease with my constantly neat and clean living space.

Those annoying words still flash before my eyes. But slowly and steadily they are altering. Let me see what I read now..

Apana Kaam Swayam ....... Kyon Karo?

P.S Sorry Gandhiji, I do think you are out of fashion now.

Marriage Mania

Chaitanya S — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 03:04:14 EDT

"Some people claim that marriage interferes with romance. There's no doubt about it. Anytime you have a romance, your wife is bound to interfere" - Groucho Marx.

Exactly my point!

Lately my friends and acquaintances (of either gender) have been slowly but surely succumbing to the marketing wiles of these mushrooming matrimonial sites, social/ parental / peer pressures and sell by date college romances (not exactly in that order).

Yet, bravely I stood with a trusted few, guarding the haloed frontiers of bachelorhood. Grieving (at times sniggering at) the vanquished.

So while my "online albums" (on those dime for a dozen social networking sites) bore photographs of philandering boys on the beaches of Goa, "their" albums had beautiful wedding and honeymoon snaps.

I wish to clarify that I do not detest marriage. It is as sacred an institution as there can be (so I've read). But for everything in life, there is a certain age (always exception to the rule). Else 8 year olds would be driving just because they love fast cars. You need to be matured enough to peep through the veil of initial thrill and recognize the hazards that lie ahead.

Plus, marriage is akin to bungee jumping or sky diving. You sign a consent form before you actually take the plunge. Unfortunately if you enjoy the thrill of taking the deep plunge, let's just say you can't go sky diving in the immediate future when it comes to marriage. However much you wish to. (That's 10/10 for morals and 11/10 for commitment).

Finally when my impatience hit the roof on account of my friends' "suicidal" tendencies, I sent a mass email to all the vanquished. It had a simple question. "Life is to be enjoyed when you are young and free. So for God's sake, WHY ?"

I got varied responses mostly from the US, Bangalore, Pune and some from Mumbai. The tone of the response depended on the person's emotional proximity to me, their gender and their reasons to take the plunge.

The honest ones (exclusively males) were pretty forthright with their reply. Something on the lines of Joseph Barth saying, "Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up". I totally agree. Next time please do something macho in your teens so you won't have to take such drastic steps.

The ones who had arranged marriages quoted something on the lines of Tom Mullen's, "Marriages blossom when we love the ones we marry". As an antithesis to this, I just remembered Samuel Johnson's saying, "Marriage is the triumph of hope over experience". Amen!

My creative friends from the Oscar Wilde school of thought responded as the great man would have. "Marriage is the triumph of imagination over intelligence". No wonder we get along so well on most counts.

But my favorite, coming from my really close bosom buddies (of either gender) was on the lines of "now at least we get laid each night". "With the same partner", was my sardonic remark. "Not always" was their surreptitious reply. Case rested. Meet you in hell.

I took one last juvenile dig at my "hit list" (excluding my haloed bosom buddies of course). One last email was posted and it simply pleaded, "GET A LIFE!"

One unanimous response from them "GET A WIFE!"

Real Women Don't Cry

IdeaSmith — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 10:17:52 EDT

They were in the same class. In my class.

She was the quintessential behenji in a hip crowd. Plaited hair, salwar-kameez and a sharp brain. In accordance to her curd-rice genes, she took copious notes, had a near-perfect attendance record and consistently high grades. She told me once that her ambition was to become like 'one of those Matunga Tamilians' meaning the kind that preened in a new kanjeevaram at every wedding, pattu-recital, arangaitram and poonal-ceremony. The ones that shopped in Matunga market and had kaapi at Madras Bhavan. The ones whose accent bespoke Tam-Bram-Americana. The ones who worked for multinational software companies in Silicon Valley. Or married someone who did. I didn't like her. I never liked wannabes and the ruthlessly ambitious ones always scared me.

He was Mr.EasyGoing. One of the many small-town boys who made it big by getting a toe-hold in Mumbai, starting with a college admission. He hated mathematics but managed it better than several of his classmates, owing to his engineering background. Engineering in something quite unfashionable like...instrumentation? Textiles? I forget, it didn't bear remembering anyway. He was dazzled by the glamour of Bollywood, the smartly dressed girls around, the flashy cars and cool clothes that his Mumbai peers owned. He had a rustic wide-eyed charm along with the sweet modesty of someone who knows he is just a moth in a crowd of butterflies. I liked him. Everyone did.

It seemed symbiotic. She was authoritative, demanding and bossy. He followed her around meekly, doing her bidding, snapping to her orders. And things always turned out well with high marks for everyone. We called him her P.A. Only because we liked him too much to call him the more realistic-but-demeaning 'puppy-dog'. He bore it in good humour, as he did everything, smiling shyly. And all was well.

An entire year later, we had moved on to more serious things than other people's admirers. Ardent admirers had metamorphosed into abusive boyfriends, cheating rogues and impossible cads. I looked across the canteen to her, a tinge of envy in my gaze. She had always had him right under her thumb and she wasn't even that nice! And he was devoted to her.

Later that evening, I wandered back into the canteen for a quick bite and to pore over my books in solitude. The library was always too crowded and charged up with nervous adolescent tension during the exam fever. The canteen, emptied of its regular raucous crowd (now frequenting the library) was the peaceful haven I needed to concentrate.

As I sipped my tea, I looked across to the few occupied tables. They were sitting at a table in the corner. I would have moved on, except he spotted me and waved. So I waved back. And shouted a HI! across to both of them. Oddly enough, neither responded.

She had her head down on the table, turned away from me. I thought I could lip-read him telling her that he was speaking to me and that she might look up any minute. She didn't. With a surge of annoyance at her impossible rudeness, I looked back into my book. Then he called out my name. I looked up to see him frantically gesturing for him to come over. What a bother.., I sighed and shut my books.

As I walked the few feet over I suddenly had a premonition that something was terribly wrong. He wasn't smiling. And she sat stone-cold in her seat, head down like she was dead. Only when I neared their table close enough to sit down did I hear the soft anguished voice. I had to force her head up from the table. She looked awful. Hair awry and eyes swollen, alarmingly red. And a voice like I had never heard before. She was murmuring,

He says he is going to leave me. He says he is leaving. I asked him why did you say you loved me? He says he was just joking. And he is leaving.

I looked up at him, frank embarrassment at being privy to a private conversation. And I was startled by something I had never seen in his face before. It was cruelty. Sheer, cold cruelty. He was cutting her up with a knife and he knew it. It was deliberate. And then, before my eyes, Mr.Nice Guy cooly got up, dusted his palms and walked out of the canteen.

For an hour I sat with her, a girl I had never liked, while she poured her heart out to me about the crimes of a guy I thought of as a jolly good fellow. The dreams, the hopes, the expectations - everything that had lain under the ruthless ambition. All her drive and zeal to do well and carry both of them out of their lower-middle class status, out of the gargantuan family expectations that they may both be able to stand up and do what they wanted one day. And just before the very end, just before the final exams, he had cut her out. He hadn't meant a word of it. It had all been a sham. And she was devastated.

The first exam was the next morning. I kept a watch on the door, wondering if she would make it. She did. Face badly puffy, she drifted in unobstrusively. And across the room he sat, laughing and joking with his friends like nothing had happened. He didn't bat an eyelid as she walked in, deeply wounded dignity intact and sat down in the seat in front of him. And then the test begun.

In the second week of the exams he was seen chatting up two girls from the other class. And by next month it was rumored that he was seeing one of them. The P.A. joke faded out and was never raked up again, even while other mortifying love-tales were dug up at every alumni meet.

But something shifted for all of us in that one month. All the boys from her "I'm a tomboy!" days seemed to be saying with their sneering glances, "It served her right."

And what about the girls? She had never had any friends among us. We never discussed it across our cliques and no one ever said anything to her. But none of us ever spoke him again.

She graduated with top marks and found her footing in a job-tough market. Marriage happened a year back, to another man of her own choice. Of him I know nothing more and have no desire to, any furthur. It's good to want something and wonderful to get what you want; just not at the cost of stepping on someone else's toes - or heart.

She once introduced herself on stage with -

When it rains, I feel the rain.
The others just get wet.

Perhaps she never knew that there were people who would hold out an umbrella for her. But then again, she probably didn't need it. Real women don't cry - they just feel the rain on their faces.

No Longer An Estranged NRI

Deepti Lamba — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 12:53:47 EDT

I suffered a reverse culture shock two years ago when we returned to India. America had been the exact opposite of India in many ways.

Silence had been the first thing that had jarred my senses back in the US. There had been too much silence. I could hear myself think. And then there were so few people. The only time I saw lots of people was at concerts, malls or in New York but California and Milwaukee made me love silence and open spaces.

Then I came back to India after five years and found myself vulnerable to all that I had forgotten. I had to teach myself to grow a thicker skin, to be immune to the beggar banging away on my car window, to learn to live with filth and crumbling infrastructure and not complain about it.

I was suddenly a returned NRI estranged from her country and out of sync with her own family. But with time I found myself rediscovering the soul of her country. I found myself loving the noise, the irrationality of living in every little available space, of crawling over each other in buses, trains and ferries but never making eye contact and finding out that the poor of our country are far more helpful than the rich and snotty.

For all the little tots pooping on the sidewalks, the religious processions causing traffic jams, the crazy divide between the rich and poor I found myself easing back into the fold.

It was like rediscovering love with the same person without going through the headiness of honeymoon stage. It was like a pragmatic love, where after all the whining and the soul searching one came to a simple conclusion that this was it and nothing else would be better- there could be no other relationship and I had to make it work.

When I realized that this was all I had it got easier. I came back to India but left my excess baggage at the doorstep. I came to realize that each country is different and there can be no comparisons.

I still love America, I'd love to visit her again, meet my friends, eat at my favorite restaurants, browse the bookshops but India is where I would finally like to return.

"Scoring" in the United States

Chaitanya S — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 01:07:55 EDT

The Indian economy is on an upward growth path and showing a tremendous growth at 9%. My girth is doing exactly the same, though I feel my growth rate is much more. Talk of being a true representative of your country on foreign soil!

What can represent Indian more than a game of cricket? I finally played a match last month. I was looking forward to having a dream debut and leaving an impact on the game. I had this personal ambition of seeing a 50 next to my name on the score card. I got the game off to a rollicking start and reached 40 in the 3 overs in which I was in action. Suddenly the captain gestured me to stop and let someone else take over. He made it pretty clear to me that the 50 looks better next to my name while batting, not bowling! Whatever! I clearly remember hearing commentators saying “A half century is a half century in any form of cricket”. Shooting down aspirations of budding sportsmen is such an Indian trait. The captain thus displayed his "Indianness"!

I was chatting with a friend and he asked me “So have you scored in the US as yet?” I was a bit ashamed of my batting performance, but being an honest soul, I said, “Yeah it was pretty tough, but I managed 5”. Knowing every honest bone in my body, he gave me a phone call within 30 seconds of me sending the message in. “So how were they? Americans or Indians? How did you manage so quickly? Damn, 5 chicks in 3 months is rocking! Wish I’d studied there!” Maybe this is the communication gap between virtual teams that the professor warned us about in class. No wonder most people say that MBA education is mostly based on real life situations.

Back to the point, I did not have the heart to act like my captain and curtail someone’s excitement. But after a few seconds of listening to a running commentary of his own exploits, I let the bubble burst and told him I meant cricket. Suddenly I was flooded with comments of how busy he was, how late in the night it was for him and how he really had to hang up.

Statistics show that 80,000 Indian students come to the US annually. I am dead sure that when these 80,000 cross the psychological barrier of making the first long distance call to their friends, the first question they are faced with is the one which faced me. Friends back in India don’t give two hoots about whether you are pursuing an MS, an MBA or a janitor’s diploma.

Hard as it may seem since I’m a “pakka Mumbaikar”, I’d rather be a Dravid than a Tendulkar on foreign shores (figuratively speaking, of course). That will equip me with the perfect technique to “score” consistently in alien conditions rather than just “plundering” on home soil. Now I’ve realized what they mean by accomplishments in India not being appreciated as compared to foreign ones.

Since I’m on the topic of sports, I have to mention my experience in a bowling alley. Now my bowling in the alley isn’t as accomplished as that on a cricket pitch. So by the time we were half way through the game, the screen displaying scores appeared like a chart of noughts and crosses. I had most of the noughts because of innumerable gutter balls and my friends had the crosses because of perfect strikes. One of them asked me “Bet you’ll never manage 3 straight crosses?” Well I could have shown him a few sheets with my name and lots of crosses under that. Too bad Mumbai University does not return our engineering answer sheets. But the score sheet surely evoked nostalgia of my engineering tests, with the crosses, and the zeros right next to them.

But things aren’t all that bleak in my life. I think I’ve finally learned to cook now and my roomies have heaved a sigh of relief. Well I don’t blame them. If the cook doesn’t eat his own food, it surely does provide food for thought to the others. Well I’m proud to state my cooking has reached a stage where I can satiate my own taste buds without going green in the face.

I was chatting with one of my friends yesterday and she asked me,”You’ve been there for almost 3 months, what was the most difficult thing you found fitting into?” I read it and I bit my lower lip with regret. That question hit me where it really hurt. An honest answer was typed back. “My denims”.