Happy New Year

Born in this world after years of prayers

Nurtured with care and values of goodness

I was the daughter, you deeply loved

I was the sister, your trusted ally over the years

I was the friend, who made you laugh

I was the lover, you just couldn’t live without

I was the woman, the world would have been proud of

But the end came much before my time

Cut short by the atrocities of the criminal minds

Raped and abandoned, my cries went unheard

I fought really hard to survive

My body was violated yet my spirits rang high

I lost the battle yet I won

I forced you to raise one united voice against these crimes

I made you sit and agitate for a cause

And as you put me to rest, here’s what I pray


Hope that the world gets safer in this New Year and the years that goes by...

If...

The phone kept ringing, one call after another but he didn’t answer. Nor that he didn’t want to speak but he couldn’t bring himself to pick it. After last night showdown, the familiar number spelled trouble for him. And he had a good excuse to convince himself too, “I am in the midst of a meeting.” The fact that it was a regular weekly meet where he could have easily excused himself and taken the call was an option he often chose in truce times, but not today. She prayed, “Please God, let him take the call.” She kept trying and trying till her consciousness lasted and then everything went dark. Too dark to recover and too quiet for the mind to interfere. All she felt was odd, cold hands picking her up and taking her away, maybe far. She could hardly tell because she was too new to the place. He wanted to call her back after the meeting but something stopped him. Then one task, after another made him forget her. Finally when he did remember, it was time to go back home. Time to go back to her and time to pick up from where they left last night. The moment he turned the house key, he felt something wasn’t right. Everything was kept at its usual place. But she was missing. He looked everywhere and couldn’t find her. Her phone was missing too. That moment too he wanted to call her, but he dismissed the idea. Though he could read the unusually high number of times she had tried to get in touch with him during the day. “Must be trying to patch up, let me just ignore for some time, “he assured himself. To top it, the peace in his apartment without her presence was too tempting for him. Had been a while that he got all the time to himself. Ever since she had come, she had never left him alone. He was enjoying the solitude and started playing his favourite video game. Time flew at a fast pace and when he looked at the wall-clock, it was past 9. Suddenly the clouds of worries appeared in his mind. He brought the phone from his charging point and was about to call when another call from a friend diverted him. The call went long and by the time it ended, he got tired and went for another session with the game, he recently bought. The next time he looked it was past 10.30 and he panicked. Immediately, he dialled the all familiar number. It rang and was picked up by an unfamiliar male voice. He repeated the dialled number and asked for his wife. The voice said, “We have been trying to call you since a long time without any success. The woman carrying this phone has been hit in the afternoon…” His world fell apart and nothing made sense after that…

The fishy love affair

Now, I am a born Bong (slang for Bengali's born in the Eastern state of West Bengal in India). But the difference between me and my ancestors was the fact that I was raised in different parts of the country making me a cosmopolite (that is what I would like to believe about myself). We spoke Bangla (the mother tongue) only at home and amongst friends, even if they, belonged to our own place of origin, English was the unifying factor. Anybody who was vernacular always got a raised eyebrow from us. While our parents kept looking for people of the same origin, we, the younger generation always looked away. We hated to be categorized in a group, “we are all Indians”, we loved to proclaim. The endless talk of the elders about the latest fish they bought from a particular market, the gory details of choosing the right fish and the best way of preparation sickened me and my sister. Sometimes the discussions were so graphic that any vegetarian would die of a heart attack while I lost all appetite to eat afterwards. The love affair with these fresh water creatures never ceases to end in a Bong household. So much so that my Baba (dad) proudly proclaimed and I quote, “a man’s character is determined by the quality of fish he buys.” On the contrary the same guy had to give his two daughters to guys who were non-bongs. Both never ever purchased fish in their lives. One is learning slowly under his tutelage while the other has given up eating…but then that’s another story. Till date on Skype, my Baba never fails to ask the last time I ate fish, even if he might forget to ask how am I doing. Whenever I fall sick, his reaction is that I am not eating my fish. Honestly, I did lose my cool more than once with his enquiries and wondered what the big deal was. Fresh water fishes were readily available in India where I stayed alone for some time away from parents. I was not immensely crazy about my fish curry-rice (macher jol-bhaat) and whenever I missed it, I cooked. Lately with my new migration when my commuting has its own limitations, thanks to my sense-of-direction. I miss my fish more often than not. My vegetarian better half would never realise and it is difficult to explain because he is a non-Bong and doesn't know that fish is deeply embedded in my system of existence. It has been more than two months of my no-fish diets and my cravings were getting desperate. I decided to take action and didn't even hesitate to do some Googling on finding a Bangladeshi shop near my place. When nothing came up, I went to the extent of pinging a newly met Bong couple who were forthcoming in giving some address. They were far from where I live and if I told my better-half about my real intention of making him drive so far, he would start preaching of the attributes of becoming a veggie, which I don’t contend but am not so strong-willed yet. So the Bong blood in me took the better of me and I made him take me there all the way with some other pretext. The moment I laid my hands on those frozen packets of fishes, I was in nirvana. The shopkeeper became my long lost relative here with fish the unifying factor between us. We had some intense conversations over the wide varieties of fishes he stocked. My better-half looked surprised and all he could said was, “I don’t know what were so happy about? Much happier than when you see back home.” To which I didn't reply because in marriage it is better to avoid answering for sanity sake at times. My purpose was solved and now my fishes lay carefully ducked in my refrigerator and I haven’t had the chance to cook them yet. But the feeling that they are within my easy reach and I can cook my macher-jhol bhaat whenever I want is just so exhilarating. Maybe, the years of being raised outside Bengal haven’t been able to take the Bong away from me, what say? Do let me know if it has ever happened with you when the need to have the food you've grown-up with has overtaken all other sense of the world and you are ready to go the extra manipulative mile to have some?

Happy Diwali!!

Now since I am an Overseas Indian, I am supposed to think different. Think international, think big is what is been constantly bombarded on me. But, how do you take the “desiness” away from a “desi” like me? After all, I wasn’t born in this country and my language is different from theirs, including my English. And so does a series of things that comes quite naturally to me. To begin with, I don’t like the big unperturbed malls which miss all the chaos of a market or bazaar, back home. You don’t have the salesman too eager to please you and doesn’t mind bringing down the entire stock right in front of you. He doesn’t hesitate to keep showing you and even when you nod in disapproval or feel sorry for the mess you’ve created. All he does is flash his beautiful smile and say, “No problem, behenji (sister). Our job is to show you and just have a look at this exotic piece which I am sure you’re going to like. Please.” And looking at his salesmanship, you sometimes end up buying even if you were in doubt of whether to buy or not. “Dekne ke paise thori na lagte hain (It doesn’t cost you money to see),” says the sales guy politely and he wins your heart. Whereas, in this country nobody pushes you to buy. Take it or leave it is every shopper’s right. You can try all the things in the shop and not end up buying a pin because nobody tells you that “the pin looks awesome on you”. So people who need a little push to shop (like yours truly) go round and round all through the day without buying anything. Now, what a loss that can be to the sales worldwide! The other thing, my desiness, refuses to leave is the constant calculation that goes on the mind when you venture out. Everything and anything is in DOLLARS to which I unknowingly calculate in RUPPEES. The impact is devastating so much so that I end up depressed and sometimes waterless too, because water is far expensive than a can of soda! I miss my place of origin and keep looking out for Indian names on the street. Any restaurant reading Indian names makes me nostalgic and terribly homesick. The urge to barge in and hug my countrymen is immense. Wish the better-half wasn’t by my side to calm me down and do a reality check. And the food does the rest. Though Indian, if you go by the menu card, it taste everything else than what you are used to back home. And I don’t blame them either because they do have to cater to globalised palettes and hence miss its “desiness”. On the eve of Diwali, I miss India more. I miss the hustle bustle of the markets, the enlightening decorations of the households, the homemade sweets, the boisterous noise of the crackers, the loud make-up of the ladies and above all the fervour. Happy Deepawali…my readers and friends!

Who says to plan?

Planning has been an important component in every woman’s life and I am no different. I just love to plan. But lately none of my planning seems to work and so does with people around me. The girl was young, beautiful, smart and talented. She fell in love with somebody you would be proud to bring home and your parents mighty impressed. He had the degrees, the job, the age and everything for a ‘happily-ever after love story’. When everything was working fine, his job, her career, their parents…she did one thing that we (women) are so good at. She planned. And according to her plans, they got married after a fairly long courtship. When both were relatively settled, career wise. She could manage to take a break for the impending wedding and the honeymoon. He was fairly established to ask for long absence from work for an exotic location honeymoon. Maybe, get a tan (expensive because the expenses were to cost a bomb) and show-it-off at work. And successful, they were in going as per plans. Marriage took them to phases of life, which they handled pretty well. The bedroom sagas were planned too. Sexless nights on week days because both had to report early to work. Weekends were reserved for some action but on-your-guard was the ‘keyword’ because they were on planning. She didn’t want to extend the family until some quality time spent together which did extend till five years. And it wasn’t that they couldn’t afford a child but she had a long list of plans to follow first like a three bedroom house with 2 car parks, separate cars for each of them blah blah (which we women are so good at). As before, the plans worked well to an extent. They did have a child after 5 years whom they welcomed with all the love and affection you could think of. She took a break because she had planned well to raise her child. He had reached an important position where you could support his family comfortably. Everything was working as per her plans. But hey, wait. After almost a decade the marriage fell apart. The plans went haywire. Despite all the love, the comfortability, the easy finances something fell short. Now, she has no plans to fix it up. Maybe there is a force above who has the right to make plans because only He has the power to make or break them. Today, when I too migrated to a new country, I had my own plans to lead my life. Nothing big just small little ones. Yet nothing seems to be working as per my plans. Then I remembered them and told myself ‘who am I to make plans?’

Love will Conquer All-An ode

I love, love stories and have been fed on an overdose of “and they lived happily ever-after”. Afterall my generation has experienced Bollywood movies soaked in love, thanks to the great Mr. Yash Chopra. The big canvass of pretty people made even prettier in his movies with the mind-boggling scheme of colours especially the whites and pastels. Else could you think of a movie where Sridevi looked better than Chandni, Rekha looked more mesmerising than Silsila or Juhi Chawla looked more angelic than Darr? The legend just had a penchant for pampering our vision with cinematic delights in whatever he touched by. The effect He created on his audience was spellbinding. He gave us hope, He let us believe that love shall seek us too. He made us laugh, he make us cry and most of all he made us wanting to fall in love. And whatever was left, His music did the rest. Most of His films had such haunting music for every mood that you just can’t imagine live without them. Sometimes His music even helped us to express the unsaid like in my good old college days, the first love letter said, “Jaddu teri nazar, kushboo tera badan” from his then blockbuster “Darr”. And many a times (even today) when I am happy I do whisper (because I have been taught to love thy neighbour), “Terre mere hoothon pe” from the inimitable “Chandni”. Today, when the genius is no more to spell his magic, the heart misses him so much. Because nobody showed us stories about the heart as better as Mr. Yash Chopra did. I often thought that his wife is so lucky to have a man as romantic as him in her life. Today, my heart goes out to her because her loss is irreparable. I silently pray for her and wish the family gets the courage to bear this loss. As for millions of cinegoers back home and world-wide, the loss can never be filled because it is not easy to find someone who can entertain and encourage with amazing love stories of all time. The loss is even more for generations to follow as they will never get to see new movies that’ll “make them fall in love over and over again.”

Durga Pooja...then and now

Back home, it is time for celebration as we Bongs are at the eve of Durga Pooja (Dussehra Festival). The markets get flooded with people doing their last minute shopping else you’ll find people (like me) too lazy to pick clothes and generally wait till the last minute. Whatever be the reason, the air smells of celebration, loud outburst of laughter and kids screaming around. The familiar sound of the daakh(a localised version of the drum) will embrace the air and you can smell the festivities all round thanks to the wonderful delicacies for your palette or the wonderful aroma of the exotic spring season. As a kid, I would begin the countdown since long because for me the Pooja meant “no studies”. Schools were closed for Dussehra festivals and parents were busy organising the pandal, prasad and cultural events. So we could take a breather from the boring routine of books and enjoy as long as it lasted. I loved the Pooja so much so that the last day, when Maa Durga’s idol was immersed, tears ceased to stop and a sudden hopelessness told me that “my good old days” were over. On the threshold of my teen, I still enjoyed the Pooja because now it meant buying new clothes with matching accessories. And if I was lucky enough, maybe a little bit of make-up too would be allowed. Those four days of celebration saw me all decked up for the occasion and lots of admiring eyes followed which thrilled me then. Parents were busy in letting the events of the days run smoothly while we, teenagers were busy creating some historical love stories. Some love stories where stronger than most and succeeded in succumbing to matrimony later. As I grew into an independent adult, my enthusiasm died because I couldn’t manage to get office leaves. And whenever I did, I despised the enquiries that were made of my marital status. Marriage proposals came pouring down and would chase me down long after Maa Durga bid us farewell. I hated the all familiar discussions of the ladies encircling some extra marital affairs, few break-ups or just plain simple bitching stories about others. Gradually, I started distancing myself from the Bongs biggest event. Today, when I am thousands of miles away from my place of origin, I dearly miss the occasion. I am trying hard to breathe in the air for traces of back home celebrations. I am terribly nostalgic of the regular khichudi bhoog (rice-lentil dish served as prasad) for which there was always a long queue wherein the known aunties would give up their chance for us to be fed first. I miss the regular Indian clothes and the fanfare all together. I miss the chaos, chats and good food later. I miss DURGA POOJA. Happy Durga Pooja everyone!!