Monday, May 31, 2010

Nosy Neighbor

Nosy neighbor: Where are you headed?
sunshine: Uhh... some shopping. In a hurry.
Nosy neighbor: Okay. Where?
sunshine: Umm.... here and there ... In a hurry aunty.
Nosy neighbor (looking suspicious): Here and there? What will you buy?
sunshine: err..... this and that ... In a hurry aunty.
Nosy neighbor: What time will you be back?
sunshine: Well, are you planning to invite me for dinner?

Nosy neighbor (LOL): You have an amazing sense of humor !!

sunshine: (Sigh !!!): (To self, while running down the stairs): What do I do with people who don't understand sarcasm?

Nosy neighbor: Show me what you get, okay?

SIGH !!!

-----------------------------------

Nosy neighbor: Well well, where did mom and daughter go this evening?

sunshine: How did you know we were away?

Nosy neighbor: Aunty knows it all beta. The front door was locked.

sunshine: Oh, we just went here and there.

Nosy neighbor: What did you eat?

sunshine: Oh, we just had some momos for dinner.

Nosy neighbor (looking at mom): So who paid for dinner? Mom or daughter?

SHEESSHHH !!!

--------------------------------------

Nosy neighbor: So how come you are home for 2 months now?

sunshine: It’ll be 4 months of vacation in all.

Nosy neighbor: So are you still paying rent in Seattle?

sunshine: Yes, of course.

Nosy neighbor: Your office gave you leave for 4 months?

sunshine: I’m working from home.

Nosy neighbor (looking confused): What does working from home mean?

sunshine: It means I stay at home and work.

Nosy neighbor: But I don’t see you working.

sunshine: Oh, I work when everyone is asleep.

Nosy neighbor: Call center type job?

sunshine: Yeah you can say that.

Nosy neighbor: So are you still getting paid while you are here?

sunshine: Of course. And aunty, please please don’t ask me how much I get paid !!!

-----------------------

sunshine

Raj- The Savior

It was a perfect recipe for the biggest goof up. Well, come a certain Monday, I received my I-20 form (the document that allows you to get a visa interview date in the first place). I read it and re-read it for the umpteenth time, happy that things were working out finally. By Tuesday, I had paid the money to the bank, got myself a professional set of photos for the visa interview, compared it with my last set of visa photos taken 4 years ago, and thunked my head multiple times on the wall after seeing the massive havoc adipose tissue has caused to my face ever since. By Wednesday, I was looking at the set of dates available for the interview.

Available days: Monday. Tuesday. Thursday. Friday.

Monday was 5 days away. Tuesday 6. Thursday 8. Putting it off until Friday would surely cause me a nervous breakdown.

And then I remembered. My friend was visiting Kolkata from Bangalore for a couple of days, arriving on Sunday. I really wanted to meet and maximize my time with him. Guiltily, I weighed my options. Ideally I should have scheduled my interview on Monday. But that would mean being sufficiently engaged with the preparations for visa interview that I wouldn’t have enough time to spend with him. Although my foremothers would advice against doing anything crazy for a guy you are not going to marry (which includes postponing a visa interview by 4 days), I pressed the “confirm” button for the Thursday 8:15 am slot. Foremothers’ voices were put on mute for a while.

By Sunday, the Raj Mistry had sufficiently jinxed my plans of meeting my friend for the next 3 days. He decided to work under supervision starting Sunday and hence now I was not meeting my friend at all. The Raj Mistry by the way isn’t your next door Shah Rukh Khan look-alike guy from Karan Johar movies (though the name would suggest so). Amongst all the hilarious names prominently used by Bengalis like Pocha, Nadu Gopal, Joga (Jaw-ga), Keshto, and Poltu, Raj Mistry is what you call the craftsman who makes basic repairs in the house. Some home repairs had to be made at my friend’s place and he called to say he would not be able to meet me during this trip.

So now, I had just postponed my visa interview by 4 days for a reason that was not to be. Did I just hear the sarcasm-coated voices from my foremothers?

Sunday evening, I was bored to death. I tried making 4 different plans with friends but none of them worked out. Without sufficient preamble, getting hold of someone free enough on a Sunday evening turned out to be an impossible task. I wondered if the Raj Mistry was having fun with his chisel and hammer.

Bored, I resorted to my ever available friend- the internet. I logged on to Gmail and barely found anyone online. Need I be reminded it was Sunday evening and everyone was having fun outside? A friend from Florida logged in and I was glad to chit chat. His sister was just done with her visa interview and I asked how it went.

Sunshine: Visa is expensive. I just shelled out some INR 6.5k.

Florida Friend: Are you sure? My sister just shelled out INR 17k.

Sunshine: What !!!!

It turned out that there was a visa fee, and there was a SEVIS fee. They were separate. I don’t really goof up visa related things (or important things for that matter), but it seems senility is hitting me and I had this time. I don’t know how I missed the part where I had to pay the $200 SEVIS fee. I jogged my memory and remembered a friend of mine had done the same mistake and realized it on the day of the interview. The trouble was, it took 3 business day to get the SEVIS fee processed. I had Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Thursday was the visa interview. And here I was nicely sitting at home, happy that visa related things were taken care of, and cursing my friend and the Raj Mistry.

It’s been a while since I had felt such shock, and felt relieved at the same time that I had realized and hence checked the possibility of a goof up right on time. Things could have gone wrong at multiple stages. I could have decided to listen to my foremothers and got the visa interview scheduled on Monday. The Raj Mistry could have not shown up and then I’d be meeting my friend and not be online to talk to my Florida friend. Fate had conspired in a way to get all my plans of going out on a Sunday evening jinxed so that I’d be online and talking to my friend. It turned out, like always, that I had done the right thing but for all the wrong reasons.

sunshine

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Another visa interview- 4 years later

The morning of the visa interview didn’t really start on a good note. Things screwed up, albeit in a harmless, comical way. I always prided myself for being a sound sleeper but sleep eluded me the night before. It must have been a combination of the thoughts of my visa being rejected, me having to hunt for a job and a local groom in Kolkata, and the elephantine mosquitoes feasting on my blood that put me through a state of trance, of half wakefulness and half sleep. I woke up long before the shrill, annoying cry of my alarm went off.

“I am going to look my smartest self”, I sang to myself as I poured a fistful of shampoo in the shower. 5 minutes of vigorous head massaging later, there was no lather. I wondered was this a new shampoo that promised healthy hair without lather. A very un-bespectacled me squinted at the sachet. Darn, it wasn’t the shampoo, it was the conditioner. The shampoo sachets were all missing. I had just poured a sachet full of conditioner on my oily hair sans any shampoo. First goof up of the day.

A number of other minor goof ups followed. One actually happened 4 days before the interview, but that will make another sensational blog post soon, I promise. While waiting at the traffic signal, I saw the name of the e-stalker painted colorfully behind a truck. Not a good sign. I was reminded of the person who during a frustrated moment of male chauvinism had told me that he wished I never get my visa approved and stay back. I didn’t know whether to be alarmed, it’s not nice to be cursed at or being ill-wished upon. So even though I asked the person to “Kat le”, I got a little superstitious about it. This of course saved my Facebook friends from the boring visa updates like, “5 days to go, biting my nails in anticipation”, and “2 days to go for the visa. Counting hours”.

I was about 90 minutes early for my 8:15 am interview and decided to kill time by talking to G and hear baby Kalyani babble on the phone. Strolling on the road since the consulate wouldn’t let me in, I was deeply engaged in conversation about the most trivial stuff like Seattle weather on a visa day when the crow decided to bless my freshly laundered clothes. 3rd goof up of the day. I didn’t really know if it was a blessing sent from Heaven or a bad omen.

Anyway, before any more goof ups could happen, I was quickly summoned to the consulate where the lady on duty checked me at various ticklish places, wanting to ascertain if I would giggle and say, “Okay okay, I am here for my visa, mother promise”, or would giggle and say, “Okay okay, I am a wannabe terrorist. There are arms hidden up my armpits”. Soon I was summoned to the same open waiting area I had been to 4 years ago. I particularly noticed 2 people, one who looked exactly like my school senior who I had last seen 14 years ago, and another girl with excess facial hair, probably a first timer, who kept folding her hands, closing her eyes, moving back and forth and praying. I was half-tempted to hug her and assure her everything would be fine, but checked myself lest my sisterly intentions are misunderstood. I wondered what she was so nervous about.

Next I was called to the main lobby, which is nothing like what I remembered from the last time. The seating area had changed, the counters were all this way and that way, or maybe my brain had garbled up and was seeing mirror images. The plasma TV showed Aaj Tak on mute. Things had definitely changed in 4 years. Not to mention the fact that I was older, fatter, balder, but ironically still in the same boat, waiting for the same PhD visa interview that I had been to 4 years ago.

So I decided to wait for my turn and observe the world around me lest I fall asleep. There were students, working professionals, families, and parents visiting their children. Everyone had a story, a purpose of being there in the same room at the same time, and I wondered what each one’s story was. I saw a particular guy wearing an IIT Kanpur Techkriti tee shirt (showing off?) and arched my eyebrows when I quickly checked my sarcastic self remembering an anonymous commentator on my blog who had remarked, “But why do you hate IITians? I am from an IIT too”.

The counters where the actual interview happened were all covered, unlike the last time, so that whether you were granted or denied a visa, the world did not witness your own private moments with the visa officer where you struggled through the paperwork trying to find the document the officer asked for, or tried to convince him why you wanted to study in the US despite patriotism coursing through your veins and how you vowed to take the first flight back home the moment you were done with your course. I once again looked at the people around me, in various degrees of nervousness and expectations, all destined to fly to different parts of the US if everything went well for them today, and imagined them all scattered taking Patel shots at different places in a few months’ time, some grinning in front of the Statue of Liberty, some making a V in front of the Golden Gate Bridge in SF, some in skiing attires and snow shoes on their way to Mr. Rainier, and a group of desi men, all heavily ignored by the white girls despite their desperate attempts, rolling on their own in the beaches of Miami. Friends had strictly asked me to wear a salwar kameez to convince the officer of my patriotism, a desperate measure to tell him I was definitely getting back to India once I was done (if I hadn’t acquired a green card husband by then). I wondered if the visa officer was that stupid to not see through it. The usher droned mechanically to everyone every 5 minutes, “Please keep your documents ON your hands”. I was half tempted to correct him, but checked myself. Like he cares if the documents were on my hands or in my hands.

The room felt like a jail, where prisoners were ushered this way and that way, and spoken strictly to if they went up to the wrong counter or produced the wrong document out of nervousness. No, not a jail, maybe a school, and everyone was supposed to obey these people, follow a strict protocol, and conduct themselves well, because their dreams of visiting the US depended on these men who had the authority. The mangoes I had for breakfast irritated my throat, but I stifled a cough lest I am suspected of carrying cough germs and asked to come back later with another appointment on another day. Needless to say, I was nervous. The school senior look-alike girl had her name called in a while. She was indeed my senior from school. The name and the face was unmistakable. Another insignificant co-incidence and probabilistic game of meeting people you knew in the larger scheme of things.

The visa officers, who I could not see, called people one by one. One had a garbled voice with a thick American accent and I could barely understand the names he mumbled. The other one of course had a very clear and distinct voice, and there was something endearing about the voice. I secretly prayed the second person would call my name. Sometimes, little prayers are answered without God making much fuss. The guy soon called my name clearly and I trotted on my way. One look into his face and I received another tiny shock worth a few millivolts. For there was no white skinned American guy waiting for me. Our visa officer looked our very own Indian, in fact South Indian self. He must have been an American born of South Indian descent. I had barely entered the room when he said, “Promise me every information you have is true and you are not hiding anything”.

I looked confused.

“Just kidding”, he said after a meaningful pause.

So our visa officer had a filmy sense of humor too?, I thought.

The next 10 minutes passed with me answering a multitude of questions, thanks to my visa status changing from F1 to H1B and now back to F1. What program did I join back in 2006? Where was I working after that? What were my GRE scores? Why did I choose to come back to India for a few months and not join school directly? Was I ever out of status in the US? And so on…

Finally, “I will cancel your…… (as he said this, he scratched my last F1 visa. Did I just hear the word “cancel”? My heart sank) …….. last F1 visa and will approve your new visa. Congratulations”.

I has almost stopped breathing. I had made it. Yaay !! I was tempted to kiss his bald head, instead I jived and dived out of the interview room without so much as a thank you before he could change his mind. My day was made. I was especially skeptical about my visa this time for 2 reasons. First, I’ve had this status change from a student visa to a work visa, and am getting back to school again. Second, I am joining the PhD program in a totally different field, something I have never studied before, and it might have been difficult for me to justify my field transition.

I took the metro back home. While taking the auto in the final leg, I saw a picture of Sri Sri Ravi Shankar smiling back at me (his usual expression), as if telling me “All Iz Well”. All is well indeed.

I thought I will sleep peacefully tonight. It’s almost 4 am, and I am still too excited to sleep.

P.S. 1: If you have a visa interview scheduled, good luck. Feel free to ask me questions. And salwar kameez or no salwar kameez, wear your confidence with you. When the officer asked me for my official appointment letter, I realized to my dismay that I had forgotten to get it. One of the many goof ups of the day. Instead of apologizing, I confidently gave him my financial assistantship letter (which is different from the appointment letter). He didn’t even realize it.

P.S. 2: No, I was not asked for documents showing liquid financial assets, bank papers, or asked questions about funding. I wasn’t asked to convince them that I have ties in India and I will be back before they know.

sunshine

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

The 3 mistakes of my life : Review


(Minor spoilers ahead)

What are the odds of you picking up the 3rd novel of an author and misunderstanding his purpose of writing since the novel is named “The 3 mistakes of my life”? Pretty good, I would say. However, despite the bad reviews, it was not bad as I had anticipated it to be. In fact I liked it for a number of reasons [but not drastically so], at times better than “2 States” [2S]. 2S, beyond a point, boiled down to nothing more than a very filmy version of boy meets girl from a different community, and the south Indians ripping on the north Indians and vice versa. Come on, when food served on a banana leaf, are you expected to eat the leaf as well? Anyway, I digress here.

Reasons I liked T3MOML: First, it gave me a nice perspective into the life in Gujarat. Sure it was nothing earth shattering, but the characters were a welcome change from the studs who made it to the IITs (FPS) and IIMs (2S) and screwed around with their GPAs and their girls. It was nice to know three very ordinary men for a change who start a business venture and strive to make it big. Not the usual investment bankers and the consultants CB likes to write about, but the owners of a sports goods store. The characters seemed more real this time, with their own fears, Omi fearing he will end up being the priest of the temple, Ish fearing he will never be able to live his dreams [of being a cricketer] through Ali, and Vidya fearing she will end up as one of those doctors who didn’t want to be a doctor in the first place. Amidst all these confused and disillusioned people, there is Govind, focused, ambitious, someone who has a plan in life, both for himself and for his directionless friends.
The events take place amidst a chronology of events that happened for real- the Bhuj earthquake, the Godhra riots. It does not do much value addition to the plot, but helps weave the story in the time frame that is visualized from the perspective of those events. How their lives are affected by the earthquake or by the riots? You would find out as the novel unfurls.

The story has its own off-putting moments, but those flaws are more attributed to CB’s style of writing in general than the story in itself. CB’s stories always involve a lot of drama and melodrama, especially at the end, and this one was no different. A fight scene that lasts for pages gets you thinking, does CB write books keeping in mind that someday a Bollywood movie would be made out of it and he would earn more recognition and money thus? It’s already happened with FPS [3 idiots] and ON@TCC [Hello]. Also, it’s an oversimplified style of narration, something that I wouldn’t attribute as a flaw but more as his own style of telling a story.

Something common amongst all the female characters of CB’s books are the fact that all of them are extremely forthright, liberated, and desperate to make the first move. Kissing [and sex following] are second nature to them, and so is flirting. While Ananya in 2S came from a conservative Tam bram family, yet boozed and ate meat, Vidya from T3MOML leaves no stone unturned to lure her tutor.
In any case, the lack of the words IIT and IIM in his story was a welcome change. Or did I miss those words?

Most wouldn’t agree with me, but I liked the book better than 2S. I like FPS most, followed by this one, 2S, and ON@TCC. The last one was a disaster. It shouldn’t have been written in the first place.
In any case, T3MOML isn’t that great, but is worth a read.

sunshine

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Wat-er you doing?

A house couple of blocks away is the cause of my annoyance these days. At the most ungodly hours of the day, sometimes during late afternoon, sometimes even later at night, the sound of water flowing down the terrace bothers me. This happens non-stop for about 30-40 minutes everyday. So what’s going on?

Nothing as significant as the water tank bursting. It seems the water tank overflows everyday and goes unnoticed at least for 30 minutes.

Now I have never really spotted anyone in the house. Sometimes when I spot the maid sweeping the marble floored balcony, I try shouting and signaling to her about the water overflowing, wondering how come I can hear the loud sound of water flowing 100 feet away and she, living in the same house, cannot. She gives me a blank expression most of the days, as if I have just asked her if she regularly watches porn on television. She stares at me blankly for a few seconds before she goes inside, dangling the broom in her hand.

I am told the owner of the house is a big shot, running several beedi factories.

I am told he owns multiple houses in the area, all three storied or more.

I am told the guy has strong political connections. He is even rumored to carry arms.

I am told he is a Bangladeshi [where Bangladeshi is a general term used for illegal immigrants from Bangladesh who make big money by unfair means and are trying to take over, a sharp contrast to the majority who live here and are tagged “bhadralok” with white collared jobs].

I guess I am being subtly hinted at not to mess with him.

I wonder why none of the so called white collared bhadraloks ever complain.

Dear beedi jalaile Bangladeshi owner of multiple homes, I don’t really care about what you do for a living. I don’t care whether you own a chain of beedi factories or carry arms and armaments. My intentions are pretty clear. First, I would like to box the ears of that maid who is hard of hearing and stares at me blankly whenever I try to tell her to switch off the water supply. And second, I would like to box your ears too, for being this careless, irresponsible brat who isn’t responsible enough to make arrangements so that water doesn’t keep overflowing and get wasted. What, are you shooting for tip tip barsa paani? Ever heard of words like civic sense, water scarcity, and basic sensibility?

The constant sound of water overflowing is more disturbing to me than watching Rakhi Sawant on television. What a sight it would be when you and your maid will hold ears and do sit ups in the middle of the road. Why didn’t anyone think of this plan to make careless people more aware?

Just because you don’t pay for water doesn’t mean it comes for free. It is for people like you that everyone of us is paying a price.

sunshine

Friday, May 21, 2010

Deceptive Names

Remember Chiraunji Lal Khosla (Cherry) in Khosla Ka Ghonsla? In one of the epic lines from the movie, Chiraunji Lal confronts his father, saying something like “Aap sar se paanv taq Kamal Kishore lagte hain, par kya main aapko Chiraunji Lal lagta hoon?” [Father, you look like Kamal Kishore or a young lotus from head to toe, but do I look something akin to the translation of Chiraunji Lal to you?]. Chiraunji Lal was no old, bespectacled, paunchy, bald man, in case you haven’t seen the movie (Actually his father Kamal Kishore was all of these). He is very much the good looking computer engineer hero. Then why the name Chiraunji Lal?

I found myself asking the same question as I waded through the streets, lanes, and bylanes of Kolkata. First, I observe that the streets of south Kolkata have far more happening names than north Kolkata. I am told that north Kolkata is the original Kolkata while south Kolkata developed much later. So while touring the city, you can see a marked difference in the streets, the houses, and the designing of these two segments of Kolkata. While north Kolkata has more dingy streets, unmaintained, narrow, with tram lines criss-crossing and old buildings, south Kolkata is more posh with broader streets and taller buildings that look much new. If you have been to Shyam Bazar (north), and been to Ballygunge (south), you will know what I mean.

In any case, comparing the two wasn’t the idea here. My post is rather about the deceptive names of the roads here. Forgive me, I am not getting personal or disrespectful here, but when you hear a depressing street name like Raja Khogendro Nath lane, you expect a depressing street alleying into narrow houses that look dark from inside even in broad daylight and have shabby looking petticoats drying off their street facing verandas. In fact there is a category of names- Umesh Chondro street, Raja Monindro street, Bhupen Bose avenue, and other streets named after great men [I wonder why most streets are named after men and not women, but that is a different perspective altogether]. And then there are names that evoke distinct memories. Park Street always reminds me of the most happening area of the city, replete with fine dining, the best Chinese food, and coffee and cake shops, and of course St. Xavier’s College. Similarly, College Street evokes memories of book shops, nearby schools and colleges, the Calcutta University grounds, Coffee House, Presidency College, shops selling medical paraphernalia, and so on.

Anyway, I find some names very fancy and thus deceptive. The other day, we were invited to someone’s place in Diamond Park. As the name suggested, I imagined a happening area, clean and spic and span, the streets shining like diamonds. Neither did I find diamonds, nor did I find a park. I was rather disappointed to see a very typical Kolkata neighborhood with sprawling flats and just a little bit of greenery. The other day the car was stuck in a traffic snarl. There was still quite a bit of water logging after the rains, and the place looked anything but happening. Not familiar with south Kolkata, I craned my neck to read the neon sign on one of the shops that said “Lake Gardens”. We drove quite a bit in the area, but I neither found a lake nor a garden. Residents of the place can enlighten me, and who knows, there might actually be a lake I missed. However, the traffic snarl and the congested roads with people spitting here and there no way lived up to the image of the fancy name “Lake Gardens”.

I wonder what is the history behind naming a street, an area, even a city or a country the way it is named. Can someone tell me the history behind naming places like Amherst Street (that reminds me of Amherst, Massachusetts), Ultadanga (which means an upturned boat), Phulbagan (a flower garden), and thakurpukur (which has no meaning because it means God and a pond. I wonder what God and a pond are doing together)?

sunshine

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

34 C

Yes you heard me right. 34 C. That’s what I semi-whispered to the only woman in the lingerie shop amid a bunch of men whose ages ranged from 14 to 54. I was not really on a bra-hunting spree, I’d much rather go to a shopping mall and help myself without the world knowing of what I needed. I’m not really in the age range where I turn tomato-red when sanitary napkin ads come during commercial breaks or I flip channels to hear the mellifluous voice of a bunch of village chicks singing naughtily “Bol sakhi bolt era raaz kya hai” [What is thy secret, o sister?]. However I didn’t see any need to get hold of a microphone and declare to the world what I was looking for. But when a friend from the US asked me to get her a few of those 34Cs from Kolkata, I had to oblige.

I wasn’t really happy seeing so many men ready to serve you in a lingerie shop. Where were the women? I hushed my needs to the only woman I could spot in the store. First, she must have been hard of hearing, for she looked at me and urged me to voice myself louder. I was half-tempted to indicate the bus route 34C telling her, “Remember the bus route that goes from Esplanade to Baranagar? I want that bus number”. I realized how funny I would sound without making myself understood, first, because the odds were high that she would get more confused, and second, because who knows if the buses 84, 109, and 203 also went between the same places. So I braced myself and muttered only a few decibels louder- 34C.

“Color?”

“Uh …. White, black, pink, whatever”

“Design? Lace? What type?”

Uhh… I was shifting uncomfortably, wishing I’d be anywhere but here. “Anything will do. Laces?”

And just when I thought my plight was over, I found something akin to a nightmare coming true. For she turned to the boy, barely 20, and repeated, “34C. Show white, black, pink. With laces. Show it to her”, she pointed at me.

I was tempted to protest, “Not me, my friend”, but shut up as it sounded so lame.

The boy rummaged through the hinterlands of the shop with neatly stacked boxes with pictures of voluptuous women showing half covered assets and looking at various angles away from the camera. Unable to find what I was looking for, he further turned to the man in his 50s and repeated the instructions given to him verbatim.

How I wished I had turned to powder and vanished.

So after what seemed like a lifetime of searching, rummaging, and asking questions about suitable alternatives, the old man came up with a few boxes of what I needed, handed it over to the young man, who in turn handed it to the lady who dutifully bared the contents of the box in front of everyone. I was thinking of ways to conceal my embarrassment when I heard a thick, authoritarian voice from behind me, “42 C dikhaiyega” [Show me 42C]. Where were these liberated women when I was looking for them? The woman attendant quickly went to interact with the 42C woman, and I was left at the mercy of two men who insisted the product I was seeing was world class.

“Take this, it’s export quality, very comfortable, very stylish”. To emphasize his point, he held the piece of cloth in between his hands like he would hold an elastic band, and stretched it a couple of times. “Ekdum stretchable kapda hai. Export quality”.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do. No longer able to witness a person from the opposite gender stretching a piece of cloth of supreme privacy to me, coaxing me to buy it just because he could stretch it anyway he wanted to, emphasizing the ultimate comforting experience I will be embarking on if I wore it, I left the boxes at the counter, muttered something incoherent, and started towards the exit. To which the man looked confused, wondering if he had got me the wrong stuff by mistake. He shouted, “34C nahi chalega kya?” [Won’t 34C do?]

Whatever hope of privacy I had left like the smoke out of the chimney. The whole world now knew what size I was looking for. It was barely any consolation that I was not looking something for myself. I finally paused and looked one last time at the man, “It’s for a friend. I will ask and come back”, and sped out of the door.

I felt so stupid, trying to convince the world that it wasn’t something for me but for a friend. As if they cared. I know I am going back to nowhere except the shopping mall in Seattle where I can settle things within the four walls of the fitting room without the world knowing about what exactly I wanted to buy. As far as my friend goes, I’d recommend her she do the same.

sunshine

Sunday, May 16, 2010

You have all my attention



After juggling between a rather insipid Chetan Bhagat read and another [umpteenth but inspirational] book on weight loss and slimming, I finally laid my hands at the right book, right because it has just the right kind of humor and the right level of satire. It’s not a story, it’s not a gyaan book or a guide book, it’s a rather funny documentary of things we grew up around during the 80s and the 90s. Reasons I liked the book are:

1. Stress was laid on simple issues and not on simple style of writing. Some books are so simply written that it simply takes the fun out of reading them. What’s the point in reading a book if you don’t encounter words whose meanings you didn’t know, facts you vaguely knew of but never really delved deep into, and a unique writing style that makes you think- Wow, I wish I wrote like that !!

2. I like the book because after reading it, the first thing I thought was- “If I ever wrote a book, it would be like this”.

3. GB writes about issues you grew up noticing in your everyday life- Terrorism, NRIs, sexually frustrated computer engineers [and men in general], politics, weddings, the television industry, bollywood movies, and more. His blogs sometimes talk about cricket and politics, both of which don’t interest me much due to my own personal preferences, but the topics discussed here were the right ones to sustain my interest.

4. A collection of essays- a unique style of writing. When I buy a book, I ask myself, “Why should I even bother to read this book? What kind of enlightenment will it provide me?”. If you’ve read it, you’ve just found your answer. I wouldn’t be surprised if this book was recommended next as a text book in educational institutions. Impressionable minds could do with some great perspective on societal issues.

5. It makes me wonder- What is he going to write about next? A documentary on Rakhi ka Swayamvar? The different kinds of psychos wandering aimlessly in the world of internet? The kind of guy you should never marry? Things not to do when in the US? The plight of someone who sits through the songs and acting of Himesh Reshammiya? Time will tell.

Kudos to the GreatBong on a great effort of writing. Thou hast not disappointed thy reader(s). If Prabhuji has found a fan in you with undeniable loyalty, you have found one in me too. Your book was worth my time, money, and expectations.

sunshine

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

A coast closer to the roomie

These days, I feel so overwhelmed with the amount of changes I have been going through, and will be going through in the next few months. I feel the same anxiety that I felt while leaving India four years ago. How would the place be? How would I go apartment hunting? Will I be able to make good friends? Who would I share my apartment with?

And with that, I now I have with that the pain of leaving Seattle. I never realized how I fell in love with Seattle until I had to leave it. Every street walked on, so many restaurants visited, so many things done, so many memories built. The few times I visited the east coast, I always told myself that this is not where I would ever want to live, that I am a west coast person. Someone up there was laughing at me.

However in all the chaotic thoughts that ensued, I sigh in relief, having a good reason to look forward to the move. Long back I used to have a virtual roomie. My only relief and reason for excitement comes from the fact that I will be moving closer to the roomie. Well, not exactly so close that I could smell the food he cooks and he could hear me when I sing in the shower. It took me almost 6 hours of flying time to meet him. Now it will be 6 hours of driving time. But even that in itself is great for me.

Of course I am aware of the practical constraints, and know that the meeting frequency will soon be on a declining curve. Even then, the mere thought that I can start early morning and meet him for lunch is excitement.

I had first met roomie in the US during a certain Thanksgiving [2007 I think], and it was a mad trip of east coast exploration, all mostly in trains and Greyhound. Neither of us knew how to drive then, yet nothing deterred us. New York City, Washington DC, Princeton, Baltimore, we had seen it all. The next trip happened during the next Thanksgiving in Philadelphia. Then roomie visited me in Seattle. What an amazing trip it was, we went to every place I had wanted to show him, and more. Two months later, we met again, in a big group, exploring Virginia. And two months later, we were on another long road trip to Yellowstone National Park.

The great west coast-east coast distance never really deterred us from meeting and doing something that both of us love – Traveling. Every trip we made had so many fun memories. I was fondly going through all those pictures, smiling, grinning, and smiling again. I know I will be leaving behind amazing friends in Seattle. But I am equally excited that I’ll be at a drivable distance from the roomie. Sure he will graduate in a few years and will move. But till then, I hope there would be many more fun meets, peals of laughter, movies watched together, restaurants explored together, singing, driving, planning, traveling, arguing, differing, books recommended, letters exchanged, and in all this, building beautiful memories together. It’s amazing how with some people, you don’t even know how to make conversation, there is so much difference (or indifference) between you two. And then there are some people with who you don’t even need to think while making conversation. You might as well be in the parking lot waiting to start your car and meet a friend when roomie calls, and the next thing you know is you have spent more than an hour in the parking lot just talking talking talking, the waiting friend long forgotten. Such is the bond I share with him.

Ever been in trouble, knowing someone who will help you is just a phone call away?

Ever missed a bus or lost directions to a place and called up someone living 3,000 miles away, knowing that you will be guided no matter what time it was?

Ever panicked when something didn’t work out, only to send an email and have things taken care of?

Ever felt lonely and then just dialed a number and talked for hours, forgetting every sadness in the meantime?

Ever giggled so much that your tummy hurt like crazy?

For more than multiple reasons, I feel thankful and blessed to have such an amazing friend in my life.

sunshine