Memorial Day Weekend

Since we could not afford a trip that involves long drive, we decided to stay put at home. This is the first long weekend that did not see us going out of the town. The Roommate is tiffed, but his hands are tied, and he cannot actually complain. For some time we planned for going out on the beach (cancelled since the sun was not bright enough until mid-day), movie night-and-day (did not get time to go to library to get videos), shopping (the only thing done, but got tired too easily). Luckily, Ray and Radha invited us for lunch at their home, and one afternoon was worth spent with their seven month old boy, Kesav, who was a handful. Kesav could not stand and ignored Srikant for the first few hours, and stuck to me, for which I am ever grateful to him. He is such a cheeky boy.

Apart from that Memorial Day afternoon, we were left with the challenge to be at home together without killing each other. I immediately knew, to stay strong at such adverse situations and overcome such challenge, I needed big distractions, a bigger challenge. So while the roommate took refuge behind the Mac, I hid myself in the kitchen.

Now, people who know me already know the kitchen is not my favorite place at home. That I had the guts to publish a post on cooking is surely going to raise some eyebrows with lots of friends who are otherwise culinary experts. However, this was not going to dampen my spirit. I was only reacting to the high level of hCG in my blood (you must already know of the other side-effects, if you have been privy to my other blog).

So, a-la-Julia & Julliette, I started Project One Item A Day.

29th May, Saturday: Fired Rice and Chilly Chicken

I decided on a Chinese theme for the first day. I knew this will impress The Soulmate as he is a Chinese cuisine fan, but I also ran the risk of having "Chinky" as my permanent nickname. Still, this was the easiest, as I already made it (yes, you read it right) a few times at home. Most of the ingredients were there at home, but realised we did not have the vinegar. The Soulmate ran downstairs without complain. Thanks God for the onsite grocery store at our apartment, which is unimaginable at this part of Downtown LA.

For obvious reasons, I would not go into the recipe and all, since that was not the goal of this post, and will directly post the photos.

The Soulmate made use of the leftover chicken bones and the vegetables in the freezer and made awesome chicken soup. But, I am not going to talk about it here, neither I am going to post any photos of chicken soups. This is my blog, and I decide what

will go in here. If you want to post photos of your cooking skills, you are welcome to have your own blog. Period!

30th May, Sunday: Dosa with Coconut Chutney

Woke up very late, and went out for lunch and shopping and came back tired. I still had the energy to go to kitchen, dish out some snacks. Dosa was on the menu. Now, I really know how to make batter; I made some in the past. But, as you obviously understood, it was such a hectic weekend, I settled with store bought Dosa batter. No complications with a guarantee that the Dosas will come out crisp and tasty. I, however, made the coconut chutney myself. Hmmph! No Sambar, since we both don't like it with Dosa (it masks the flavour), and there was no sambar powder at home. The Chutney Pudi was made by Viji, and I get a regular supply of those.

This is the first time I made Dosa without any supervision from Ma, Viji or Venkat. However, the task was made 100 times more difficult by the Soulmate who continuously poked his nose, and offered unwanted suggestions, and were very generous with unwelcome criticism. I am immensely proud that I rose above such petty criminal activity, maintained my dignity and delivered quality.

31st May, Monday: Gajar Halwa

Even though we came exhausted from Ray-Radha-Kesav's home, I felt the carrot's that were shredded the previous night should not go waste, and instead of ducking under the sheets, cooked this dessert.

All in all, it was a very productive weekend. I would not still dare to ask any of you to come and taste my cooking (The Soulmate has earned himself that punishment), but I wish to carry on some more of this if I have the time and the penchant for it, and, more importantly, if the enthusiasm persists.

The Career Graph So Far...

This post is a winner at the Blogadda "My Dream Job" Contest. July 30, 2010.

I have had my dream job since I was eight. I am one of those lucky persons who did not have torun after a job they might like..Rather my dream job landed into my lap by kismet. So, the other day I saw this email from Blogadda and it mentioned “share your dream job and you never know you might get it after you let us know.” A lot of us will be excited to hear this, and I thought since I already have my dream job, who knows, sharing it might give me a chance to excel in it. So here is a reminiscent of my time on my job.

Image courtesy: http://www.hanselman.com/

I was five (or six), playing teacher-teacher in Thakuma’s bedroom, all alone. One of the walls which served as the blackboard was adorned with illegible scribblings, and my pupils (the stools and the chairs) listened to me in silence. I asked a question to one of the wooden chair, who failed to answer. That resulted in his ears being pulled out firmly, and hit by a cane brutishly.

My dad who was sitting at the desk, looked up from his work when he could no longer bear to see the sufferings of the poor chair at my hand. He pulled me up, sat me on his lap, and on enquiry received an animated explanation from me about the aforementioned chair’s consistent failings in the classroom and subsequent justified caning. Dad nodded, “Beta if you want to be good at your job, you might consider sparing the cane and explaining the subject in a simpler way. Now you do want to be a god teacher, don’t you?” I nodded vehemently, and he added, more intently this time, “Remember, no matter what you want to be in life, teacher or doctor, the first thing you would want to be is a good human being, ”I looked up at him, blankly, not realizing the actual meaning of his words.

“Which school do I have to go, Dad, to be… er… that?” I asked. Dad smiled, more humorously this time, “You don’t have to, Beta, you will learn it yourself.”

“So, would you help me to be one?”

“I can guide you, but it is you who have to do the job.” He went back to his work.

And I started working on the job to be a ‘good human being’.

I was ten, I received the paper for an algebra class test, and it read 00/20 in red. I showed the paper to mom, and she wailed for the next half an hour (longer than I regretted for the poor marks), cursed all the 33 crore God, who conspiratorially handed her down a stupid girl who would not turn up to do anything good in life. I sobbed, and cried, and said sorry that I failed them. Dad was calm. Later when the noise level came down to tolerable level (so that each one can hear the other in the room) he said, “Beta, its Ok if you get bad score in one of the tests. You can always try harder next time. What matters most is that you be a good human being, and that will make us very proud.” Those words again. He told the same the other day when I was dressing up for a friend’s birthday party, discarding one dress after another, unsatisfied with the reflection in the mirror. He consoled, “Wear anything, and and as long you have a good heart, you will feel the prettiest.”

So, by the age of nine or ten, I realized that the way to success is to be a good human being. “And what a easy job that is”, contended I thought. It was definitely easier to be a good human being than getting 20/20 in Algebra.

I was 15, playing lock-n-key in the school playground. My friend tripped on a stone and fell on the ground on her face. While others laughed, I ran to her, helped her to stand on her feet, and asked if she is OK. The appreciation in her eyes that day taught me the reward you get for being a good human being. I did not feel bad that I was not the most popular girl in the school, not the prettiest or the cleverest. I rather felt pride when I was called the most kind of all. I felt happiest and imagined a pair of colorful wings coming out of the back of my body (just like my favourite character Captain Haddock thinks each time he manages to do a kind job).

Life in school was simple, living with parents at home was even simpler. Being the daughter of a preeminent person and coming from a well-known family allowed me to enjoy certain advantages in life, and I could afford to be nice and kind to others without putting myself into much inconvenience. Then the time came when I had to move to another part of the country, to start my University education. Living in college dorms with other girls, leading a life where nobody knows anything about me other than my name was difficult. My primary job started to suffer. Though I managed to achieve some brownie points occasionally, there were other incidents when I realized that a hint of a new pair of horns was stemming out of the temple of my head.

So the day I discovered that the girl who I thought was my best friend was talking behind my back, I did not react kindly. Or the days when a girl refused to return the money she borrowed from me, or I suspected my drawer was searched and my note book had gone missing for more than two days, I was less than angelic in my behaviour. By the end of my 1st year in college the horns were in full view for everybody to see. And then there was this time when I wrote a full answer on my question paper and passed it to a friend during the university exam, as I was scared he might fail the exam otherwise. Though a shiver runs down my spine each time I think of that juvenile reckless behavior, the horns and the wings enjoyed connubial bliss on that day. (This best friend later turned against me, teaching me an important lesson in life: nobody in life is worth brandishing your horns for, but that is another story). There were other times when the wings fought with the horns, each trying to outdo the others, claiming authority. But I would spare the details here.

I finished my studies, and started teaching in a University. I studied to help people with hearing disabilities, but over the years decided that I could do something better than just be a direct care-giver. So I opted to teach and help students who will in the future go out in the world and help to make a few lives better. Though at times I might have lost my patience with my students, but mostly, I would like to believe, I performed well in my primary job and my students and colleagues would possibly remember me as a good human being.

A lot of incidents came crowded in my mind when I was writing this post, some still very fresh in mind, and others half forgotten. On those times, when the horns prevailed over the wings, I avoided my Dad’s gaze, as things were often more complicated than explaining the fault of a simple wooden chair. In retrospect, I feel that I might not have done brilliantly well in my job, but I trust I have done fairly well.

Today I am on the right side of 30, and with maturity, I realized that things are not always black and white. The horns are still there (and they serve pretty well to keep the halo in place). The colors of the wings are little faded here and there, but they still flutter as beautifully as they did that afternoon on the school playground.

This post is in response to the blogadda contest (powered by Pringoo).

“Remembrance of Things Past”

The Soulmate is bewildered at my new anglophile status. No, I am not mentioning about my last post, but he is annoyed with my constant cribbing over my recent move to a new country, my crying over my recent pseudo-friendless status following the move, and my unwillingness to adapt to a new environment. 

His theory: people from all over the world want to come to US, and to prove my sanity I should share the same feelings. He points out that it is a shortcoming of my character to crib and cry over my 'discontent with life' (his words not mine) and reminded me of similar situations when I made a big fuss of living in England. In retrospect, I dwell on nostalgia and tried to find out how I arrived to this situation. 

Within a week of my arrival in England, I realized why Englishmen (and women) start a conversation by talking about the weather. Well, when it rains 300 days a year (at least in Manchester, where I lived when I first moved to England), a comment on weather is the only effective way to ‘break the ice’. You go to work, and talk about weather with your colleagues before you start the day. There is a cute guys standing at the bar and you want to start a conversation, go and ask, “B’ful day. Huh?” Don’t worry even if it is 2 degree outside. If he is interested, he will sure come out with, “Could not ask for a better day”. 

You get so obsessed with weather that you bookmark the BBC weather website as your favourite, click the website for a rain check before you start your day, keep checking every hour of the day, check again before you go grocery shopping, before you plan a holiday weekend or a night out in the town with friends, and before you go to bed. It is beyond my understanding why the Met office waste so much money on weather forecasts when it is anyway going to rain. 

The second thing that hit me hard was the British fashion. There I was standing in Waterloo station like a sore-thumb in a canary yellow sweater, tangerine windcheater and my favourite purple scarf amid a sea of black coats, brown cardigans, black skirts, brown hats, black scarves and brown boots. I felt British fashion is hell bent on complimenting the British weather, always dark and grey. I was baffled initially with the tunics and dresses with no waistline, accessorized with oversized-bags, but over the next two years I slowly started appreciating those mini skirts and thin legs in opaque tights and big Ugg boots. I quickly tossed away those happy colours in my wardrobe and dressed myself in monochrome layers. This switch- over to darker colours did not make me an overnight fashion icon in Britain though. Passers by still sneered at me as I reached out for that extra layer of shawl even when I took a walk on the beach silently applauding the bravery of those who clanked their sky- high heels against the pavers and walked to the pub in near zero temperature in just a cocktail dress. 

With a new wardrobe, I also got myself a new lingo. You can read more about this here. 

Coming from India, my idea of going out with friends means gossips, movie, shopping, more gossip and stuff your stomach with junk foods. While the first four were readily available in England, unfortunately, the fifth was not. Other than Burger King and McDonald, hotdog was the only other roadside food available outside the shopping mall. Soon fish and chips, and potatoes in all states of existence (mashed, hashed, crashed and smashed) became my staple food, and kebab and chicken tikka masala was a regular for weekends (Little risky to ask for kebabs on a weekend evening, as u might be mistaken for another binge drinker). I always detested English breakfast. To me, a plate full of toast, scrambled eggs, sausage, black pudding, baked beans, hash browns, bacon, mushroom and tomato does not resemble a breakfast plate. Well, for ‘breakfast’ I need just breakfast, and not lunch or dinner. 

                                    Image Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Full_breakfast

After living on bland insipid food for seven months, I received my first food-fix in Slovenia. I was totally knocked down by the flavour of the food in Slovenia, reminding me that food can still be called food even if it does not contain potato. A year later, to reliven my ailing taste buds, I took it on a month long gastronomic expeditions trip around India. On a positive note, though, I will always miss those proper English cheddar, PG Tips tea (ummm) and baked beans. 

Image Source: www.moreintelligentlife.com

One thing that I totally got hooked to during my short (six months) working life in London is the underground services. Simply getting up in the morning and taking the tube to work had been a huge stress-buster. I loved my morning ritual of shooting out of south-west trains in the waterloo station cursing the new barrier gates, and queuing on the wrong side of the escalator (they drive on the left side, right? Then why que on the right side?), throwing few pennies onto the busker’s pitch and running to catch the tube while the busker’s tune still playing in my mind. I miss the community feeling of sharing the journey with that UCL undergrad in torn jeans, the corporate executive in a smart suit, and rest of the fairer species (including me) perfecting their make-up and ignoring jealous stares from men (just because you cannot shave on the tube does not mean that I should not put on my mascara). Leafing through freebies like Metro and London light, while getting my daily dose of celebrity gossips and scandals on the way back home made it a perfect day.

 Image courtesy: Sriram Boothalingam

Any day I will prefer driving on UK roads than in US, if only they take away the roundabouts. My asinine grey matter believes that those were made to mislead one certain Mr. Bonaparte and refrain him from following the British army back to UK. But, hey, I am not French, and your roundabouts have detoured me enough and spoiled the few driving excursions I braved to take. That reminds me, I should stop cribbing about LA downtown traffic and appreciate that they did not introduce roundabouts to ease traffic flow. 

Now coming to this point, I guess I am getting a little confused about whether I loved or loathed England. But one thing that tops of things I miss about England is- friends (did not get much chance to miss family having had a visit from him already). I miss having them at the beck of a call or at most a mail, just being able to walk down to the nearest pub with them, celebrating Desi Parties at all latitudes and longitudes of UK. I also miss the Brits a lot. Not always apprehending their dry sense of humour, I always appreciated the politeness though. 

I guess I am equally being missed. I should be missed by: 

1.   My friends- Guys, please support my point by putting nice and flattering comments.

2.   Manchester Rain- Nobody ever talked about them or gave importance as much as I did. During my time there, Manchester rain almost acquired the celebrity status just by getting mentioned frequently in mails, phone calls, personal conversations, and my blog.

3.   Virgin Trains- They surely fattened their profit bags and missing a customer like me who boarded them every weekend.

4.   Mr. Smith- The Pub Landlord’s Rottweiler, Mr Smith must be waiting every Friday for the hand that secretly passed him Walker crisps under the table.

5.   The sale racks on Oxford Street.

Remembrance of Things Past- This title is taken from a sonnet by Shakespeare

       

A New Cognizance

Image Source: www.cianellistudios.com

Once in a while my colleague from the next room walks into my office during lunch time and makes himself comfortable at the chair by the desk. The other day he walked into my room, his attention turned to the three small picture frames on my desk. There sits an old picture frame of Lord Ganesha and Goddess Saraswati traveling with me since the day I moved to my hostel room in Calcutta. Guilty of not following the ritualistic Hindu religious prayers, my spirituality ended in to bowing in front of the frames whenever I felt I needed some extra boost. I must confess that few of those prayers, mostly the ones which used to occur at inappropriate hours of the day, were tainted by selfish begging for wisdom, knowledge and to avert obstacles.

Recently there had been a new addition to the team of gods, another small frame bearing a picture of Goddess Lakshmi. I am afraid that in one of the future selfish prayers, wealth and prosperity might as well get added to the list. There is no end to greed, you know.

Now this time, my friend who comes from a mono-theistic religious background, stared at the pictures and started to study them intently. Having nothing else to divert his attention, I found myself fumbling to answer his queries. I was trying my best to give a comprehensible idea of Hindu denominations and our love of idolatry. Being no expert, and being brought up in a religiously liberal household, my efforts faltered soon.

I tried to explain why one of the Gods has a head of an elephant, how the four hands indicate God’s divine omnipresence, how each arm depicts a special aspect, with the lower right arm always in a blessing positions. My friend stopped me at this point. “Well, this goddess in white clothes, she is not blessing you. She is not even bothered. She seems more interested in playing her instrument”, he lamented. I looked back at the picture frame, the same pictures I have been seeing everyday for the past one decade of my life. And here it is. Obviously, the right arm of Lord Ganesha and Goddess Lakshmi is in a blessing position, while Goddess Saraswati is just using that arm to play her Veena. I gave up, and thankfully lunch time got over.

Later that evening I came home and checked out the deities again sitting in my cupboard.

After a stressful time of reasoning and re reasoning, I thought I got an answer to my friend’s question. I could not remember if I had read it somewhere, or heard somebody telling it to me in childhood. But these were the words, while all the Gods and Goddesses always bless their devotees; Goddess Saraswati wants you to work hard to earn her blessings.

Hmm, so this clarifies why after each math paper, my desperate prayers for good marks were answered with some numerical digits which bestowed me with the honour to just able to pass the paper, bringing the average percentage down. All the time, She was sitting there on my desk, with her right arm retrieved from the blessing position, daintily playing the Veena, hinting me to work hard on my math lessons. It is me who could not decipher the meaning. Only it is too late to realize this now.

MCM's Diary

© Universal Press Syndicate

Ooops! MCM has done a blunder. MCM forgot to wish The Blog on it’s Birthday (1^st B’day) and did not bother to post a blog either on that day. MCM says sorry to Frog Tales.

Yet, MCM feels better now. MCM is proud of actually being able to write two back-to back blogs within a week’s span. The first blog was to announce MCM’s return to blogsville. (Oh! MCM has fallen in love with the word ‘blogsville’). The second was an image of a newspaper cut out. It was about a Holy Cow.

MCM is also happy about this week’s Jhalak Dikhhala Jaa finale result. MCM’s favourite Baichung Cute Bhutia won the reality dance show JDJ (a la Dancing with the Stars). MCM could not vote for him, though.

MCM also met her friend Raj and his wife Pindi this week at LA after 13 years and chatted about good old days till morning.

MCM is worried about her other friends in Australia and prays that situation comes to control soon. MCM abhors the racist attacks on Indian students in Australia.

MCM is upset over the fight between multiplex owners and movie-makers. MCM urges them to sort out their problems and release a movie soon. MCM wants to see a bollywood masala movie.

MCM is excited to start to read Jhumpa Lahiri’s Unaccustomed Earth but is saving the book for upcoming Brazil trip. Lahiri’s book will be a delicious read on the flight to Rio.

And, last but not least, if, any of you, by any chance, want to know who is MCM, it is your’s truly. This morning I decided to (unofficially) adopt my Roommate’s surname (Mishra). So from MC, I have turned to MCM today.

Mr. Roommate is slightly intimidated at my sudden rush of love for his surname.

OK, that’s it. MCM is done.

A Fresh Start, Yet Again..

Image source: www.poetry-innerspace.com/

After a long lapse, I am starting over, yet again. It seems writing a blog is really not my cup of tea. In last few months I tried several times to put some words to my addled ideas. Each trial found my fingers flutter on the keyboard for a moment and then my fingers slowly move to the mouse to click my favorite blogspot links and I gaily flew around in Aparna’s variegated sky, listened to what Munmun speaks or had a peek at Sameera's haven. Aah, what a joy. So what if there were no bollywood releases for last one month. No complaints here.

Also with my recent move to a new country, I am keeping my record straight. That is, move to a new place every two- three years. I have moved bases five times in last seven years. I guess now I am getting the hang of “living out of suitcases”. Urban nomadism. Meanwhile amid the hustle and bustle of my struggle to settle down in a new city, my personal life appears to reach a cosmic standstill. I am wallowing in a confused state of being.

Not that I know what it is, But I know I do not like this.

Searching for a way out and I know I will sure find it…. soon.

Desi Party @ Lake District

The Desis in the United Kingdom have been quite active recently. Desis mean us Indians who are scattered at different parts of the UK. There are many official and unofficial Indian communities here. Ours is a comparatively smaller one, but the group is increasing
exponentially. Our Desi community members are a mixture of students and professionals who mostly belong to the same profession- Audiology and have at one point or other time studied at the AIISH, Mysore. But we have been highly accommodative of other professions as well in the past.

Our Desi meetings started a few years back even before I joined the group. It started with the sole aim of having a common point of meeting for friends and enjoy Desi food and chatamchati. Group members have since successfully organized meetings at Edinburgh, Southampton, London, Swansea, Leicester, etc. So, all the Christmas, New Year, Easter and summer vacations in UK for the last two years were spent in true Desi style. We teasingly started to call those meetings as Desi Party. And the name stuck oddly.

Getting a membership in the group is easy as long as you abide by the most important rule- Not a single story of Desi Parties go out of the group. So photos are censored and videos never reach youtube. Those memorable times become fossils in our memories and are retained strictly for the entertainment of the Desi group members only. Other than these many implicit rules exist which I cannot disclose. I hope I am not breaching confidentiality by publishing this post here.

The last Desi party was arranged at the Lake District keeping Independence Day in mind. Not to forget that weekend Master Chundu was scoring the first quarter century of his life on Earth. Such achievement itself calls for a celebration. Group members agreed for a 3 days long weekend out of boredom at Lake District, North-East of England. All planning were made under three weeks time. Getting a holiday home for nine people at LD at 3 weeks notice is unimaginable, if not impossible. Efficient and one among the first few members of this group, Vinay and Srikanta made the impossible possible. Consequently, on the eve of Indepenence Day, desi group members congregated at Kendal.

Source: www.leaney.org

Next day morning we celebrated Independence Day in the backyard of the house. The tricolour (brought by Vinay) was hoisted duly followed by the National Anthem which was followed by having food sitting on the grass. Evening was spent in Windermere, where we took a trip on the cruise and wandered around the Lake. Next day morning the few energetic ones took a walk around the village while sluggish ones remained at the comfort of their room and took pleasure in more card games, DVDs, food and drinks.

Attempts for a berbeque in the evening was murdered by the famous English weather. All of Sriram's hard work went down the drain. Viji and Pratiksha had to swallow half cooked veg food, while the non-veg people recooked their meat in the oven. We hit the local pub late at night to celebrate Chundu’s birthday and more dancing and singing continued till early in the morning. The villagers in the pub could not resist joining in our celebration.

Next day morning we left Kendal and headed to our own directions. Parting is always difficult, but it always comes with the assurance for another party.

Many things change over the years. Venues for meetings change each time, members come and go, the house turns from impeccably clean to a messy shit. But the valedictory speech by Vinay at the end of the party never changes. It has been the same since the first "No more Desi Party". And we ignore as he will be the first one to propose the next.

Some acknowledgements are due:

Vinay and Chundu for coming up with the excellent idea for this party.
Vinay and Srikanta for doing the inhumane job and getting the house booked.
Vinay again for making the numerous numbers of trips transporting us and driving patiently while dodging all navigation suggestions by nosy passengers.
Venkat for his awesome Dosa and Chutney.
Sriram for being so funny.
Manas for his secret revelations.
Viji for being so sporty.
Pratiksha for adding that extra glitz in our otherwise customary Desi Party.

Thanks Buddies.

Serial Blasts in India

Diwali came early this year in India. But it did not bring any happiness. There were no celebrations. Because this Diwali was not for the masses, but only celebrated by few people who masterminded it. And they celebrated it not with fire crackers, but with bombs.

This July 25^th Bengaluru saw seven serial bomb blasts killing three people and injuring several others.Next day Ahmedabad was traumatized with 16 serial blasts again injuring and killing several common people. The serial bomb blasts started early in May this year when people in Jaipur were shaken with fear when five bombs blasted serially in different parts of the city.

Since then news of bomb blasts is pouring in from different corners of the countries, fortunately not in such large scales as in Jaipur, Ahmendabad or Bengaluru. Eight lives were lost in Assam following a bomb blasting in a small village market. On August 9^th, three children were injured in New Jalpaiguri when they tried to open a bottle. Police found three more bottle-bombs lying around at that place.

These scattered news make us common people little uncomfortable when we read it in the newspaper or see it in TV. When the news reached me, I too was uncomfortable. I made some hurried phone calls to friends and family in India, and once I was assured they were safe, I totally forgot the incident.

Probably this is our most common reactions to terrorism. We turn to the next page of the newspaper, or switch the TV channel to the next reality TV show. Terrorism matters to us only when one of our own people gets victimised. Till then we suffer nothing. Nothing can take us out of our false feeling of security. But how long can we ignore?

I can only half start to feel the pain of my friend Indrani and the anguish she and her family were going through. She lost her uncle in a similar accident in Kolkata. The sufferings of the family can be found here.

It is unfortunate enough and I sympathise with the families who lost their loved ones in such mindless killings and look forward to the day when these terrorisms come to an end. Till then we can only hope and pray to God to keep our loved ones safe.

Quarter Life Crisis III

Dear readers, if you have got bored at this moment, please jump the next three paragraphs. I cannot help but give some details of few of my other experiences with would-be grooms.

The next one was a guy who was studying in USA. His mother was in-charge of setting his alliances and was acting on his behalf. She called me several times during my work hours. Her demands were unique. I should promise her that I will clear my GRE, get an acceptance in the same University where her son was studying, and take an admission there before she solemnise the wedding. This time it was my mom’s turn to get shocked, and she intervened and put a stop (more appropriately a comma) to it.

The oasis in the desert was a guy from Canada, who wrote very nice emails. He genuinely or pretended to take interest in my likings and hobbies. But all his emails had a funny subject “Raj from Canada”. Probably he thought that the email would get lost if the return address was not written. Or probably he thought I will confuse him with the Raj from UK of DDLJ fame.

My harassment did not end at the hands of suitors only. Crisis crept to my personal life, which included home. My mom’s reactions started with simple distress - “All your friends are getting married”, to whimpering “I feel ashamed to go and attend wedding ceremonies now-a-days, everybody asks when is yours” to howling “Do you want us to live in this society?”

My crisis reached its peak when I got a job offer from USA and I started with my H1B. Then, the guys in India would not take me as I was leaving, and the guys in USA would delay the alliance process saying “age ashte dao” (let her come first). They could not believe that anybody can get a job in USA without a software professional degree.

At that point even I had a thought that probably I am going to die an old maid. I consulted my friends who were going through similar fate. And they had weirder stories to tell. One girl who was looking for alliances through the matrimony sites was asked to email two copies of her birth certificate, two copies of her janam kundali (astro profile), the latest degree certificate, with three recent photographs (close-up, sitting and standing). She replied back that she was looking for an alliance, and not a PA job.

My cousin sister working in ICICI made a standard for refusing guys. Whoever will ask her for taking home loans will be rejected. She is still rejecting.

Another close friend who was doing her MPhil told an amusing tale. She had to go through the process of patri dekha (guy’s family coming to see the girl). She was politely asked by the guy’s father to sign her name in a white paper (an old tradition to see that the girl is literate).

Seasons changed, and fate brought me to UK. That same year in Christmas, I happened to bump into the guy whom I knew for nine years whose previous advances for a date were refused blatantly. Well, fate had taken its own turn, and it was my turn to get bowled. Cupid’s arrow did not miss this time, and we got married this April putting and end to my parent’s mid-life crisis and my own quarter life crisis. I am enjoying wedded bliss for the time being till I am hit with some new crisis.

Quarter Life Crisis II

Life at Mysore was blissful again with no potential suitors and no parental pressure for wedding. Two years passed like a flick and I again found myself suffering from single-woman syndrome. Two weeks into my first job and my mom’s excellent network service had made a potential suitor call me at Mangalore. I was informed of the call beforehand, and was ready for a friendly chat. But I had no idea that it was going to be a marriage interview. (Well, I did not have an idea that such things exist).

Important excerpts from the interview.
- When did you pass your Masters?
- Which University?
- When did you pass your Bachelors?
- Which University?

At that point I thought of producing my degree certificates, but had to restrain as it was a telephonic interview. I was waiting when he will ask what I do for a living (a job as a lecturer which I was too proud of and too eager to boast), but he never asked. The interview continued…

PG- How many boyfriends did you have?
Me- Some crushes, no serious ones.
PG- Ok, do not try to lie to me. I know many people from your school, and can get the truth out in two days.
Me- (Shocked… gasped for breath, and them mumbled) Yes, whatever. (And under breath- I can produce references/clean conduct certificate, if you wish).
PG- How much importance do you give to money?

By that time I lost all interest in him and specially no interest in his money, and so mumbled something in reply. He concluded the interview stating that I was successful at that instance and was suitable for the position of a housewife. He forgot to ask if I was interested to take that position. He described in no uncertain terms his intentions of getting a decent wife with a professional qualification, and she should stay at home to look after the house. In short, he needed an educated kaamwali.

To be continued...

Quarter Life Crisis I

This post is applicable only if being on the fair (?) side of the age of thirty can be considered as the first quarter of my life.

I took a looong hiatus from blogging (and everything else). And (hopefully) for the right reasons. On April 17th, I tied the knot with my friend, Srikanta. No…no...this is not the crisis. But this was the end of the beginning of a long crisis.

It started in the summer of 2001. I came home to enjoy a 10 day’s vacation from college. My last UG exam was over and I was officially a graduate. Pursuing the idyllic life of an internee was heavenly which also meant having more money in pocket than I had ever seen together. But most importantly I just hit the hazardous age of 22. Any girl of 22 or who have already passed that age would understand the hazards related with that age.

The female relatives of the family became extremely uncomfortable (i.e. concerned with my age). So one afternoon my mom along with my aunts paid their (loyal) visit to the family astrologer who gave the verdict that the daughter of the house should get married before she is 23. And since that day, my life changed forever.

My mom’s network (family and friends and their family and their friends) wasted no time in hunting down potential grooms for me. And, I, the hapless victim remained a mute spectator of the mayhem (and could only pray for some miracle to happen). No miracle happened. When the first suitor arrived, I fled. I was traced down to my Aunt’s (pishi) kitchen savouring ilish maach bhaja. My poor pishi had no idea what was going on and believed that I had come to stay for the day (with my parent’s consent).

I was mercilessly dragged, pulled and shoved to home. And my mother asked me the age-old question every mother asks their daughter in such situation.
“Are you…..”

No… wait…stop guessing… because I know what you are thinking.

When I was telling the same story to my Estonian friend, she stopped me here, and told, “Well, when I broke up with my boyfriend, my mom asked me the same question- Are you a lesbian?”

No… my friends, my Mom did not ask me that question. I guess she did not have such creative ideas. She also did not bother to ask “Do yo have a boyfriend”. She was too confident in her understanding that I stand no chance with guys and could not have had one. She rather asked, “Do you want to get married at all?” Simple question… eh? But my simpler answer, “Yes…but not now” could not pacify her disappointment.

My friends who know me for the last decade already know how I escaped my mom’s marriage trap when my father intervened. My persuasion with him led to a negotiation. He came out with the simplest solution. If I continued with my studies, marriage would be postponed.

I do not want to elaborate here and bore my readers with details about how a non-academician like me had to do the donkey-work with books and journals for the next one month to clear the entrance exam for the Master’s course. Miracles do happen, and it did happen this time. That August Mysore saw me starting my Master’s course.

To be continued.....

Life as a PG Student

The report was submitted today, late in the evening. I hoped to send the file and rush back home. But such an idea was nipped at the bud as Ms. Advisor who was still working at office…called to give insightful and thought provoking suggestions (to improve the report).I am at this moment little uneasy about the Viva next week. I can visualize the examiners with fingers on triggers, and shooting questions from three azimuths (three examiners recruited to evaluate one candidate). I had to give a review of literature and report of the outcome of my first experiment. I toiled most part of the last year in doing these. But, no the examiners are not so interested in the outcome of the experiment; rather they want to know what I want to do in next two years.Next two years?? I do not know what I am doing tomorrow. In my whole life I never planned a single thing. But then, probably this is one more of those translational skills research teaches you. Good for me. Even if I do not get a degree, I will hopefully learn some organizational skills.So at this moment I’m doing everything to prove that I am a potential researcher. These are lists of things I religiously do to make myself look like a researcher. Please keep on adding if you have any idea or suggestions and help a fellow PhD student.1. To look like a bright student… put lots of shimmering make-up. 2. Extremely motivated… well everyday I pull myself out of the bed, walk in the cold winter morning, reach my desk, and switch on the system. What else do you need to show motivation? 3. Effective communication skill…I talk and talk and talk and talk the hind legs off a donkey. Andno topic is spared, starting from philosophy to PNPC. 4. Original ideas……problem is there are too many ideas (and not all are relevant to do research). 5. Critical thinking…I often sit and stare blank at space. 6. Organizational skills.. . yet to develop. 7. Meeting deadlines… do u think they will let me live if I don’t do that. Chances are that you may see the university police @ your door if u did not turn up after three threatening emails from grad school office. 8. Completing project independently…Hmmm. Did not see anybody around when I was completing the project. So had to do it independently. I surely might have missed some important skills. Friends, please do remind me if you know anything, possibly with a suggestion how to achieve those. Continue the noble cause of helping a fellow (poor) PhD student. Good news is that I am not the only lost soul on the earth. Have a look. "I took an inventory of myself [as a researcher]. The resultsamazed me; it appears that I have most of the skills required to do research. Iknow how to use a computer to research information needed and use the library'sdatabase...the part I didn't know was...that there were [competent] and willingpeople behind the library's reference desk waiting for people like me to ask forhelp. I did not know they would help me if I needed help or maybe I just didn'twant to appear lazy or unintelligent... " Oscar L.

Frog Tales

This blog is created today… this moment. A report for the 1st yr PhD viva is due tomorrow, and procrastination has reached its highest peak. Surfing internet, listening to music, reading some “aga saga”, or breaking into a song with a croaky voice … all tried, tested and over used formulae to keep mind away from work have turned stale. The new trick was making a few call across the Atlantic, but friends did not budge much to my atrocities (how condescending… so what if it is their working hour???).

A quick chat with Manas confirmed the next plan. We both agreed on a single point (needless to say we generally agree at all points). Writing blogs are the new trend and sound quite savvy. Most people flash one… so high time I should have one myself. Also, HE won’t be able to say “tumhe padhai karne ka thoda bhi man nahi hai”.

Problem was getting an appropriate name for the blogspot. Surely, I do not have much to say in my blogs, other than my rattle tattles… nonsense ramblings… surreal ideas. But I do have some loyal, faithful listeners. The first blog-name that struck the mind was frog tales… like the Frog-grandma in Froggy tales, I tell my (non-sense) tales to my frog-grandchildren, and hope that some day some big frog will also come and listen to it. On the other side, just like the proverbial frog from the small pond who tells tales about the sea, I too am confined in my own pond and believe the pond to be the sea. Well, friends, those who know me, know that this is me… and that did not stop you having me as a friend. NA?

So, Frog Tale name was appropriate, I guess. There was some initial hitch……non-availability of an URL in the same name. Manas again came in handy and added “COCKTAIL” in front of FROG TALES (nothing more was expected of him at 2 am in the morning and with a blood-alcohol level beyond normal range).

So friends, this is the saga of cocktail of frog-tales. Before I get lost in Froggy world, let me go back to my long-pending work and finish the report for tomorrow. But with a promise to come back with more Froggy Tales.

Till then...

Croak Croak.