“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

       

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.

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.....