Poem

DESIRE

I meditate in my cave
Defeated by devotion
Devoid of dimension and distraction
Judgement, emotion and convention
All that tie me to my idol of myself
And render me an unhappy iconoclast.

I seek to be free from all desire
Anything my senses depend on
To beguile them from what they lack
And yet, think they may just...a little, possess.
For it is true, I think I know,
Nothing belongs to me now
Nothing belonged to me before
I was blinded by my existence
And wanted to please the world
Not my self
For I don’t have any self of my own.

I now know.
Knowledge will outlive me.
Time will outlast me.
Life will outcast me.
Words will outlaw me.

And yet,
I crave something
Some one being
Some creation
I shall beget
Be responsible for
Reality to
Refuge of
Part of me
And yet
Not my own
Not my shadow
Not my self
Nothing to disown.

My child,
I sacrifice my self,
My dreams
My life
For my desire.

And awake.

Death in the Family

Dimma (my maternal grandma) died around 5.10 pm on Sunday morning. Ma called me up early in the morning. Having received news that Dimma had lapsed into a coma, she said she'd be leaving within a couple of hours for Panagarh (of the military base fame) where Dimma had been staying with my mejomashi (my middle aunt) for the last few years. Because of my back problem , I needn't go over and stay at Salt Lake. My parents-in-law were away in North Bengal, so I couldn't have shirked my responsibilities here in any case. All I needed to do was check from time to time whether everything was ok with Mitu (my sibling) since Ma doesn't have much faith in my father's sense of responsibility when it comes to family (he's a doctor, so you get the drift). She said she didn't expect Dimma to live beyond that day or at the most, the day after. I called her again around 2 pm, and she said that she'd just reached mashi's place. Dimma, too weak and physically incapacitated, couldn't possibly be removed to a hospital, so a doctor had been called over. Other relatives had come over and there was a tangible sense of impending gloom. I said I'd check on her again later, in that case.

We were supposed to go over that evening to Salt Lake to my parents' place. Baba was attending a seminar at the Hyatt and there was a cocktail dinner at the Rowing Club to round it off that night. Mitu would probably not feel like attending the event if we guys weren't around, so I persuaded K, explaining the logic . (We had had Rashi and Saugata sleeping over the previous night and had had a whole lot of rich food in this sultry weather, so he didn't really feel like partaking of some more of the former at the invitation in question.) We had just taken a nap and I was sitting on the bed, contemplating whether to make tea first or decide what to wear when Ma called.

Some intuition told me that Ma's calling at that particular point of time did not augur good news. I remember K's puzzled look when I kept on staring at the mobile screen and then turning to him and telling him in a lame, lost way that it was Ma calling. Eventually, I must have answered the call for I could distinctly hear Ma's voice sounding strangely and unnaturally clear, telling me that Dimma had 'just' passed away. Her matter-of-fact voice injected stupor into me, for I can't remember anything of what she told me after that. There was already wetness on my cheeks and along the sides of my nose and somehow, in between all of this, I was lying down, turning my face away from K because I was conscious of this being a moment of personal loss, something he could not possibly understand, empathise or sympathise with. It was something that was intensely personal, a bereavement that would mean different things to different people but somehow, none of our emotions would be the same. There would always be a difference, because I was mourning at the shrine of my own personal existence, grieving for one whose birth had inevitably predestined mine. I was reliving family, blood ties, shared memories. Somehow, in those few moments, I felt like Ma was no longer just a mother, I was no longer just her daughter. We had been promoted by an entire generation.

But we could have done without it.

Dimma, I'll miss not having you around. Memories are not a very good substitute for the physical presence of a person, are they ?

To Mother or Not to Mother

Several of my friends have become new mothers recently. At most get-togethers where we nowadays come across them, I feel like an outsider. The conversation mostly centres around the needs, eccentricities, trials & tribulations and the daily routine of the mother-and-child. The conversations are by themselves rather interesting and often give unexpected angles into the way a woman's life is transformed overnight when she becomes a mother. After sexual initiation, this is probably the second stage of life when you feel physically fulfilled as a woman. But me not being a mother, how do these conversations make me feel ?

To be honest, isolated would be the first emotion that comes to mind. I get the feeling that this is one of those Phi Beta kind of sororities where even the conversation is coded and elite. Well, of course it's not half as dramatic. But I do get that feeling and it's odd.

The next would be fear. The routine of a new mother sounds terribly intimidating. It makes me feel that I wouldn't be a good mother myself because I seem to lack the patience, the will to put up with n number of sleepless nights, the courage to brave the agony of being unable to pacify a bawling infant owing to not having been able to figure out what the current 'lack/need' is, the indefinite period of sacrifice of other pursuits that are dreadfully dear to my heart in general, the ability to overlook my own indispositions to focus on a being whose needs are more instinctive and sensitive than mine...the list is long and what's more, scary.

Then comes the terrible sense of a personal loss of freedom. The freedom to go anywhere, do anything at anytime, any which way I'd ike to. Marriage does bring its own natural restraints, but that seems nothing compared to what motherhood would demand. The thought of my wanting to just be by myself for a whole day without anyone tugging at my heart-strings and demanding constant care would just be a wistful lotus-eaters' dream once I plunged wholeheartedly into the cactus path to motherhood. I'm a loner by nature and the notion of not allowed to be one seems to endanger my sanity the very moment I start thinking about it.

Then there's the weight gain. Ever since my MA days, I've been struggling to keep my weight under strict surveillance, since my hypothyroidism problem demands that of me in order that I stay fit and fine. I'm not a celebrity like Malaika Arora who can work out with a trainer immediately after delivery and get back into shape at the snap of a finger. My gynaecologist has categorically advised me to lose weight for certain specific reasons. The sense of having to lose weight, gain it again in pregnancy and then begin the struggle to fight the flab all over again exhausts me mentally right now.

And with that finally comes the enormous burden of duty, responsibility and culpability. These are all spontaneous and I suppose would someday come to me as naturally as they have to generations of mothers. I'm secretly proud that I've always been wo(man) enough to stand up bravely and be answerable for my own flaws, lacks, offences or misdeeds in life. But what about taking the blame for mistakes my child might make, often knowing that I was involved all along in the very process of making them ? It menaces me, looms over me like a nightmare that is destined to be fulfilled.

There is one good thing that however stands out star-bright, in this senseless saga of formless fears. I finally realise what it means to be a mother. Maybe that itself heralds a positive, more meaningful, futuristic note. My frequent disagreements with my mother might lessen as life strives to school me in the language of motherhood, a legacy that must be passed on. A dream that must be realised, even if it must go through the painful metamorphosis of the glorious vision into a checkered reality.

Re : updates & a Birthday

It seems like ages since I've last posted. And indeed, so much has happened in between !

Bapi turned 60. For the first time, all the members of our apartment celebrated Saraswati Pujo together, as one big family. K and I participated in the Republic day annual sports at my baaper baarir para (the locality my parents reside in) and didn't fare as miserably as we thought we would. One particular Sunday, we survived a whole night of dirty abuse, brick and glass pelting precipitated by our attempt to get rid of some rowdy neighbourhood mischiefmakers and had TV channels and the police put us all under literal house arrest as they seemingly took action against the anti-social activities of the former. Our ancient (the style, I mean) windows are about to be replaced by aluminium sliding glass ones and the entire house painted. I'm back in academics, doing an evening course on Editing & Publishing at Jadavpur University. Rashi and I visited the Kolkata Book Fair after several years and found it as poorly managed as ever, probably just a wee bit less dusty. Yes, there's a lot that you guys have missed and which I hope to be able to update you about (well, not at one sitting perhaps, but soon).

Let's get started. Bapi turned 60 and we decided to host a party at our flat. It was on a relatively large scale, considering our flat isn't big enough to comfortably contain 30 plus people at any given moment. We decided to save ourselves from overexerting ourselves and so outsourced the food. The menu consisted of crispy chicken and vegetable pakoras from our local favourite GOCS, as starters, while dinner comprised chicken biriyani and chicken chnaap from Shiraz or veg pulao, dal makhani and matar paneer, home-made raita and payesh and store-bought nolen gurer (molasses) rosogolla. The highlight of the party, I personally think, were the cake itself and the decorations (the latter courtesy me). Each experience has its bitter side, though, and this was no exception. Some invitees showed their utter lack of social etiquette by trying to be forcibly didactic in the kitchen (which already contained too many kitchen paraphernalia and four very hard-working people, two of them by nature extremely antagonistic to any unwelcome intrusions). One (gentle)man unabashedly announced that chicken biriyani with chicken chnaap was a silly combination (we should have considered asking him to sponsor the event). Another (lady) behaved as if our kitchen was a public hotel,placing random demands for onions etc to the concerned staff. A few people claimed they were ill and yet, continued to talk into their cellphones nonstop, as if there was nothing called society to take into consideration. Somewhat miraculously, all these histrionics - besides my cutting my fingers on some shards of glass while cleaning our bathroom and taking a painful tetanus injection that very evening - did not result in impairing my mostly stoic appearance. Titai (my sister-in-law) was a revelation though, managing to manoeuvre all the tortuous challenges of entertaining with consummate and disarming ease. I must say that I was very glad when the rigmarole ended though. One can only put up with a circus for a limited amount of time.

The cake :

The gathering :

Dinner :

Adda :

Nicotine and alcohol :

I hope to be able to update you all about the other events too in equal detail. Next day ! :-)

Baby Banerjee

My friend D just had a caesarean. She was supposed to be operated on around late February, but due to complications (which involved a sudden and sharp decrease in the amniotic fluid, triggering breathing trouble in the baby), the entire process of delivery was precipitated much earlier than it would have been otherwise. Her hubby, B, a close friend of ours, called us the day before the procedure took place to inform us about this unexpected development. So, one the next day, we reached the Bhagirathi Neotia nursing home (supposedly the best in maternity and child care right now in Kolkata) and narrowly missed seeing our friend being wheeled into the OT. There was a period of anxiety, excitement and feverish anticipation as I waited downstairs in the lobby in the company of both sets of parents, D's elder brother (who insists on addressing me as a senior each time we meet for reasons best known to him), B's maternal aunt and uncle and a colleague of B. I proved to be an unexpected moderator for the smalltalk that was evidently a strained effort to conceal the concern underlying the apparent composure on everyone's faces. K informed me later that he and his friend were extremely jittery as they sat upstairs, just outside the OT, wondering whether the operation would go off uneventfully or...

Fortunately, everything turned out fine. Debarati gave birth to a bonnie (if slightly premature) boy of 2.7 kg weight at around 11.45 am on Sat, 6th Feb 2010. Everyone immediately embarked on frantic efforts to trace similarities between the facial features of the parents and that of the newborn, much to our mirth. The only assertion that one could possibly and justifiably make at that point of time was that Baby Banerjee sported a fine growth of hair already on his baby head. The proud mama (maternal uncle) insisted on treating us each to Rs 8 worth of gooey, high-cal gulab jamun at the T-Junction stall within the premises of the clinic. We went home, a happy couple, calling up friends and relatives on the way to give them this good news and assuring them that we'd provide concrete follow-ups on the former by way of photos on orkut or via email.

The entire incident succeeded in creating one serious point of contention between K and me : if I insisted on being Mashi (maternal aunt) to the baby and K insisted on being Kaku (paternal uncle); how exactly would bystanders interpret our own relationship ?

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS ...

Marriage does strange things to you. It not only takes you out out of your familiar surroundings and circle of acquaintances, it also gives you a new home and if lucky, a whole new family. But it is not to talk of the happier side of marriage that I sit today, but of its sad, sombre, sobering aspects.

I’ve just come from my former home to my present one. This is the nth time I’ve done the same and yet, I don’t know why, I feel like I’m doing something wrong. There’s this overwhelming sense of wistfulness and aching sorrow welling up within me every time I cross the same threshold to head for another one, 20 mins’ away by road. I don’t have a brother. I only have my younger sister, Moitreyee (aka Mitu), who wanted me to stop till later in the day and go watch ‘Wake Up Sid’ with her. I turned her down and her expectant smile changed into one of confused hurt. She asked me why I couldn’t return to my shoshurbari (in-laws’ place) later in the day. I’m not employed right now after all. I channelised the conversation into a different direction. There really was no reason why I couldn’t have gone back much later in the day. I could. Except maybe, the more I stay, the more difficult it is to persuade myself to go away. The more I feel I have to go, the more I feel like putting it off for the morrow. The more I know this was once my only home, the more I cry inside, knowing that this is no longer my only home. That I am emotionally committed to going back home. To what I need to fashion into a home. To what shall some day, when I have my own children and no living parents, be my only home.


I comprehend Mitu’s perplexity. Maybe she was thinking of what fun we had had the night before when the three of us (K, herself, I) had sit in what was once my bedroom, playing ‘Calling Bray’ late into the night, me laughing my guts out each time Mitu lost a card and looked absurdly crestfallen or won a card and looked gleefully exultant. Or how we traced our collective way back through the memories of our childhood as we helped K through our old and dusty photo albums. Or how Mitu and I had sauntered through our neighbourhhod park as we returned from the confectionary shop with 500 gm of lal doi (sweet curd) which I had had the audacity to question the increased price of, quoting in the process an ancient rate of Rs 70 for a kg of the same, causing the shopkeeper to sarcastically ask me how long ago I’d made such a curious purchase. Or how we made our slow way through the park, checking every sandy corner for the newborn puppies we’d spotted a few days ago, which we finally distinguished in the darkness and Mitu meowed to, causing me much hilarity. And well, so much and so many more things that recalling would only cause more hurt, more sorrow, lay many more crosses on my already scarred soul.

And let me not even begin to enumerate how I feel when I leave my mother and father behind, lest I cannot sleep for many nights and days, relentlessly wondering why society is so obstinately patriarchal and why girls need at all leave their parents and siblings to adopt another family when there was no lack in the older one. Yes, in my case, there have been and are differences galore with my parents and sometimes, they almost seem ridiculous to me for their want of actual substance. There have been days before my marriage when I went to office hungry but unable to eat at home because of the grim hush that hovered over the household after a quarrel with my parents over the issue of my marriage which, as the day neared, became a foreboding reality to them, not because of any financial troubles but due to its emotional implications. That their gaining a son by marriage was more a cliché than an event since the son would not live with them but rather take their daughter away from them. My parents have become teenagers once again since then, behaving illogically when it comes to awkwardly trying to show that they are still my parents and that although they try, they really can’t help not feeling possessive about me, when it comes to their reaction to my divided loyalties to both households. Even this morning, Ma shoved 4 apples and a packet of biscuits into my bag at the last moment and unlike previous occasions, I didn’t resist, knowing she would be content thinking she'd contributed her bit to my evening snacks. I understand now, after a year of living alone in the USA and singlehandedly donning the mantle of mother, wife and daughter to K, the true implication of her gestures, the material manifestation of a self-effacing love that only a mother can bestow.

Dimma (my maternal grandmother) is a few days or maybe weeks from death, in her 80s, having suffered several consecutive falls, the last probably having led to a clot in her brain. She doesn’t open her eyes, cannot sleep on a proper bed any longer, has bed sores all over from the floor bed she lies in, cannot brush or sanitise herself any longer without total dependence on my mejomashi (middle aunt), whose residence she has been living in, for a long time now. Her own sons, my two mamas (maternal uncles), are a worthless duo, too occupied with their own petty regards and resentments to pay their maybe very last respects to Dimma. I went and managed the household at Salt Lake a couple of weeks ago while Ma went to visit her. Dimma couldn’t even recognize Ma and kept mixing up her grandchildren with her own children. Ma came back in tears. I kept telling Ma that she needed to strengthen herself mentally, prepare herself for the departure that was bound to take place, sooner or later. But this morning, as I was returning home, I wondered whether I myself could ever practice what I had been preaching. One’s family is a habit one may never get over, after all.

I never felt I’d say this, but now I must be true to myself and confess. I sometimes feel I’d have liked to have a brother to bring back his wife to my mother to take my place when I married and left the fold. But on second thoughts, if my brother was like any one of my mamas, I’d rather we sisters took over their roles. But would we be able to do as much as a son would ? I wonder. The phantom of patriarchy remains to haunt my dreams.

YOU KNOW WHAT HURTS ?

When you have tried your 100 per cent to be your best self and no one acknowledges it.

When your family shows that they really don’t care about you as an individual.

When you have to justify yourself to people who you thought had at last learned to believe in your integrity and worth.

When you realize that however much you try to improve yourself, others will never let you forget your past.

When you realize raising your voice in protest against wrongs can be read simplistically and crudely as bad-tempered behaviour.

When you realize that love is futile, because blood always turns out to be thicker than even the most self-effacing affection.

When you have to struggle to survive, to establish your self on sterile grounds.

When you realize you are considered a burden, rather than an asset in what you had almost accepted as home.

When you realize that you have given up much of what really mattered for people to whom you don’t really matter.

When there are thoughts, wounds, tears you cannot share with anyone except your own little blog.

'UP'

While taking a walk one evening, a couple of days ago, K and I were discussing when would be the most opportune time to die. It does sound a tad too premature, I concede, but then on some days, the weather’s so fantastic, you feel you’d like to live forever but know it isn’t possible and then, abruptly, you’re beset by the contemplation of mortality and human existence. Besides, we were both a trifle ‘senti’ that day, having shed tears (me, mostly) at several points while watching the film ‘Up’ that morning in the theatre and feeling like we needed to re-examine the nature and purpose of our respective trips through life.

Well, then. I brooded over the topic for a while and announced that my fears of old age were mainly related to loss of independence. In all senses. Not only in the crudest sense of the slowing down or disruption of one’s bodily functions but also that of feeling infinitely more vulnerable and irrelevant all the time. Of being too old to be in sync with trends any more, of leading too solipsistic a lifestyle to allow the current events and incidents taking place elsewhere in the world to matter or work me up into a reaction of any sort any more. An indifference towards knowledge in any form. A relentless wait for the inevitable. That seems like time to make a graceful departure.

K’s attitude was distinctly different. In fact, his thoughts were not half as complex as mine. He put it very simply : he wanted to live as long as his partner did. He wanted to be able to bask in the comfort of the thought that he was there to care for me and me to care for him. Otherwise, life would seem rather hard.

That set me into rewind mode. ‘Up’ (2009) had reinstated our faith in our relationship, somewhat indirectly. A very ordinary child who grows into a very ordinary adult and then a very ordinary old man, receives a fresh lease of life when his wife’s ‘Adventure Book’ (a scrapbook) reveals to him how their fun-filled personal life had been adventure enough for her. From the realm of death, she succeeds in convincing him that their humdrum life together had been as good as a historical romance, where love had helped to enhance each experience and endow it with meaning. They had had no children, but towards the end, Fredricksen realizes that any child may be your own child, it’s your approach to life that makes someone family. The realization is reinforced in a brilliant sequence, where Fredricksen begins throwing out all the furniture Ellie and he had carefully created, collected and cherished over their years of marriage to decrease the weight of the house and set off to rescue Russell. Ellie’s last autograph, persuading him to embark on a fresh adventure, convinces him that it’s the emotions that make a home and not the furniture it contains. The grumpy, grizzly Fredericksen finally emerges as a hero in someone’s life : in Russell’s life.

The lesson’s simple : life is as exciting as you make it out to be. Every moment is an adventure, ticking away all the time, while one is foolishly pining away for more thrill, envious of the lot of others.

Who can tell what’s in store for us tomorrow ? Right now, we are together. That’s what matters, right ?

Carpe diem !

Paradise Lost

I was just wondering how we react to changing circumstances and whether that really makes us master of our own fortunes to the extent we'd like to be. A friend put up photos of her sister's newborn baby yesterday and that was the trigger for these reflections. I just can't get over the wonder of the process of growth of a newborn into a full fledged adult and then actually leaving the nest to discover life. The sheer contrast between the helplessness of the infant and the ruthlessness of the adult astounds me. I was watching 'To Kill a Mocking Bird' yesterday and the experience of innocence transforming into experience was a marvel indeed. It's been going on for ages, this metamorphosis, and yet one wonders. At the cycle of life that fuses good with evil and makes us embrace both to attain wisdom. No use grieving over the once trailing clouds of glory and the angelic (if limited) existence that we were cocooned in. Much as they might have wanted to, parents have never been able to shield their children from the darker, baser side of life. It will happen. One way or the other. And they all (even the victims, at times) remain unhappy onlookers (and even participants) of that momentous occasion.

Ma slipped and fell down the stairs of our home on 17th Feb, 2009. Her nightdress and chappals caught on the rails of the collapsible gate that looms midway between our ground and first floor and dragged her down several stairs, taking her by such shock that it was all over before she realised that something had happened, and further, not being able to get up indicated at some unpleasant development. Mitu called me up frantically here and I ransacked my address book to locate the phone numbers of a couple of neighbours and relatives who might be able to reach the spot fast before the situation took a turn for the worse. Both Mitu and K tried Baba's cellphone but it went on ringing without any vocal response. It was 11.45 here at night and we had just been about to turn in for the night. Finally, we managed to communicate with Dr Sur, our neighbour (a very old gentleman) and Pranab Kaku. They promised immediate aid. A couple of hours later, K woke up a headache-treated-with-crocin-groggy me to offer the information that Baba had arrived and they had reached Baba's hospital to get an X-ray done. Ma had torn 60 of the 1000 ligaments of her ankle, the condition being serious enough to be bracketed as a simple fracture and impair normal movement for more than 21 days. Three whole weeks has now been extended to a month, Mitu tells me. The whole world has gone topsy turvy at the small Mandal microcosm and I'm just sitting here and drowning my helplessness and pain in words. I now realise what most women in patriarchial society lose with marriage : the solace of happily executing their own small but well-demarcated duties to parents and siblings in an oh-so-familiar world. My own situation is not the general one perhaps. Not everyone is living in a different land after marriage. But you can't but concede that yes, it has the potential of developing into the permanent and general situation some day in this era of mass migration and globalisation. The trauma of being a hapless (n)on-looker of the trials & tribulations of one's immediate family and too far away to be of much practical aid is an agony I don't possess the audacity to express in words.

This is the same parent that carried me in her womb for 9 months and nurtured me for God knows how many sleepless nights and days. Maybe she continues to do it even now. And here I am. A sphinx of solipsistic splendour.

Making an effort...

Have finally taken Barnali's advice and emailed a couple of poems to a couple of e-magazines of a good standard and reputation. Have also mustered enough courage to send a photograph I took to another e-magazine of a slightly more multifaceted nature. Am keeping my fingers crossed.

Tried my own version of rajma yesterday night as K was dead tired, having had a long day at work. It didn't taste as good as the one K prepares, more so as I decided to experiment with it, leaving the methi out at the end. I think I'll leave this particular dish to K, in future.

We've been watching 'Oye Lucky Lucky Oye' in instalments (we are so lazy, OMG) over the past two days. Couldn't care less whether it turns out to be a hit or a flop. It's racy and ridiculous and roaring fun. Am loving it !

Am reading Coetzee's 'Slow Man'. I have a bit of trouble concentrating when a concrete plot goes abstract, but then, having read 'Foe' during my MA has managed not to totally unnerve me. Plan to finish it soon. Hope it ends as brilliantly as the other novel did. I remember having been impressed enough to churn out an appreciably large term paper on 'Foe' for our PoCo classes. I must have been really inspired, now that I think about it.

A huge heap of weekly shopping illustrateds await my inspection. This time, there's also a Holiday Gifts Special booklet from Walmart. I guess their Christmas is equivalent to our Durga Pujo. In terms of meaningfulness, I mean. I just realised my vocabulary is getting limited. Must catch up on my reading. The more you read, the better you write, I've always noticed.

Jhinuk has written a funny post on Srinwanti's orkut-related problems on our group blog. Had fun reading it. To think Srin hadn't know so long how to change her profile photo when we people have been vain enough to change ours several times in a week itself. Come on Srin, all you need is just ask ! LOL.

Have been GTalking with Ma and Mitu for the third day in a row now. Am on top of the world. Nothing like family gossip to cheer you up when you're alone at home.

Took some new photos of this place (home) and uploaded them on orkut (where else? !). They look much better, now that (1) we have a few more things to fill up the rooms and (2)I had the intelligence to use the flash.

Rony-Tanima and Pintu have finally been able to see both the photos and videos of Siddhant that we took during our recent trip to Atlanta. Picasa seems to have introduced a new set of options in terms of album accessibility. Well, at least they made sense to me. What with the new Gmail themes, introduction of video chat by Google and now this, I love the very name of Google. Oh, and I even managed to locate our block in Salt Lake in Google Maps. The place has finally received its due in the virtual world. Hurrah !

Stomach and Parking Woes

I've had a bad scare yesterday. For the last two days, my stomach has been feeling hot and spicy after each meal, until things came to a bad pass yesterday afternoon when the condition began to cause me such discomfort that I interpreted it as gastric ulcer for sure and was forced to frantically call up my school-friend, Sharmistha, now in Flanders, ,and ask her advice. Medicines with the composition Ranitidine or Famotidine were what she suggested, besides the compulsory biscuits every hour. I was utterly perplexed (and highly annoyed by my lack of foresight) to find that we had no Omeprazole or Zinetac among the huge heap of medicines we had carried over from India. K was taken aback by a very evidently-scared-out-of-my-wits me bursting into tears over the phone and asking him to come home as soon as possible. Despite a steady shower, we left for the closest pharmacy (RiteAid, of course) immediately after he had had tea and an evening snack and hunted down the aforementioned medicine. Luckily it's an over-the-counter drug, so all we had for concern was the price tag. We chose the in-house RiteAid product with the exactly similar composition but a lower price tag. All the same, it came to about $6...if you convert that to rupees, you'll probably empathise with my mental state after that. The more I try to save money, the more I somehow end up wasting it in some way or the other.

We had a hard time parking the car. It was raining non-stop and there seemed to be more cars than usual along the kerb, so that there was hardly any space big enough for a newly trained driver to easily manoeuvre the car into a straight (and legal) position. We wasted a lot of time in one smaller spot before K had the good sense to surrender and move on to a much more larger slot. I had volunteered to get out and give directions to help park but I don't think I proved to be of much help after all. I made a sorry sight in a white hooded jacket, clutching two umbrellas (both open, for some strange reason), a crumpled white polythene carry-bag (in which to deposit the wet umbrellas and thereby protect the car) and a white paper packet containing the treasure of the moment (my medicines, silly). But it felt good to feel that I had a loving husband, who, even after a hard day's work, gave precedence to my miseries over his own. It is something most women dream of but few realise. I'm glad to be one of the blessed ones.

K was decent enough to cook dinner yesterday, one of his specials, the chilli mushroom-and-vegetables that he does occasionally. For the first time in my life, I made narkel laddoos and they turned out quite well. So good, in fact, that after a trial in the evening, K looked crestfallen at the sight of just one as dessert for dinner and demanded another. I can't describe the sense of achievement that I woke up to after that. It was a great feeling.

That reminds me, we noticed something strange at RiteAid. They've happily put Halloween miles behind them and have promptly and unceremoniously replaced all Halloween decorations and puppets with the same having Christmas as the new theme. People here must really be short of enough festivals to go around.

Mitu (my sibling) has a fashion show around the corner and has, as usual, assumed with impenetrable (outrageous) composure, that I am naturally going to edit her accompanying write-up for her. She called me up on GTalk to brief me on the theme and what she wants from me. Sigh, younger sisters !

P.S. I just discovered that the writing behind the Ranitidine tablet runs thus, "Dr Reddy's Laboratories Ltd, Bachepalli -502 325 INDIA".

Of all the */#%@* !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sweet Somethings, Now Nothings

Grihoprobesh Photos_27/07/2007

I've been enumerating the things that I miss, now that I've been doing without them for quite some time and find my adaptibility a strange shade of extreme. My money plant (which Mamoni had bought me from Gariahat more @ Rs 20 but we managed to avenge it several times over) seems to be able to flourish without me there every morning, excited at the thought of finding a couple of more leaves perhaps having unfurled their tiny green selves overnight. The wedding wardrobe with pull-out concealed alnas on both sides and a full-length mirror running the length of an entire front panel. Comfortable cushioned chairs, a sofa, tables. Tubelights. A proper bed with a solid mattress (we're quite comfy here with a dark brown comforter below us spread out on a carpeted floor and another blue comforter over us). Lack of decorations and knick-knacks. The circular three-photo-frame containing a photo each of our marriage, reception and honeymoon, greeting us smilingly from the surface of the wedding trousseau bedside table. The room-that-is-not-only-a-room (a verandah, for the unimaginative few). The sliding-glass-window in the living room and the broad windowseat where I had got used to cosying up (with Mamoni) when I felt the need for my own corner. The colourful curtains that K and I had selected so carefully just prior to their grihoprobesh, when we hadn't even been married. Most of my wedding sarees, blouses and petticoats. A locker full of wedding jewellery.The morning pujo and the accompanying fragrance of incense that provided a heady start to each day. The other plants in the verandah that Mamoni and I shared the responsibility of quenching the thirst of, periodically. The hard copy of the everyday newspaper. Reading it while lazing over tea and biscuits. All the birthday parties, anniversary celebrations and wedding invitations. The much greater variety of transport (wow, I actually admitted that !). The freedom to venture out alone and not worrying about getting lost anywhere at all. The frequent get-togethers at shopping malls/CCD/Barista for just a coffee or milkshake or attending the first day first show of a much awaited film at Priya. The ability to haggle over things as silly as junk jewellery and flip-flops by roadside makeshift shops and not feeling in the least embarrassed over losing the bargain, just moving on to the very next one and starting all over again. Hanging out for hours at Starmark or Planet M, checking out the latest arrivals. Above all, our friends and family, who made us feel longed and cared for.

Our now desolate bedroom :-(

Well, I've sure worked myself up into a sense of wistful melancholy right now. I'd better wait for it to subside before I can blog on an objective note. Bye for now.

For his sake, if not ours !

Baby Siddhant

Sushmit and Namita became parents early this morning and so, K and I officially become Kaku and Kakima now, terms which I have always contemplated with extreme intimidation, as they symbolised discipline, strictness, authority, spectacles and greying hair for me. Funny thus, to find myself becoming part of this stentorian league. Sush's phone call this morning was anticipated but also exhilarating when it finally came...it catapulted us into a world where we, the previously naive and not-to-be-taken-seriously generation, were playing host to another new generation. It was scary in a way. For sooner or later, we two, too shall become parents and have to try to behave maturely and become role models for those others to whom we should be the principal guiding lights. That's a challenge indeed. Time to reduce the rate of mistakes we've been making intermittently till now and dismissively passing them off as lack of experience.Time to measure all our knowledge, discover where we are wanting and fill up that void before our little nephew realizes that there ever were any lacunae. Time to stop airing attitude and affectations and reinvent our monotonous selves, so that we may possibly be considered entertaining babysitters to the new-kids-on-the-block. It's a new start that this baby has heralded in our lives. I hope for our little Siddhant's sake that we may magnificently live upto our own expectations tomorrow.