Of new beginnings

Calling any city other than Calcutta "home" wasn't something I had planned on doing while growing up. And then, life happened and all the plans went for a toss. The warmth of home was found in a far-away German town amidst strangers who turned into soul sisters, love made its "P"ermanent residence in the heart, and some of life's biggest lessons were learnt.

This time too, moving to a city I am not particularly fond of wasn't part of the dream dreamt since long. True, the transportation system fascinates me and leaves me in awe. The chai makes me want to lick the cup over and over again when no one is watching. The academic job market looks straight in the evil eyes of unemployment and winks. But, the city isn't passionate enough when I look at it (yes, "it" and not "her"; I have my own sets of rules and reservations) through my Calcutta-esque glasses. It does not let the mind sit on a time machine and visit nostalgia-land. It does not provide the warmth of pithe-puli, nolen gurer sondesh and Gariahat. The pollution slowly awakens the dormant migraine. And, it makes me realise that "নদীর ওপার" is indeed a real place that I can visit not everyday. 

Yet, it gives me reasons to be happy. Dancing-on-air happy. It fills the heart with puddles of joy everytime I walk along the lush green sidewalk of the famed institute. It transforms me into a starry-eyed kid in a candy-store as I ogle the entry gate, the widespread graffiti and buildings that had once housed my dreams. It pulls a P. C. Sorcar act on all my tears and fears and replaces them with hopes, prayers and promises. And, it makes me realise that the best things in life always take the longest to happen.

The city is special, therefore. Not because of the infinite number of things it doesn't have or give. It is not Calcutta, it never will be. First love can happen only once right? But, it does give the comfort of home-made Espressos and long morning cuddles. It compensates for the heart-aches with the company of best friends and family. Most importantly, it makes the dream of doing what I love and sharing the address with the favourite roommate, a reality :-).

Unchained melodies

As John Denver continues to magically transform my thoughts into songs and make the heart ache a little more, I look outside and realise it is raining. I run to the balcony, barefoot, and try to smell the rain. There is none. I am disheartened for a tiny second. The strong wind tangles the hair and I try to brush it off the face. But then I strain the neck out and let the rain caress my face, feeling the corners of the lips twisting to a familiar shape. And then suddenly, I see them. 

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I see them, lost in conversation, walking along the lanes of their hometown as the Kalbaisakhi continues to make her presence felt. I see them going back and forth several times on the metro and chatting the hours away. I see them spending the entire evening looking for the perfect flower-bouquet for her parents' marriage anniversary. I see them sitting for hours in cafes and restaurants, eating cakes and pizza quattro formaggis and later complaining about how much they have eaten. I see him making "grudge" sounds in the dark to scare her and she almost waking the neighbours up with her screams. I see him calling her on a Saturday morning while she sleeps, asking her to open the front door as he stands outside, having travelled for hours just to give a surprise. I see him going down on one knee in the middle of the crowded food-court, taking her hand and slipping on her finger a ring. I see him waiting patiently for her tuition classes to end so they can walk back home together. I see an obese her, running across the Dhakuria bridge to catch a bus, and him waiting in front of the door and stopping the bus until she has reached. I see him pulling her leg constantly about NGOs, and later strangling her body with the arms in an attempt to pacify her. I see him baking his first cake and writing her a long testimonial in an attempt to compensate for fights. I see him running wild with excitement as she shows him around her second favorite city in the world. I see her reading out loud to him lines from the Bengali book that she reads, as he works on his laptop with the head on her torso.

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I see them lying in bed, watching "Bariwali" perhaps for the umpteenth time. I see them decorating the room with tiny Christmas lights and traditional Rajasthani dolls and their wedding pictures. I see them enjoying a quiet birthday dinner at a small Fondue restaurant atop the hills on a gloomy day and later taking a lazy walk by the lake. I see them talking sadly about things and people who continue to hurt. I see him preparing coffee each morning so to let her sleep a few extra minutes. I see him insisting on buying her that expensive silk scarf on their honeymoon because he likes it on her. I see them holding hands tightly while walking around the holy fire, as he puts the vermilion on the parting of her hair. I see him being on the phone with her the entire night as she waits for the night train at an empty railway station amidst drunkards. I see him behaving like a kid-in-the-candy-store when she gifts him the ONE ring and those tiny Minions. I see him calling her every couple of minutes to get updates on the tennis matches that Federer plays. I see her waiting at their familiar meeting point, while he secretly buys roses for her from the corner shop. I see them in the kitchen, cooking together and talking about his excessive use of garlic in anything and everything, with snippets of romance thrown in here and there. I see them video calling and taking snapshots, her blabbering away to glory and him checking himself out on the video the entire time. I see them trying to "Moonwalk" at Michael Jackson's songs in the middle of the night and giggling endlessly afterwards. I see him holding her head down as she throws up in the toilet after a crazy drinking night. I see him teaching her a "little Physics" and her staring blankly the entire time. I see her balancing on the training ropes at the jungle resort and him carefully standing at the back for support. I see the look on her face and the lumps in her throat as he gifts her the solitaire on the wedding night. 

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I see them on their good, bad and ugly moments, when they love fiercely and fight vehemently. I see her watching a movie alone in the theater without informing him, only to stay away and punish him for his mistakes. I see her leaving the house and going for a long walk after a fight, and him nervously asking what took her so long as she returns. I see him not talking for an entire night, and in the morning, leaving his sim card for a phone-less her to use during the day. I see the disappointments, the tears and arguments, all the flaws and complaints. And then I see them growing up side by side, choosing to stay together till the end of time. I see the support they give to each other, in good times and bad, realising that is how love should look like. I see the look on their faces as they meet at airports or railway stations after months, realising that is how happiness should look like. I see them having moments of small insignificant happinesses, realising that is what life should be all about. I smile, realising, that is how the feeling of "home" should feel like. Magic, in the mundane :)

Marriage Materials

You know that feeling when you meet an ex-lover/friend after ages and have no clue what to talk about? You put up a straight face, smile a Sheldon Cooper smile while mentally cursing yourself for not delaying the meeting, try to make small talks and embarrass yourself to no extent. But at the same time, you experience a tug at the heartstrings at the very sight of the person and cannot help but realise that love indeed is a strong emotion. 

Well, that's exactly how I feel as I start to write this blog post. It has been so long that Candyfloss and I have seen eye-to-eye, that the very thought of coming up with a proper excuse for having committed the sin makes me nauseous. Then again, the happiness at the sight of the familiar territory that accompanies the nausea, is unparalleled. So here I stand, guilty as charged, and try to seduce the angry heart of this ex-lover with.. words!

First things first, WHY have I not written all this while? I have since long been accused of the fourth deadly sin (as a matter of fact almost all of them, but let's not go down that road), which I believe is the only path for achieving Moksha and is my eternally-valid excuse for anything and everything. I would also conveniently put the blame on the social hullabaloo that happened a couple of months ago and say that I have been leading a sedentary lifestyle ever since. The finishing of the PhD and the complacency that followed, served as the cherry on top. No wonder, work took a back-seat and so did writing, while all efforts to shove and push the lazy mind out of hibernation were wrapped in woolen blankets and stacked in old almirahs to be used for the next year :/. On that note, I have often wondered why the guy would call me 'cat' so often. The amazingly accurate picture showed to me last Christmas explained why, and I couldn't help but gasp at the similarity! Yeah, love works in strange ways, mostly through such unabashed name-calling :D

Anyways, having talked about the Ph.D. in several of my previous blog posts, let me talk about the one thing that is rather new in my life: Being the Mrs. This reminds me of the several conversations had with strangers-who-called-themselves-my-relatives the last time I was in the hometown as a newly-wed. 

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Conversation 1:

Her (upon entering my room): "Dear lord, you do not look married at all! What's with the shorts and tops and empty hands and no vermilion? You look exactly the same as you did before you got married!" *the look of utter anguish and horror follows*

Me (in the most polite way possible, which I never thought I knew): "I dress up the way I feel most comfortable in. I do look faintly married when I am out at some social event. But at home, I prefer not being a clown".

Her: "No no. Aren't you a newly-wed? You should do it also at home! So have you legally changed your surname yet? You know, these days it is a fashion among modern women to keep their maiden name".

Me (on the verge of losing my cool but still with the plastic smile on the face): "I have decided not to change my name".

Her (almost choking): "What? What does your husband say to that? And your in-laws?"

Me: "Well, I didn't seek my husband's permission in the first place. But he is perfectly fine with my decision. He would never force me to do anything that I would not want. Also my in-laws". 

Her: "Good good. You must be very lucky to have landed such an amazing husband who seems to be fine with everything. Okay, I take your leave now"

Me: *mentally looking for a knife to back-stab the retreating lady*

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Conversation 2:

Her: "What's this? Why are you staying at your parents' place instead of your in-laws? You mustn't forget that this is no longer your home".

Me (blank expression): "The husband is not in the city, so I have decided to stay here most of the time. But I would ofcourse visit my in-laws".

Her (to my mom who is sitting next to me): "Why are you accepting this? Next time she is in town and she visits you, give her some sweets and ask her to go to her own house".

Me: *silently leaving the room and realising that ignorance, indeed, is a bliss at times*

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Conversation 3: 

Her: "Wow you are glowing after marriage! How does it feel to be married?"

Me: "I think I look exactly the same as I did before. And I feel no change whatsoever. I have known him for almost a decade now, so there are no surprises in store for me" ;)

Her: "Still, you should feel different. Every woman does, after marriage. You may know him from before, but now he is your husband and no longer a lover. There should be some difference. Also, what's with this তুই-তুই? Start saying তুমি now. তুই doesn't sound good to the ears!"

Me: *let me find a bar of chocolate*

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The reason for putting across excerpts from random conversations for everyone to see is not to demean the people involved, nor to establish the fact that I am above all social boundaries. Because I am not, else I wouldn't have gone through the social convention in the first place. But কুপমন্ডুকতা bothers me, and makes me sad. Yes, the society is changing and as hard as it must be, one should go with the flow instead of conveniently blaming it on "generation-gap". It bothers me that in Bengali marriages, mothers of the bride and groom are not allowed to watch the wedding rituals, lest the happiness of the bride and groom be ruined. It bothers me that women hold such low opinions about women who show the courage to break social shackles in whichever way, and instead criticize them for not joining the bandwagon of blind faith and beliefs. It bothers me when someone tells me that it is okay if I, having completed a Ph.D., do not work as long as my husband has a stable source of income. The ease and obviousness with which all these statements are made bother me to no extent. And then life goes on, we forgive and forget things that bother us or have bothered us in the past and go on living life the way we know best. 

But, on a lighter note, marriage in India is certainly not just a cumulonimbus playbook of age-old traditions and customs. It comes with its own silver-colored perks ;). How else would you socially enjoy the notion of friends-with-benefits? How else would you immerse all shame in the holy waters of the Ganges and hold hands or hug in front of the parents? How else would you explain the late-night chats that were once reasons for infinite fights in the household? And how else would you get to spend the rest of the life with the part-time lover and full-time friend and have this tiny conversation in the middle of watching a Bengali movie?

P: " "ভালবাসা আর কিছুই না, অভ্যাস মাত্র"~ এই ডায়ালগ টা শুনেই তোর্ কথা মনে হয়েছে! আমায় কত বলতিস ঝগড়ার সময়, মনে আছে?"

I: "হুম, আছে "

P: "এখনো তাই মনে হয়?"

I: :)

iSpeak

Of all the things that I missed during the prolonged limbo, writing was the foremost. Oh, by writing I mean anything other than ECONOMICS, the last millions of years were only about that. The PhD grilled me like a raw steak on charcoal, extracting every ounce of energy and leaving me a walking dead! But, it also left me with a lifetime of experience, a hardback as proof of three and a half years of existential crisis, and in the end, time for what I love to do the most. Hence, I decided to forgive and forget, sit by the window on a rainy Sunday evening in the heart of the city that takes my breath away every single time I watch her from up above the world so high, and write.

If the prelude looks like I have something extraordinary to write about, clearly it is not the case. I wanted to write about the rains, that strangely makes me romantic and transports me to a wonderland where memories are served as welcome drinks, lunch and dinner (yes, I do relate everything to food, that's a genetic disorder). But as I start to write, I feel an array of dark clouds hovering around, mystifying the thoughts. On and off conversation with Ma distracts me, while at the same time fills me with a happiness that was missing in the past several months. We talk about life, love and experiences that have molded us, hopes and dreams, and destiny. She tells me stories of her childhood, her upbringing, when a teen-aged version of her met Baba and fell in love, and their journey ever since. She talks about her childhood crush, of friends she has long lost contact with, her school and college days, and I listen with a lump in the throat and the rain pouring incessantly outside. I have listened to her stories umpteenth times, but I still love to hear them. It makes me dreamy, and her too, as I continue the conversation with snippets of my own stories of a teen-aged version of me falling in love, of traveling around and making friends and memories for life, and of misjudgments and naiveté. I urge her to secure her stories in the pages of a diary and lock them there, as I would mine someday, only to open them on days like today. On days that turn out to be perfect, not for their fifty-shades-of-grey weather and intermittent activities, but because of rainbow-colored conversations and laughter that resonate across the room. No wonder, even after spending an enormous amount of time trying to write something in an organized way, I end up with nothing in particular. Only with a strange post that soothes :)

বাঙালিয়ানা

মাতৃভাষায় এই প্রথম কোনো ব্লগ-পোস্ট লিখছি। না, শুধু ব্লগ-পোস্ট লিখছি বললে ভুল বলা হবে। মাতৃভাষায় এই প্রথম কিছু লিখছি, অনেক অনেক দিন পর। লাস্ট সেই ২০০৫। মাস টা এপ্রিল বোধহয়। উচ্চ মাধ্যমিক পরীক্ষা। তার পরে তো কলেজ-এ উঠে সাপের পাঁচ-পা দেখে বাংলার বদলে ওই কিসব অল্টারনেটিভ ইংলিশ নিলাম। কি খুশি-ই না হয়েছিলাম সেদিন। বাংলা থেকে মুক্তি, সারাজীবনের মতো! 

বাংলা-র সাথে বরাবর এর শত্রূতা আমার। স্কুল এর পরীক্ষায় কোনদিন ৫০ এ ২০-র ওপর পেয়েছি বলে মনে পরে না। ক্লাস টেস্ট এ অচেনা রচনা লিখতে দিলে ১০ লাইন এর বেশি লিখতে পারতাম না। ব্যাকরণ এর উত্তর পাশের জনের খাতায় খোঁজার চেষ্টা করতাম। Parents-teachers মিটিং গুলোতে টিচার দের বরাবর একটাই অভিযোগ থাকতো- বাংলা তে আরও ইম্প্রোভমেণ্ট দরকার। প্রথম প্রথম মা বলতো, বাঙালির মেয়ে হয়ে বাংলায় এত খারাপ! পরের দিকে, নিজের মুখ বাঁচাতে মেয়ে কে তোতা পাখি করে পরীক্ষায় পাঠাতো। রচনা থেকে শুরু করে ব্যাকরণ, গদ্য-র প্রশ্ন উত্তর থেকে পদ্য, কোনো কিছুই বাদ থাকত না মেয়ে কে দিয়ে মুখস্ত করাতে। স্বাভাবিক ভাবেই, মাধ্যমিক পরীক্ষায় মা এর মুখ উজ্জ্বল করে লেটার-মার্কস এনেছিল মেয়ে।

"বোর্ড এর পরীক্ষায় এত নম্বর পেয়েছি যখন, তাহলে হয়তো বাংলা তে এতটাও খারাপ না আমি"। এই চরম ভুল ধারণা আর over-confidence এর কারণেই ক্লাস ১১-এ উঠে second language হিসেবে শেষে বাংলা-ই নিলাম। স্বেচ্ছায়। ভেবেছিলাম- মা তো আছে, দরকার পড়লে না হয় কোনো একটা টিউশন এ ভর্তি হয়ে যাবো। আর সেখানেই হলো গন্ডগোল। প্রতি রবিবার, ১০ টা থেকে দুপুর ১টা। এই ছিল টিউশন এর সময়। শুরুর দিকে যদিও বেশ মন দিয়েই পড়াশুনা করতাম। তারপরে একদিন, চিৎপটাং হয়ে পরলাম। প্রেমে। ওহ সে কি প্রেম, কি প্রেম! টিচার এর চোখ লুকিয়ে টেরিয়ে টেরিয়ে দেখা থেকে শুরু করে, বাস-স্টপ এ অন্তহীন অপেক্ষা, ছুটির পর তার পেছন পেছন হাঁটা, ক্লাস এ সেজে গুজে আসা, অন্য কোনো মেয়ে তার পাশে গিয়ে বসলে মনে মনে খুব গালমন্দ করা- বাদ দি নি কিছুই। শুধু বাদ পরে গেছিল দুটো জিনিষ। তার সাথে কোনদিন মুখ ফুটে কথা বলা টা। আর যে কারণে টিউশন পড়তে ঢোকা, সেটা। প্রথম বোকামি টার কোনো প্রমাণ নেই। দ্বিতীয় টার আছে। উচ্চ মাধ্যমিক পরীক্ষার মার্ক-শীট। বাংলা-য় ২০০ তে ১০১! এবং তার সাথে সাথে টোটাল-মার্কস এর একলাফে ২০ গুন কমে আসা। মা-র "লজ্জায় মরে যাওয়া" মুখ দেখে সেদিন ঠিক করে নিয়েছিলাম, অনেক হলো নিজের যোগ্যতা কে overestimate করা। আর না। তার সাথে এটাও যে পড়াশুনার জায়গায় প্রেম করা এই শেষ। এক্ষেত্রে কিন্তু প্রথম টা মেনে এসেছি অক্ষরে অক্ষরে। এমন কি, পরবর্তী কালে প্রেমিক দের দেওয়া love-letter এর ভাষা-ও কোনদিন "SMS-বাংলা"র ওপর ওঠেনি বানান ভুল হওয়ার ভয়ে। আর দ্বিতীয় টা? থাক সে সব কথা! ;) 

যাই হোক, তা আজ হঠাৎ ব্লগার এর language-options দেখতে গিয়ে "অ" চোখে পরলো। বুঝলাম, বাংলা তেও ব্লগ-পোস্ট লেখা সম্ভব তাহলে। আর সেখান থেকেই এই juvenile পোস্ট এর সূত্রপাত। বাংলা ভাষা নিয়ে অত্যাধিক উত্তেজনা কোনদিন-ই ছিল না আমার। তাছাড়া, ইন্টারনেট এর সাহায্যে ইংরেজি তে টাইপ করে বাংলা-য় লেখা আর পরীক্ষার আগে রাত-রাত জেগে ব্যাকরণ মুখস্ত করা অনেক আলাদা। তবে, এতদিন পর বাংলা লিখতে বসে অদ্ভূত এক ভালো লাগা অনুভব করলাম আজ। প্রতি বার, বার বার, "Pretty Woman" দেখে মনে হয় যেমন। Nutella-র শিশি তে সামান্য এক ফোঁটা চকলেট লেগে থাকলে যেমন। বা Paris ঘুরতে গিয়ে রেস্তোরার কাঁচে হাজার খানেক ভাষায় লেখা "welcome" এর মধ্যে "ভিতরে আসুন" খুঁজে পাওয়া যেমন। 

বাংলায় কি বলে জানিনা। ইংরেজি তে একেই বলে হয়তো,  soothing :)

The dark side of Youtube

So, today was one such day when my craving to munch on chocolate chip cookies knew no bounds. Given that I hardly ever keep them at home for fear of finishing the whole bunch in a single sitting, I decided to satisfy my pangs by watching "how to make chocolate chip cookies" on Youtube. It was then that I came across this- How to Make Cookies. The recipe had the highest view count among all cookie recipes (over two and a half millions) and the channel had over three million subscriptions. Naturally, I inferred that the recipe would be a mix of extreme decadence and guilty pleasure and would perhaps revolutionize cookie making, having no clue of the catastrophe that would unfold in the next couple of minutes!

I understand funny. I understand wit, sarcasm, spoof, meme, caricature, and prank. But I do not understand insanity. I do not understand psychopathy, nor do I understand nonsense. Basically, the guy mimics real recipes in some of the disgusting ways known to mankind, and pokes fun at the very art of cooking. So, while in a "how to make cookies" recipe, he smashes eggs against the kitchen counter, puts cookies and milk in the oven and immediately flushes them down the toilet, in the "how to make brownies" tutorial, he puts all ingredients in a food processor, adds a raw fish, mixes everything together, bakes them for a couple of seconds and flushes everything down the toilet in the end. Initially, I thought I missed the point- afterall how on earth could recipes so absurd and plain gross draw millions of views and comments from Youtube users? In an attempt to better understand the humor, I checked a couple of his other tutorials and figured that the guy indeed is a massive retard. Apart from food videos, he has horrifying videos like "how to babysit" and "how to make love to a chicken", which are beyond the maximum level of human tolerance (*spoiler alert*: do not check these out, I suffered enough!) They are plain absurd and disgusting and will make you loathe yourself for the rest of your life for having checked these videos in the first place.

But, sadly, that's not my point here. I do understand that people (even a madman like him) are open to upload whatever their heart desires on social media. So much said and done about freedom of speech, freedom of expression and so on, I can still tolerate attempts by pathetic individuals at redefining humor. What I fail to understand is how the channel is among the most watched channels on Youtube and how three million subscribers find it "hilarious". Is it the humor that I have so plainly failed to understand, or the "innovative ways" that have struck a chord with the viewers? Is it really the fact that people are so bored and have nothing else to do that they watch crap like these? Or is it that people, on principle, enjoy sadism?

I wish I knew the answers. On second thought, I pray that I never!

Et cetera

Valencia. A city that has one of the busiest seaports in Europe. A city that is a storehouse of energy. A city so warm that it compensates for living in a country with an almost-perennial winter. A city that basks in the happiness of being kissed by the Mediterranean everyday. A city that offers the best Paella and Tapas in the whole world. A city where people are loud, pleasantly unruly often, that reminds of home. A city that is Spanish in every way possible. A city that needs a separate blog-post of her own. And a city with brief and not-so-brief moments of solitude scattered around. 

When I first arrived here a couple of months ago for my research stay, I was reminded of a starry-eyed three-years-younger me who had just arrived in a new country where people spoke in a strange language. It reminded me of the first night that I had to sleep alone in a small apartment and the exponentially-increasing heartrate, of the infinite nights spent crying out of homesickness and loneliness, of the innumerable embarrassing incidents experienced on account of not understanding the language, of the niceness of people around, of all the rights and wrongs done along the way, and of growing up. While all these past experiences have definitely helped in coping with this all-over-again newness, it has also made me realise one very important aspect of life that I have most often overlooked. 

Learning to ski on the Alps or swim for the first time in the wavy Mediterranean waters are perfect definitions of testosterone-fueled activities as far as I am concerned. But I wonder if it would have been the same had there been no one to dismiss their own interests and patiently and persistently teach me the sports that day. Would it have been less scary that Friday night on a lonesome train station with drunken men around if there was no one to virtually give company the entire time? Would walking on the beach on a warm summer night with the wind ruffling the hair evoked the same emotions had there not been the perfect company to incessantly gossip with? Would ogling random French guys been as much fun if there wasn't anyone to share the naughtiness with? Or would it have been the same to try Tequila for the first time, without that look of concern displayed all across that particular onlooker's face? 

There is hardly anything more satisfying than getting a chance to experience a new country, new people, and new ways of life. Staying in a big apartment with guy roommates that's still considered a taboo back home, enjoying conversations and hard liquor without caring about people, time or place, roaming around in shorts and tees and not being judged or stared at, and experiencing freedom, can be a hell lot of fun. However, nothing in the world can match up to the feeling of feeling absolutely lost and lonely on the first day of arrival in a new city and then being taken on a night-tour of the city by the still-new roommate. It is then that one realizes how much incomplete "independence" is without a companion :)

Federer, and a Sunday

Apart from getting up very late and missing three hours of work that's due for tomorrow, the Sunday had started on a reasonably high note. Arrival of two important emails that I had been waiting for since weeks, extension of the deadline for a very important conference, a wonderful news from a close friend, and finally, a teeny-tiny bit of leftover chocolate spread found in the jar while searching for possible breakfast ideas- somehow managed to slightly twist the otherwise crabby-looking lips to a familiar U shape. Unfortunately, my morning failed to show the day. Hence, in the end, I ended up looking like the Grumpy Cat, feeling like the bright yellow-colored substance and sensing the heart being broken into thousand tiny pieces. All that, because of one particular gentleman named Roger Federer. 

So, today was the Men's Single's Wimbledon Final. Djokovic versus Federer. Given the current form of the latter (who, by the way, was in the Wimbledon finals today after two long years), I had hoped and prayed for an exciting match and a result that skewed entirely in my favor. It did, till the 4th set, and then something happened. Something very very wrong, that pulled the heart out of the chest and tied it around the throat (if it sounds gruesome, imagine how it felt). In a matter of seconds, Federer had lost the game, the set, and the match. It was the end. The expectations, prayers, nail-biting, and the hope to finally see the look of immense happiness on the guy's face when I would tell him that Federer had won- all over. I sat motionless for a while. Then got up, moved around in the apartment contemplating murder of anyone and everyone, and finally sank in the bed and cursed. The feeling of immense disappointment and hurt, however, did not last very long. That, also because of this one particular gentleman named Roger Federer.

Roger Federer is one of the very few men I am completely in awe of. Not just me, Federer-love happens to run very high in the immediate and extended family too. The brother is a huge Federer fan, so is father. The guy is more of a fanatic than just a fan, and so are a few close friends. I, myself, am somewhere in between. Since ages, I have been fascinated by the sheer genius, poise, style and strength of the man. For me, he is greatness redefined on-field. Evidently enough, today's loss, that too at his most favorite ground, came as a shocker. But soon after, I was reminded of something that took away the pain of virtually watching him fail at the Centre Court today. What, you may wonder? Federer versus Youzhny. Gerry Weber Open, 2012. Halle, Germany. The day, coincidentally, was a Sunday too. And, Roger Federer, was just a few meters away :)

Long story short, after having uselessly planned for years, spontaneity got the better of us and we went to watch Federer play at the Gerry Weber Open in Halle. The match itself was a dream, and we had to pinch ourselves to believe that we were actually witnessing the greatest player live in action. We watched in awe the maestro, as he maneuvered his way into the Finals. After the match and subsequent press conference, the huge crowd gathered near the exit to catch a glimpse of the man. A while later, he came out, waved at the crowd and started signing autographs. We were crestfallen at that time, having been mercilessly pushed backward every second and hence convinced that our tryst with the great man would die an untimely death. But, we were proved wrong. He continued signing autographs and shaking hands for the next half an hour, stepping out of the barricade to reach the fans at the far end, and smiled and smiled. In that instant, he was not this top-ranked millionaire tennis player with 17 Grand Slam titles, but he was just one of us. It was then that I figured why Roger Federer was beyond on-field success and failure, beyond record-book records and prize money, why Roger Federer was loved and respected by millions, and why that day I experienced a familiar warmth in the heart :)

So what, if he lost the match today? So what, if he failed to achieve his 18th Grand Slam title? He won hearts, millions and millions of them, and that's what matters in the end. Not sure what I mean? Just watch the replay of today's match (or any of Federer's match) and listen to the intensity of the cheering he receives from the crowd, and you'll know.

P.S. Some of the pictures from the Gerry Weber Open. Ingredients that recipes of perfection are made of :D

The World Cup fever in Spain

Indeed the result so far does not look convincing enough.

Indeed my ignorance about football equals that of a certain Sen's in politics.

But there's no harm in soaking in the World Cup spirit when I happen to be in the port-city of the defending champions, right? :)

P.S. I found this super awesome video on the web and was left salivating for hours. What a perfect, perfect way to enjoy the World Cup :D

What's cooking?

Of late, I am noticing that the number of cooking blogs being posted on Facebook is growing by leaps and bounds each day. There are days (which happen to be almost everyday) when the news feed overflows with pictures and recipes of food, food, food and more food. Breakfast food- check, lunch and dinner food- check, mid office snack- check, desserts- check, Indian- check, Asian- check, Continental- check, Mexican- check, and the list goes on. No, I am not at all against cooking blogs or posting food pictures on social networking sites. On the contrary, the amount of effort, patience and creativity put into cooking fascinate me to no extent. And ofcourse, it leaves me salivating, putting 'Pavlov's dog' to shame. 

I, perhaps, am the worst cook in the whole world. No, not even the worst cook. Far below the worst. In the last two years that I have lived alone, friends and colleagues have made futile attempts to make me cook. They have made fun of me, threatened me, forced me, tried to teach me. But nothing has worked. I have nonchalantly ignored them and continued eating salad and bread for breakfast, lunch, snacks and dinner. To be honest, I am quite okay with it. More than okay for that matter. People have often wondered how I never crave for home cooked Indian food, given that I always claim that eating is a part of my soul. Agreed, I love to eat. Eating IS a part of my soul. But then there's something else that defines me. Lyadh! Lyadh (which when translated means the highest degree of laziness), is, according to me, THE path to Moksha. Hence, the effort needed to keep the other part of the soul happy has got lost somewhere. 

Having said all that, I can as-a-matter-of-fact make four things. No, not CAN (as it might mean that I am good at making these). I have managed to MAKE four things in the past. Chocolate/Vanilla cake (blindly following the easiest-recipe-on-earth from Ma),  pasta (after being spoon-fed by the guy), Chili Paneer (with cottage cheese, that took me three hours instead of the usual 30 mins) and Aloo Dum (again from Ma, and super-simplified given the Lyadh). I am not proud of any of my achievements. Infact I feel nothing but sorry for the person who has been on the receiving end of my cooking expedition. But then, isn't love all about pushing tasteless food down the throat and making the 'wow-it-was-so-good' face? :D

Enough self-loathing done, this post needs a face-lift now. And what better than to end it with a proper food picture from my stock! Two months ago, I made Luchi for the then-room-mate. It is a traditional Bengali flatbread made of flour, to be had with curry on a Sunday morning. In the beginning, I was all excited at the prospect of making my first ever Luchi. However, by a cruel twist of fate, just before starting I figured that the rolling-pin essential to make the dough was missing. When all attempts to acquire/borrow/buy/.. a rolling-pin ended in disaster, we decided to invent our own method. The end-result: A hilarious looking Luchi, prepared, using a bottle of red wine instead! :D 

Narcissism

Being a strong believer of "Stressed when spelled backwards is Desserts", nothing in the world makes me happier than indulging in chocolates and cakes and anything that has either of these two words. As a result, people who know me well enough (or otherwise) invariably end up gifting me variations of these on birthdays, anniversaries and other special occasions. However, while the love for desserts enjoys an undivided attention, personalized gifts come a close second on my happiness-index. Personalized anything- be it a hand-written letter, note or a diary, a self-made card, sketch or a cake, home-made liquor or a pair of gloves- takes away the pain of a not-so-great day/week/month and fills the heart with immense joy. 

The reason for this unabashed proclamation of preferences is the fact that the week happens to be the week of adding another feather to the 'i-am-getting-old' cap! While friends and family haven't left a stone unturned in reminding me that I am fast approaching the very wrong side of twenty, the customized gifts accompanying such nasty remarks have made me wonder if I am the most loved (and not to mention the most materialistic) person in the world! :D

Indeed, presents make me happy. Very happy. Dancing-in-the-clouds kind of happy. And when they happen to be someone's DIY's (Do It Yourself), the happiness knows no bounds. So, while a tiny hand-painted birthday card with scribbling all over moistens the eyes, a three-page letter about bad-handwriting pulls the cheeks apart. While a collage of 'over the years' pictures becomes the reason of a big lump in the throat , a filled-in diary becomes the reason for many sleepless nights. While a digital testimonial makes the heart fall in love all over again, a hand-made cake with a single candle and a chorus of cheerful voices adds the icing on top. 

Celebrating a special day away from home is never easy. Celebrating a special day attending seminars all day and feeling suicidal afterwards on account of a horrible discussion with the supervisor is perhaps the worst. But then there are certain ingredients that recipes of contentment are made of. Thankfully, I have some.

On another similar note, I came across this phrase today on Facebook (originally by Audrey Hepburn): "I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls". A few sadnesses here and there, no wonder I looked the prettiest when I looked at myself in the mirror tonight. Also, no wonder I have named the post Narcissism :D

Pencil on paper

Last month while visiting home, I came across a wooden sailing ship, casually displayed on the window of an interior decoration showroom. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and all I could do was stand outside and ogle the 'magnum opus' with lustful eyes. And then, as all my dreams came crashing down with a single look at the price tag, I decided to own it nevertheless, by hook or by crook! :D

Reviving the old habit. Pencil-shade, after ages. Happy feelings.

Catty

I am not a cat person, and would prefer any other pet to cats any day. But when these bundles of joy happen to be the first things you see in the morning, and realize that a random stray cat has chosen the deserted store-room in your garden to be the birth-place for her babies, you can't help but feel proud. And happy. Very very happy :)

End of The Era

I see the social networking sites overflowing with ThankYou Sachin status messages, I see the madness surrounding the last two test matches (incidentally, one in my home town and the other in his :) ), I see friends celebrating his accomplishments as their own, I see people crying at the news of his retirement, I see the on-field crowd stunned into silence and then erupting in a roar of applause and cheers after the final innings, and my heart warms. How lucky he is to be loved and respected by millions, I wonder! And then I think, how incredibly lucky we are to have him.

I have never idolized or worshiped him the way most Indians have. I have not sat glued to the television everytime he played. I shall not be able to recall how many runs he scored or how many wickets he took on that final day of that particular match in that year (as my brother can, with ease). I do not know his career statistics by heart. I have had infinite arguments with the brother and a Ponting-fanatic to decide if he was indeed the greatest. But I do know that he has re-defined Cricket for us Indians. I do know that the guy is perfectly capable of creating miracles on the field. I do know that I always thought nothing bad could happen to India if he was around. And ofcourse, I do know that we share 'almost' the same birthday! :)

So while I can hardly take part in the mania that has engulfed the country right now, I can sit in my office and silently thank him for everything he has done for us till date. And all I can tell him is that you make us proud, very very proud. 

Take a bow Little Master. You'll be missed :(

p.s. I share with you my most favourite picture of him. Lifted by the team mates, The Tricolor in hand, and The Night when we conquered the world. Perfect, isn't it? :)

A movie night

So, it wasn't the best of days today. I woke up late with a bad headache, tried to make chili tofu for lunch (a substitute for chili paneer that looks similar but sadly tastes different) which turned out to be not half as good as I wanted it to be, went out to buy grocery and instead ended up buying dozens of chocolates (and eating them all too, well almost), freaked out over work, felt demotivated, frustrated, and when nothing helped, slept. And then, the guy asked me to watch a movie. Julie & Julia. A movie on cooking, and Julia Child (the American cook who made French cooking hugely popular in the US). He said he liked it and I would love it too. Given that I have never been particularly fond of cooking and was already having a bad-cooking day, I wasn't sure if it was my kind of a movie or the right time to watch a movie, on anything. But then I just decided to watch it, partly because the guy who recommended it has a very good taste in movies and partly because I had nothing else to do. And, boy, o boy, did I love it!

The movie is a comedy-drama that contrasts the lives of two characters, set in two different time periods, but sharing a common love, a love for food. Basically, it gives a taste of the early years of Julia Child's (portrayed by Meryl Streep) career as a culinary expert on one hand, and the life of a young American writer (played by Amy Adams) who tries to find solace in cooking on the other. It's a simple yet a very well made movie, with a simple story-line, and some great acting. However, what sets it apart from most movies is that it a classic feel-good film that fills your heart with much happiness and never lets the smile leave your face. Also, the fact that it is entirely about food and the joys associated with (cooking and) eating good food, makes it so enjoyable. I don't remember the last time I watched a film that made me forget the events of a not-so-glorious day and made me hungry at 2 o'clock in the morning (the movie is all about delicious recipes and cooking, and therefore do not watch it on an empty stomach!). I could go on and on about the movie and what I liked about it, but I restrain myself from being another Wikipedia, and a spoilsport. So, I leave it at this and would really recommend others to watch it if you haven't already. Meryl Streep is a treat to the eyes, and if not for anything, watch it for her. She's a delight. Amy Adams, whom I didn't know before watching this movie, is also pretty good and very real-life like. Also, that most part of the movie is set in Paris (the place I consider heaven or close to heaven) makes it even more special. All in all, I think the movie has already climbed high up on my list of happy films and has put my soul at peace, finally :)

Deadlines

I recently came across this picture on Facebook and let out a loud gasp. What a perfect way of depiction, I thought!

Deadline. One of the nastiest words ever invented and the most-frequently-used word I have come across in the last two years of my PhD life. From paper submissions to conference registrations, from assignment correction to course enrollment, this one word has been the be-all-and-end all of my existance. No wonder the office wall (now and forever) overflows with deadline notices, twenty notifications on the notice board stare back, conversations with colleagues almost always revolve around it, and I question myself for the umpteenth time what made me lose my sanity and decide to go into research!

When I started my PhD, two things amazed me to no extent. The #1 was seeing people talking about work and more work during lunch, dinner meets, social gatherings, parties, football matches, concerts and what not. I often wondered if they were crazy nerds whose lives always revolved around work and therefore they had nothing else to talk about or if they really enjoyed talking about work. The #2 was finding people never even caring about those well defined '9-6' office hours and sitting in their offices almost the entire day. Again, I thought of the same two reasons as I did for the first observation. People would often tell me that I would never know when I would start doing the same, and it'd made me laugh. After being in research for almost two years, I now know how absolutely right they were and how ignorant I was. Also, I have realized that there exists a third reason that surpasses the first two in terms of importance- the inability to abide by deadlines, and therefore compelled to #1 and #2.

From my experience, the entire before and after process of 'please-submit/register-by-#date-midnight' has been pretty simple and patterned. Ten days before the deadline, you are as relaxed as a multimillionaire cruising the Atlantic with beer in one hand and a gorgeous woman on the other. Five days before, you are as relaxed as an on-budget traveler traveling across Europe while calculating the daily expenses every minute. One day before, you are as relaxed as a minister the night before the election. You forget to eat, miss phone calls, check the watch every two seconds and panic every second while hoping against hope that everything will work out. You see the office lights of colleagues switched on till almost midnight (and ofcourse also your own), you hear the brewing sound of the coffee machine at wee hours, you get Skype messages from other ill-fated PhD students about why one should never do a PhD, you realize your heart rate going sky-high ten minutes before midnight, you curse yourself for wasting so much time during the day/week/month/year, you swear to God to finish pending work a week before the deadline from next time, and when nothing works, you cry in frustration. Then, if magically you somehow manage to submit/register before the deadline, you feel a strange calmness caressing you and paralyzing you for the next thirty days, until the next deadline arrives. And the process starts all over again.

When Ma used to lecture me on my inability to be disciplined and be on-time, I would always tell her that these things would normalize automatically when I grow up, claiming as if being older and wiser were correlated with being disciplined. Now when I see myself braving those innumerable panic attacks as I did a decade ago, albeit now on a bigger scale, I tell myself that these things would normalize automatically when I would really grow up, always knowing in my heart that one grows up by choice, and not by chance!

Thoughts

Day 1: 

A hot summer afternoon, plenty of sunshine, noises coming from the construction work going on outside and the strong smell of molten pitch. Perfect day to sit in a cool cafe and have a chilled ice-coffee. Instead, forced to sit in the office, without a cooler or even a fan and, worse, to work on course assignments. While the subconscious mind wanders to unchartered territory, the conscious part tries hard to concentrate on the work at hand, and fails. The thoughts vary from what-am-i-doing-with-my-life to how-does-my-future-look, from i-feel-lonely-and-depressed to i-feel-loved-and-cared-for, from nothing-seems-to-work to everything-is-perfect and so on. The human mind! 

Day 2:

Smell of molten pitch replaced by the smell of rain, torrential downpour, sight of everything getting drenched, black clouds hovering overhead, a big cup of cappuccino in front, and thoughts running wild. Strangely, the thoughts are distinctively different from Day 1. All complicated, feeling-lost thoughts gone, and replaced by a strong feeling of satisfaction, content, happiness. Also, deeper concentration on the work at hand. Is it the rain? The smell of rain? The cool refreshing breeze caressing the face? The rainbow that has just appeared? Who knows :) Ah the human mind!

Two different scenarios, two different thought processes and a sole realization that human mind is the ever-most complicated thing in the universe; and controlling it, the second most :(

Avatarized!

*Creativity at work place*

I often come up with innovative ideas of wasting time during office hours and boring lectures. This is one such. While the back sides of most of my notebooks are covered with sketches and cartoons of teachers and professors (a habit that I believe I picked up in my kindergarten years), this one is an impromptu attempt to sketch that side of myself which I love the most! :D

Thunderstorm in Jena

Staying alone can be pretty scary at times. It becomes scarier when you stay in a quiet building on the hills, with big trees and bushes at the back. However, it gets worse when all these are accompanied by thunderstorms! Some people tend to enjoy the creepy feeling and the sudden doses of lightning. Some people are too preoccupied to even notice them. And some people find this an excuse to cuddle with loved ones. I thought I belonged to the first category, and partially to the third. But never did I think that a time would come when I would be scared of them. So, in an attempt to stay calm and not think about these devilish lightnings, I sit here and.. well.. write about thunderstorms! 

I remember running out to the balcony whenever there was a thunderstorm back home. The roar of thunder, those lightning flashes and later the torrential downpour intrigued me to no extent. Baba accompanied me often outside, while Ma and brother always remained cuddled inside. There's a common saying in Bengali which goes like this: "jhawr hole sankh banja" which literally means "in times of thunderstorms, blow the conch shells". As a kid, I never understood the correlation between these two. It was only in my teens that I got to know what the saying actually signifies. In our culture, conch shells are viewed as having distinctive spiritual qualities. It is believed that the sound emitted from the conch shell shall dispel any surrounding negative energy and purify the environment. Back home, whenever there was a thunderstorm, one could hear conch shells being blown in every house and then gradually the thunderstorm would stop! On most of these days, Ma made 'khichuri' afterwards with fried eggs and aubergines and we savored every last morsel. Sadly, the next day would always be a mess, with reports on fallen trees, destroyed roofs, broken wires, damaged buildings and injured people. In the last one and a half years that I have been in Germany, I have never experienced such a thunderstorm. Rains are quite a rarity here, let alone storms and lightning.  However, today was strangely different from all other days with almost an hour of thunderstorm. Maybe it's sole intention was to scare me and then teach me how not be scared even when I was alone and had no one beside. Or maybe to teach me how to stay calm and keep the mind distracted, rather than calling up friends for compassionate comfort. 

Whatever it was, it seemed to work pretty fine. I never realized when the thunderstorm and lightnings stopped and the sky cleared :) One more lesson in self-dependence passed!! 

Binges!

So, today was one such day when I thought I would die from over-eating. Well it seems like I didn't, afterall, but I definitely would have. Rather should have, from the shame of overeating, if not from the overeating itself!

I am that kind of a person who takes the famous quote by George B. Shaw- "there is no sincerer love than the love of food"- quite seriously. In one word, I am a food-fanatic and proudly so. I live to eat and can die for it too. This undying love for food probably comes from 1) growing up in a typical 'Bengali' household, where the second most-often used remark by elders is "ishh ki roga hoye gechhis, nischoi thik mato khawa dawa korchis na" (how thin you have become, definitely not eating properly!), even when one is visibly over-weight (the first being "o maa kato baro hoye gechis!" which means "how much you have grown since the last time I saw you") 2) growing up in a family where 'eating' has always been considered synonymous to 'living' and 3) having a mother who, apart from being the most amazing cook, believes in investing deep thought and taking immense pains to feed us well (and how!). So while gorging on endless amounts of food, I have always shamelessly blamed my Bengali upbringing for those extra fat on the body. In Calcutta, the love extended mostly to those typical Bengali foods that 'straddled a million tastes, used a million ingredients and engulfed all the five senses'. The palate also often consisted of North-Indian dishes, Continental and Chinese delicacies and American fast-food. In Germany, however, it's the wide range of desserts that makes my heart skip a beat, literally. Perhaps this again goes back to the Bengali upbringing where a meal is never complete without a mishti and/or mishti doi, where rasogolla comes a close second to fish and where sweet-shops are super-crowded at all times. Although in Germany one can hardly find these (except in those Arabic or Indian stores), the country makes up for it by providing mouth-watering desserts and chocolates. But, for someone who fails to draw a line between indulgence and sinful over-indulgence, this often becomes a cause for concern! And that's exactly what this post had to do with!

So, cutting a long story short, today I wanted to give a break to my veggies-for-dinner routine and therefore decided to order some nice food from outside. Being the health-freak (the annoying health-freak at times) that I have turned myself into who always counts calories for every food she eats, the choice was between a Pizza/Lasagne without dessert and Greek Salad with dessert (since Pizza AND dessert would mean more calories). It was a tough call, but in the end I decided to go for the Salad which automatically meant that I could treat myself with a dessert. So I ordered a large Salad and, well, Tiramisu. Tiramisu is one dessert which I love to death, and which often makes me want to marry an Italian. Then again, I love German cakes, French crêpes and Swiss chocolates, and practicing polygamy might not be such a great idea afterall! Nevertheless, when the order arrived and I checked the delivery, I figured that somehow they have given two cups of Tiramisu instead of one. Now, I am not sure how this happened, because they would not have possibly figured that I absolutely love Tiramisu. So either it was a mistake, or it was a special couple-offer (!!!) or something. Anyways, since the delivery guy had already left (and even if he hadn't, I would definitely not have returned the other one), I decided to keep the second one for tomorrow and finish off the rest. I was completely full by the time I finished the Salad, but since my eyes were hooked onto the Tiramisu, I decided to finish it off too. A moment later I was done, and I felt that my soul was finally at peace although my stomach was almost aching from eating so much. I decided to watch a few videos and read something, but somehow my mind kept wandering to the other cup of Tiramisu in the refrigerator. I tried to distract myself by watching a movie, by calling up friends; but somehow that goddamn Tiramisu was too strong to resist. Moments later I went up to the refrigerator, took out the cup, and finished it off in one breath. And then, I felt like bursting. How i wanted to kill myself for not being able to control my pangs, for not being able to resist food, and for not caring about my 'diet'. I sulked for about an hour, decided to spend an extra hour at the gym the next day and promised myself not to have dessert for the next three weeks. But having said that, the satisfaction it gave me was undoubtedly, unparalleled! 

So, for the umpteenth time, I decided to forgive myself! Afterall, happiness comes in little boxes, or cups for that matter :)