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: :)

Four years.. wrapped up!

As the days of being Piled Higher and Deeper come to an end, I try to gulp down the lump in the throat with no success. Writing this makes me melancholic, and reminds me of that late October afternoon four years ago when I had arrived in this small German town and even smaller railway station with a bagful of dreams and butterflies in the stomach. Looking back, the town with an unusual pronunciation hadn't taken my breath away on first sight. But as they say, love is beyond first sights and red roses on valentine's day and rather is that feeling of "at home", I fell in love with her without even realising when. Yes we haven't always shared the perfect relationship. Sometimes she would be like the new lover, trying to impress with her sunny warm weather and charming happy faces all around. Sometimes she would be as dull and gloomy as an old couple watching T.V. on a Friday night. Sometimes she would all of a sudden shower on me thin light snowflakes and make me feel like a Disney princess, and at other times she would be as cold and distant as an angry spouse after a fight. However, in all these, she gave me infinite moments, moments that painted the most wonderful kaleidoscope on the canvas of my life. She gave me people who stood by me as I struggled through frequent academic and emotional turbulences and loved me in spite of my weirdness. And she taught me the true meanings of knowledge, compassion and tolerance. She is special therefore, very very special, because in the last four years, she felt like home.

So thank you Jena for loving me without conditions, for giving me my so many firsts, for accepting me as a part of GK that I'll forever be proud of, and for gifting me friends and memories of a lifetime. I'll miss you, more than I would have ever imagined. Auf Wiedersehen :(

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 :)

The brown monster

I haven't managed to write in a very long time. I wouldn't have even written in a long long time, given the surreal pressure of being Piled Higher and Deeper. But here I am, almost in the middle of the night, trying every possible trick in the world to keep the mind off the pure evil that's sitting right there on the kitchen counter and silently laughing at my misery. I call it my nemesis. Officially though, people call it Nutella. 

It was exactly three years ago that I had my first tryst with this sinful hazelnut spread. I had thought, "well it's made of hazelnut, how much bad could it be?" It tasted breathtakingly good, insanely addictive, was promoted as a healthy breakfast spread, and was consumed by a wide mass of people. So I convinced myself that it was definitely not something to be worried about. Initially, nothing happened. I kept on buying jar after jar of Nutella and spreading it on breads, crackers, fruits, and anything I could lay my hands on. Eventually, they gave way to spooning out dollops of the spread right off the jar and putting it in the mouth, and even more stacking of empty jars in the kitchen. Three months later, clothes started getting tighter. The zipper of the favorite pair of jeans wouldn't close. And people started commenting on how "fuller" my face had become. I didn't pay much attention, until I weighed myself one night at a friend's dinner party who happened to have a weighing machine at hand. 12 kilograms more than the usual weight, it told me. At first, I thought the machine was broken. But it wasn't too long before reality hit me. I remember crying that night, on my way back, and promising myself never to let that devil wreak havoc in my life! Ever.

It has been three years since then. I have lost all that weight, followed a healthy lifestyle, gained wisdom and a hell lot of experience. However in all these years, except for a few Nutella crêpes here and there, never did I once let myself be rendered helpless at the hands of that particular spread. Until, recently. Three days ago, I went to the supermarket to buy the weekly grocery. It was cold and gloomy and dull and everything bad in the world and I was craving for something that would lift up the spirits in a jiffy. I browsed through the racks for more than fifteen minutes, but didn't find something that would make me go weak in the knees. And then, my eyes fell on the familiar brown jar with the white cap. I looked away instantly, knowing how fatal the attraction could turn out to be. But in the end, I found myself picking the jar up and proceeding towards the cash counter, and returning home with a smile I had forgotten I smiled.

On the first day, I behaved. I ate only a couple of spoonful and put the jar away and didn't look back. I thought I had gained enough self-control in all these years to be able to stay away. But, boy oh boy, was I in for a surprise! That was Sunday. Today is Tuesday. And, I can almost see the bottom of the 500 gm jar. It probably won't last one whole week, eh who am I kidding, half a week even. All I did in the last two days after coming straight back from work was sit in front of the laptop, watch a few episodes of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and gobble down spoonful after spoonful of the orgasmic goodness. And now I feel exactly the way I felt three years ago: ashamed and disgusted beyond belief at the sinful over-indulgence, but with a happiness that says "if loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right"! I now, can die, peacefully :)

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!