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!

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 :)

Tryst with history

".. because when life throws lemons at you, collect them, cut them up, and enjoy with some tequila and salt!"

There's hardly anything more blissful than unwinding the Spanish way with a dear friend after an enormously exhausting month. However, nothing in the world prepares you for accidentally bumping into the oldest restaurant in the world (Sobrino de Botín) while taking a lazy walk down a tiny alley in the capital city and then getting a chance to dine in! @that tequila-shot moment :D

Sobrino de Botín

The entire structure of the restaurant, on display

The certificate

The restaurant has four floors. The ground floor has three big kitchens, the reception and the alcohol stock on display. The first floor hosts the guests and has an additional working kitchen. The second floor is mostly for personal use and provides services. Finally, the cellar is completely made of stone and is the coziest (and perhaps the most romantic) place to dine in! :)

Ground floor, and alcohol stock

Jewels, in the shape of certificates and merits,
adorning the walls

Translation: year 1725

The head chef with the suckling pig, the specialty
of the restaurant

The 18th century firewood oven

The cellar

Guests being entertained

Stairway to heaven :)

Interior

The mug which Sangria came in

Free service

and that's when the evening turned from nice to magical! :)

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