The Bangali and Barfi

Like the whole of India and Indians all around the world, Barfi-mania has swept my circle and yesterday when  I was given an opportunity to go to a movie theater and take in a screening of the Ileana- Ranbir- Priyanka-Barfi, I did so. A few quick phone calls, a few clicks on the computer and I was on my way to go watch Barfi with my posse at the closest Century 16 theater.

Watching Barfi melted the barfi in the Bangali's heart! Yes by the time I started writing this piece, the other researchers/reviewers with a minute eye for detail have already thrashed the Director, Anurag Basu for lifting concepts, frames, scenes from numerous movies some going as far back as the early 1900s. But is Barfi only about bringing several feel good scenes together and making one Hindi movie? Sometimes stirring in the best ingredients don't make the most delicious meal-right? Barfi to me was more than a feel good film. And I am not suggesting that lack of creativity is good for Bollywood (!!)!  But films are made to provide entertainment to the human soul and did Barfi do that? Films are a medium for the human life to escape into a world of suspended disbelief and did Barfi do that? Could you relate to the myriads of complex human emotions in the movie? For all these my personal answer is a big resounding Yes.

I was entertained by Barfi and Dutta; I was transported back to those days when like Ileana I was  "double-carried" on a cycle by someone I loved- having made that split second decision to sit in a more "un" comfortable position on the bar in front. The misty mountains of Darjeeling, the low hanging clouds, the toy train chugging along, the millions of people teeming around in a busy Kolkata street, etched writing on a steel bowl,  fuchka, howrah bridge...duranto ghurni in Hemanta's voice in the background.....Nostalgia you say, I say sure why not?

Such an appreciation for the small things in life comes from deep within. And its not that difficult to see that Anurag Basu did not only make the movie to make money. He is a cancer survivor...I hope this movie is an expression of his want to live life as it should be....

Bangali and the Ilish Maach

A friend from graduate school was back in the city from New York. He brought with him Ilish Maach or Hilsa, a favorite fish of Bengalis if not the most revered, fried in mustard oil and he brought along the oil too- all packed in his check in. Ilish maach for Bengalis is a delicacy. You can have it fried (maach bhaja), you can have it in a mustard sauce (shorshe ilish) or you can have it as a simple curry made with squash and eggplant (kumro begun diye ilish) with a dash of lime juice thrown in. So while yesterday night I had the fried fish, today it was in the form of the simple curry.

My lunch: Ilish maach fried with khichdi 

and chutney

 The first bite into the crisp maach bhaja and all the dormant memories seemed to rush back in from nowhere...the last time I had Ilish maach was a couple of years back at my cousin's place in Washington DC. When I was in India we would have it very often at home. There were certain rules; Ilish maach during the monsoons is ok but you couldn't bring Ilish back home between the two festivals, Lakshmi and Saraswati Puja, which would roughly translate between October and February. Most probably this self-imposed ban on eating Ilish during this time was due to the fact that this coincided with the breeding season. And on Saraswati Puja every family in Bengal would have to bring back "Jora Ilish"- directly translated it meant a couple of them.

In addition, discussion about the quality of the Ilish maach holds a prime place in the hearts of Bengalis. So there can be endless debates about whether an Ilish from Gariahat would be better than that found in Bansdroni or that in Dumdum. However, I have always heard that an Ilish maach from the Padma, Bangladesh is always superior than the others.

And if you happen to be visiting Kolkata after a long time, especially during the monsoon season, you are bound to come across the great Hilsa anywhere and everywhere. You can eavesdrop on conversations while walking to the nearest bus stop about the skyrocketing price of the hilsa. You can have neighbors drop in uninvited to tell your Dad about how good the Hilsa catch was in the market today and how he should immediately make a foray before all is gone. Relatives waiting to invite you over to their place for a sumptuous meal will make sure that a preparation of Hilsa is on the table along with the lau-chingri, dal, rui macher kalia, topshe fry, potoler dorma, chanar dalna and the rest along with the quintessential mishti doi and rosogolla. Behind the scenes, this would involve going to the fish market very early in the morning, to their favourite Maachwala (fishseller) to get the best fish out of the lot. The Maachwala might have already been primed about the impending guest with a request to get "the best" of the ones caught. This will now be cooked and you will be asked to judge the quality of the fish and also the cooking!

I was recently talking to a friend who happened to be visiting home after nearly five years. While trying to tell his relatives that he hadn't been deprived of the favorite Ilish in the US, he managed to set himself up for the inevitable discussion about the quality of Ilish that he got- was it frozen? was it fresh? were the fish big? did they have roe in them? and obviously the toughest to answer- toder okhaner ilish ki kolkatar ilish-er theke bhalo??( Do you think the Ilish that you get is better than those that we get here?)... and if you gather the courage to say "Yes"...heresy I say....the entire room will drown you out by blaming everything on "export". I don't remember exactly how this friend of mine tackled answering this question but he survived the relatives and ate the best Hilsa.

And now I am going to go have my last piece of Ilish maach fry with khichdi, plum chutney and cabbage!

Kothaye shuru korbo? Where should I start?

Where should I start to narrate the story of my life? Should I start with my childhood stories, those during the wonderful school years, or those during college? How about the ones when I used to walk with friends enjoying an egg roll in Kolkata? Or the ones where I enjoyed the monsoon rains of Bombay holding hands with my boyfriend? How about those stories amidst a snow filled land of Narnia or in the sunny state of California? Suddenly it seems that my life is a collection of short stories. Interestingly, these stories are all about me but they are all so different and so unique!

Is it like this for everyone? I remember once my Dad telling us that he had met an old friend after 30 years. I must have been 15 then, may be 20, I don't remember exactly...but I wasn't 30. The concept of meeting a friend after 30 years seemed so alien, so irrational actually. How could you possibly meet a friend after so many years, how do you even call that friendship? And today when I congratulate a friend of mine on his 14th peer-reviewed publication in a well-respected scientific journal, I utter words such as "who would have thought 25 years back that you Tiktiki, out of all the people that we know, would go on to become such a successful scientist?"

So I am guessing that life is a collection of short stories for everyone, all the time holding on to a common thread. Some characters stay constantly by your side...others come and go while there may be others who come into play a specific role; then there are some I think inspired by Bollywood- their contribution is an item number that remarkably shakes up your slumber and makes you watch and follow your own movie of life. And with all these people contributing in their own ways, suddenly life isn't anymore a straight line connecting birth and death. Life then is helical with twists and turns, supercoils stored with energy ready to eject at any moment.

My life's story hasn't yet been written to completion....its a work in progress much like scientific research...one step forward...5 steps sideways and may be 10 steps backwards before you find another opening to take that one more stride forward. I don't know about the exact number of short stories that will eventually make up this collection but I am sure it will be more than fifty shades of gray.

The Shuttle Driver

Since having decided to be more eco-friendly, I have started taking a university shuttle to work. This also works out to be an option that is pocket friendly for me and that I think is the real reason even though I wouldn't want to admit it. Driving to work was definitely not a right decision, as I had to drive more, park far away and walk even further and add one more car to the milieu that was entering the university and its adjacent area. However, not having to back calculate when I would have to leave home and walk to the bus stop was easier for the lazier me.

Also, I think there was a sense of familiarity in driving. For the last 2 years, I had driven my ex- husband to his office before parking and walking to lab. So it was difficult initially to change a routine that I had gotten so used to. Many things had changed in life and this was one of those things that could stay the same to provide my brain with some sort of familiarity I decided. So I kept on driving. Then one day my extreme laziness really took over me with a little help from logic. I realized that if I took the shuttle, I had to walk less, drive less to fill gas and also not have to walk into a fully-baked car when it was in the 90's outside and eventually get baked too. So Miss LAZY won. And I started taking the shuttle.

Taking the shuttle was fun. I could read Sherlock Holmes from a free app downloaded on my smartphone  sitting at the bus stop. I could read even more as I went up the hill because I wasn't driving. I didn't have to worry about insane drivers cutting in front of me without signaling as they all had a meeting to attend at 8.45 am. I just needed to ask him to stop in front of the Medical Research Building so that I could hop, skip and jump into my building.

Taking the shuttle back home was even better. I just needed to get out of the building and wait for a couple of minutes. And I always made sure I took the last one on the route-returning back home was faster- a mere 5 minutes; and these days the shuttle driver knew where I wanted to get dropped off. Yes, not at the bus stop but a little further down at the crossing so that I could just take a few steps to press the walk button. I didn't have to tell him anything. We had started talking since mostly I would be the last one to get dropped off- we talked about not having to make extra stops when the shuttle was off the route, how an accident was waiting to happen before the university would realize that they needed to install a traffic light at a major junction- and in all this he did not know my name. Nor did I ever ask him his. It seemed normal that he would expect me at one of those stops in front of our building and drop me off near the bakery.

But today was different. There was someone new who was driving the last shuttle on the route. My shuttle driver was not there. This guy took a longer route back home even though he was off route. He drove faster but he still took a longer route. When I asked him if he would drop me off near the bakery which happened to be near the intersection, he said it was safer to get off at the stop and walk the one minute down. I got off. I was irritated- safe, what? I get dropped off at that corner everyday- I felt like letting him know that he drove down a route which he needn't have. I wanted to tell him that he took extra minutes in changing the sign that said that the bus was off route. He was doing everything wrong - where was my shuttle driver? Where was ...I didn't know his name! But somehow he and I were on the same page about finishing work and returning home as fast as we could. I had to come back home to my parents..who was he going back to.. his wife, his girlfriend or may be to no one? And that is when I realized my familiarity had been breached again.