Friday, January 18, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
From telegrams to internet chats
Half way around the world my Dad is fighting for his life. Having been diagnosed with acute respiratory distress syndrome, he is on a ventilator, tubes feeding into him oxygen, food, and everything else. The family can only wait and watch as the body unfolds its mysteries and the soul wields its will to live.
Sitting half way around the world, I continue to write and update my blog posts. I cannot do much but pray, be stoic and carry on with my work and keep that hope up. Also, I sit and think about how our lives have changed during the last few decades.
My grandfather (Mom's Dad) passed away in the early seventies. My Mother had just left India to join my dad in east africa. With a war going on during that time and very little "extra" money, she could not come back to see the end. A telegram announced the demise, my Dad broke the news to her, and I imagine that she wrapped her arms around my brother, then a toddler and cried away her tears. She wrote letters to her mother, tears streaming down her face, as she wrote.
My Dad's mother passed away in the early eighties. This time I was around. We were in europe, living a pretty affluent lifestyle. The telegram came again, my Dad left for India. We stayed behind. I don't remember if my Dad cried but knowing him, he must have.
My parents were in India by the time the other two grandparents left us. I was not. When my Mom's mother passed away, I was here in the US, in graduate school. It was six in the evening when my brother called to give that news. I was close to my grandmother. I could not see her end. I could only listen to my Mom crying and trying to tell me how at the very end my Granny still clung on to the fleece throw that I had given to her.
Today things are different. There are no "trunk calls", no operators to talk to. With an iPad and a computer with an internet access card, I am there with them. I am in the room, I am outside the Intensive Care Unit, I am sometimes in my room in India, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the living room. One push on the green calling button on Skype and I can see my Dad trying to speak to me through his tubed voice. I can comfort my mother and explain to her the science behind ARDS. I can chat with my nephew and tell him that he need not worry about "Dadai", his grandfather.
I don't need to wait for that telegram to come to me. Instead, now I wait for that phone call at a weird hour to ring or see my brother online at a strange time at night. Yes, that is how fast news travels these days. That is how I knew my dad was in the hospital. My brother was up at 2.30 AM, an unearthly hour even by his demanding schedule. I knew something was not right. A few taps on the iPhone and I could talk to my mother, no pens, no papers, no writing letters, no tears to wet and smudge the ink. Now, the tears rolled down my cheek only to wet the screen of that smart phone that was in my hands. Constant texting from five different relatives giving you the updates that you want, sometime its too much, sometime its confusing- conference calls with other extended family members sitting in four different countries, we are all in it together.
Have we defeated time in some way? Does technology replace the need for that physical presence? What next?
Sitting half way around the world, I continue to write and update my blog posts. I cannot do much but pray, be stoic and carry on with my work and keep that hope up. Also, I sit and think about how our lives have changed during the last few decades.
My grandfather (Mom's Dad) passed away in the early seventies. My Mother had just left India to join my dad in east africa. With a war going on during that time and very little "extra" money, she could not come back to see the end. A telegram announced the demise, my Dad broke the news to her, and I imagine that she wrapped her arms around my brother, then a toddler and cried away her tears. She wrote letters to her mother, tears streaming down her face, as she wrote.
My Dad's mother passed away in the early eighties. This time I was around. We were in europe, living a pretty affluent lifestyle. The telegram came again, my Dad left for India. We stayed behind. I don't remember if my Dad cried but knowing him, he must have.
My parents were in India by the time the other two grandparents left us. I was not. When my Mom's mother passed away, I was here in the US, in graduate school. It was six in the evening when my brother called to give that news. I was close to my grandmother. I could not see her end. I could only listen to my Mom crying and trying to tell me how at the very end my Granny still clung on to the fleece throw that I had given to her.
Today things are different. There are no "trunk calls", no operators to talk to. With an iPad and a computer with an internet access card, I am there with them. I am in the room, I am outside the Intensive Care Unit, I am sometimes in my room in India, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the living room. One push on the green calling button on Skype and I can see my Dad trying to speak to me through his tubed voice. I can comfort my mother and explain to her the science behind ARDS. I can chat with my nephew and tell him that he need not worry about "Dadai", his grandfather.
I don't need to wait for that telegram to come to me. Instead, now I wait for that phone call at a weird hour to ring or see my brother online at a strange time at night. Yes, that is how fast news travels these days. That is how I knew my dad was in the hospital. My brother was up at 2.30 AM, an unearthly hour even by his demanding schedule. I knew something was not right. A few taps on the iPhone and I could talk to my mother, no pens, no papers, no writing letters, no tears to wet and smudge the ink. Now, the tears rolled down my cheek only to wet the screen of that smart phone that was in my hands. Constant texting from five different relatives giving you the updates that you want, sometime its too much, sometime its confusing- conference calls with other extended family members sitting in four different countries, we are all in it together.
Have we defeated time in some way? Does technology replace the need for that physical presence? What next?
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
A new project
I have decided to use my iPhone to capture one picture a day- a 365 project and record them.
Please check deconstructedandsimple.blogspot.com.
More on why I decided to do this, later.
Please check deconstructedandsimple.blogspot.com.
More on why I decided to do this, later.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
The world comes to an end tomorrow..
This is from a friend's friend....
According to the Mayan calendar the world can end tomorrow and we still don't have answers to these questions....
1) What is love?
2) Who let the dogs out?
3) Who the F* is Alice?
:) You are laughing.....
According to the Mayan calendar the world can end tomorrow and we still don't have answers to these questions....
1) What is love?
2) Who let the dogs out?
3) Who the F* is Alice?
:) You are laughing.....
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Bhai Phonta...
প্রতিপদে দিয়া ফোঁটা দ্বিতীয়া তে দ্বিয়ানিতা
যমুনা দেয়ে যম কে ফোঁটা
আমি দেই আমার ভাই কে ফোঁটা
চন্দ্র সুর্য যত দিন ভাইয়ের আয়ু ততদিন
আজ হতে ভাই যমের দুয়ারে পরল কাটা
ভাই যেন হয় লোহার ভাটা
ভাই এর হাতে দিলাম পানের বাটা
যমুনা দেয়ে যম কে ফোঁটা
আমি দেই আমার ভাই কে ফোঁটা
চন্দ্র সুর্য যত দিন ভাইয়ের আয়ু ততদিন
আজ হতে ভাই যমের দুয়ারে পরল কাটা
ভাই যেন হয় লোহার ভাটা
ভাই এর হাতে দিলাম পানের বাটা
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Avi-r Shrmiti- Shashti.
A dear friend of mine writes about his Durga Puja experience in Kolkata. Today he sits miles away with dollops of Nostalgia.
Avi-r Shrmiti- Shashti
Avi-r Shrmiti- Shashti
Friday, October 19, 2012
My home...my city....my memories..
Durga Puja, the biggest festival in Bengal starts today. A myriad of weblinks allow us to enjoy the massive festival in Bengal, sitting from the comforts of our home thousands of miles away. I was chatting with my cousin who is in graduate school in Malaysia. This is his first year away from Kolkata during the Pujas. And he is missing the five Fs- festivities, food, fun, friends and family. He asked me about my plans for the Pujas- I answered truthfully- not much. After 12 years away from the city, my state is that of stoic acceptance- the inevitable- I won't be in my city for the Pujas. It doesn't mean that I don't miss the Pujas and don't yearn to be in the city during the festivities- its just a tad more difficult to justify taking a month long break during the middle of a semester, especially with the festive season in the US creeping up so close when work will inevitably have to take a break.
However, what surprised me is the second part of my answer. I told him that it wasn't really the Pujas that I was missing- I was missing my city! I was missing Kolkata. For the last decade and some change, Kolkata has not been "home". Home meant where my parents lived. With time this definition of home had mutated. Now work dictated where home would be- as a result home was sometimes Bombay, sometimes California and sometimes Utah. So the gorgeous sunshine in California, the drive by Queen's Necklace in Bombay or the gorgeous fall colors followed by the snow blanket in the Rockies dominated the "home" stories. Experiences of vacations are heavily inundated with words such as Vegas, New York, the pacific coast highway and the Grand Canyon or Disneyland.
But these days, the heart yearns to go back to the city which has been a witness to a lot of important chapters in life and to relish the experiences the city has to offer. The heart desires to take the road not taken in a known city and am I spoilt for choices! A walk by the Victoria Memorial early morning, a steaming hot cuppa of chai, a visit to Kumartoli- the place where the Idols are made, fresh off the oven samosas from one of the numerous vendors, eateries in Baker's lane in Central Calcutta, a quiet evening boat ride down the Ganges, dissecting the narrow bylanes of North Calcutta, staring at the impressive Howrah Bridge as thousands of commuters cross over the Ganges.
I have not been to the city in the past three years. I hear from everyone how shopping malls have sprung up in every corner of the city. Cafes rule the hearts of the young ones in the city. Traffic progresses at a snail's pace with pedestrians, cars, buses, autorickshaws, cycles. But isn't there more to Kolkata than malls, cafes and fancy restaurants?
My memories of the city remind me of a very different Kolkata. And today when I stand, walk or drive through streets of a city exactly on the other side of the globe sometimes the wind brings back that scent of my city. The waft of the mountain fires burning somewhere during early fall reminds me of "dhuno-r gandho" (powdered incense) during the pujas. Every year I have this same feeling...may be its just how fall is everywhere...but the mind triggers only memories of Kolkata, surprising! And there are so many of them: waking up early morning to see Shiuli (coral jasmine) strewn all over the the front porch of our ancestral home; cousins from all over pouring in to celebrate Kali pujo (Diwali or the festival of lights) together; distributing fire crackers; loud applause as one of the tubri's reach dazzling heights; piling on to a "van rickshaw" to go get the Idol; dipping into the not so cold water of the pond to immerse the Idol at the end of the puja; making sure everyone who did not want to get wet are drenched; dancing down the road to the beats of a dhak; the amriti and the feast that awaits after bhai phonta (a festival to celebrate the brothers); the playful and sometimes not so playful bickering with the aunts about who was going to take responsibility of decorating the "phonta-r thala"; making sure bunches of Cynodon dactylon or durba were already on the plate. These memories are mine and they make me who I am today.
I am told that these days its too crowded during the festive season. Many take off during the this festive season and get away from Kolkata. I stumble. It seems that there are too many parallel worlds going on. People who are there, they don't like it...people who are away, want it...!
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| Photo Courtesy: Wikipedia; Bagbazar Sarbajanin |
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| Fall Colors in Utah; Photo Credit: Mystic Michki |
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| Victoria Memorial, Kolkata; Photo Courtesy: Colin Mather |
I have not been to the city in the past three years. I hear from everyone how shopping malls have sprung up in every corner of the city. Cafes rule the hearts of the young ones in the city. Traffic progresses at a snail's pace with pedestrians, cars, buses, autorickshaws, cycles. But isn't there more to Kolkata than malls, cafes and fancy restaurants?
My memories of the city remind me of a very different Kolkata. And today when I stand, walk or drive through streets of a city exactly on the other side of the globe sometimes the wind brings back that scent of my city. The waft of the mountain fires burning somewhere during early fall reminds me of "dhuno-r gandho" (powdered incense) during the pujas. Every year I have this same feeling...may be its just how fall is everywhere...but the mind triggers only memories of Kolkata, surprising! And there are so many of them: waking up early morning to see Shiuli (coral jasmine) strewn all over the the front porch of our ancestral home; cousins from all over pouring in to celebrate Kali pujo (Diwali or the festival of lights) together; distributing fire crackers; loud applause as one of the tubri's reach dazzling heights; piling on to a "van rickshaw" to go get the Idol; dipping into the not so cold water of the pond to immerse the Idol at the end of the puja; making sure everyone who did not want to get wet are drenched; dancing down the road to the beats of a dhak; the amriti and the feast that awaits after bhai phonta (a festival to celebrate the brothers); the playful and sometimes not so playful bickering with the aunts about who was going to take responsibility of decorating the "phonta-r thala"; making sure bunches of Cynodon dactylon or durba were already on the plate. These memories are mine and they make me who I am today.
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| The "Bhai Phonta-r Thala"; Photo Credit: Mystic Michki |
Monday, September 24, 2012
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....
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....
Sunday, September 23, 2012
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.
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!
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| My lunch: Ilish maach fried with khichdi | and chutney |
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!
Thursday, September 20, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, September 17, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Movies and Tears
There was a time when I sat at a now non-existent movie theater in the City of Joy and watched Titanic. While most of the girls took out anything that would wipe their tears off, I remember having not shed a tear. I was moved a little bit when I watched "Swades"- a Bollywood movie dealing with a NASA scientist moving back to his hometown back in India. Things have definitely changed I have to admit. Today when I watched a movie that dealt with human relationships- online dating with a stranger, phone dating with a cross connection caller, a husband and wife who lived separately but still cared for each other, a mother's concern for her daughter and a boss' protectiveness for her young protege, I was crying my heart and ducts out - soulful music did not make it easier. Somehow I had managed to resonate with the relationships being played out by the characters on screen.
Made me revisit, I think, the frailty of human life, relationships being part of it and how all of us surge ahead in this rat race of life, without pausing one second to take may be a deep meaningful breath! Just as I hate my Mother calling me up everyday to make sure whether I was doing ok, I know that I want that call to keep coming, more so now than ever. Today, I wanted to take in the movie, feel one with it, feel what the characters were going through because aren't we all a mix of what we see on the screen? So yes, I am not ashamed to say that today that same girl who walked out of watching Titanic without shedding a tear, used a box of tissues to take care of the waterworks! Do you do that often?
Made me revisit, I think, the frailty of human life, relationships being part of it and how all of us surge ahead in this rat race of life, without pausing one second to take may be a deep meaningful breath! Just as I hate my Mother calling me up everyday to make sure whether I was doing ok, I know that I want that call to keep coming, more so now than ever. Today, I wanted to take in the movie, feel one with it, feel what the characters were going through because aren't we all a mix of what we see on the screen? So yes, I am not ashamed to say that today that same girl who walked out of watching Titanic without shedding a tear, used a box of tissues to take care of the waterworks! Do you do that often?
Friday, January 20, 2012
Photos on Facebook
I was reading this article on some news website about how being on Facebook made people sad- some compared these happy pictures of others to their own state of happiness. This made me think how I have been on the same boat - where I have seen pictures of friends and their happy families only to realize later how things have been going totally wrong in their lives. Similarly, my very choreographed and sometimes truly happy pictures with my ex have made friends and acquaintances think of us as one of the happiest couples on earth.
Pictures used to be a medium of sharing and holding on to memories- memories of a person, event or place that was associated with happiness- yes even in death I would think it always brought back fond memories of that person. The other day my brother was in town, making a brief halt over the long weekend on one of his million business trips. This time he had his colleague traveling with him- Dr. N. On two occasions I saw what photos could really mean. At home, he took her to each one of the ones that I had put up and explained in great detail, where it had been taken and how old we were and also the circumstances that they were taken in- I was transported back by more than 30 years in some of them. The other time I heard him complain looking at one of my Mother's teen photos, about how he had never seen this particular one before. To Dr. N, it seemed to bring back memories of her mother and she commented about how "our parents were out there in Fashion sense and style and how we fare poorly by their standards". The second occasion was when I dragged them over to my laboratory. I was going to start overnight cultures of bacteria and my brother was pointing out to the near sterile conditions that US labs have compared to our Indian counterparts. I was about to show them how I inoculated my cultures when I realized that I heard hushed tones and my brother trying to explain relationships to Dr. N. I have a collage of nearly all of the members of the extended family on my desk. He had taken that and was explaining again who was whom.
To us, I realized, who live far away from families, photos are sources of keeping the memories alive and creating new ones. We might miss the actual occasion, but just looking at them, we weave webs of colors, smiles, emotions that we think must have occured during a particular event. It is then, I realize that well choreographed pictures present a hurtful scenario- it seems that we have been cheated. When you know the behind the scene story of what transpired right before the picture was taken, you feel like someone came and shattered your right to dream.
I leave with one lingering question: In this day and age of digital pictures, camera phones and social networking where technology is ubiquitous and we take thousand random pictures, will I get the delight of digging up an old photo 30 years down the line and feel the same as I felt when I dug out a 45 year old black and white picture of my mom in her dark rimmed glasses and over the top hair bun very cautiously poised in a studio?
Pictures used to be a medium of sharing and holding on to memories- memories of a person, event or place that was associated with happiness- yes even in death I would think it always brought back fond memories of that person. The other day my brother was in town, making a brief halt over the long weekend on one of his million business trips. This time he had his colleague traveling with him- Dr. N. On two occasions I saw what photos could really mean. At home, he took her to each one of the ones that I had put up and explained in great detail, where it had been taken and how old we were and also the circumstances that they were taken in- I was transported back by more than 30 years in some of them. The other time I heard him complain looking at one of my Mother's teen photos, about how he had never seen this particular one before. To Dr. N, it seemed to bring back memories of her mother and she commented about how "our parents were out there in Fashion sense and style and how we fare poorly by their standards". The second occasion was when I dragged them over to my laboratory. I was going to start overnight cultures of bacteria and my brother was pointing out to the near sterile conditions that US labs have compared to our Indian counterparts. I was about to show them how I inoculated my cultures when I realized that I heard hushed tones and my brother trying to explain relationships to Dr. N. I have a collage of nearly all of the members of the extended family on my desk. He had taken that and was explaining again who was whom.
To us, I realized, who live far away from families, photos are sources of keeping the memories alive and creating new ones. We might miss the actual occasion, but just looking at them, we weave webs of colors, smiles, emotions that we think must have occured during a particular event. It is then, I realize that well choreographed pictures present a hurtful scenario- it seems that we have been cheated. When you know the behind the scene story of what transpired right before the picture was taken, you feel like someone came and shattered your right to dream.
I leave with one lingering question: In this day and age of digital pictures, camera phones and social networking where technology is ubiquitous and we take thousand random pictures, will I get the delight of digging up an old photo 30 years down the line and feel the same as I felt when I dug out a 45 year old black and white picture of my mom in her dark rimmed glasses and over the top hair bun very cautiously poised in a studio?
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
A scientists perspective: Online dating is like writing a research proposal for funding
Alright. I have a very important experiment that I need to do between today and tomorrow, before I wake up on Thursday and take (read: drag) myself to the airport for a "Thanksgiving Break" with friends. Have to laundry, pack, wash my hair, clean up the trash, do the dishes - so many things to do, so little time:)
But I suddenly thought about my online dating project and how it is similar to writing an NIH grant proposal that will never see the light of funding. Now here's a disclaimer, NIH pays for my salary, so I am grateful to them. But in times of recession, it has become increasingly difficult to get funding- and I am sure everyone will agree on that.
Pressed for time this will be a short post.
NIH grants these days are hard to come by. You have to not only really write a good grant (short and scientifically sound as well in English), you have to have preliminary results, an impressive background of productivity, publications. Also you have to submit to the correct study section at the right time and hope that you will be the top 5 percentile in your section to get that funding. However, according to my knowledge sometimes your budget is either cut or you are not given the amount you asked for based on inflation (I was about to write inflammation!!!). And no experiments can be fishing expeditions. So in a nutshell, pretty much you have to be the best scientist, coming up with the best experiments, and at the right time.
Now think about finding someone online- this project will never get funded for sure. To begin with its a fishing expedition. You kind of know what you want but remember its not what you want but what the other people out there want from you. To pass through the first round of screening this is what you must be like: she must look like a Miss World, have arms like Mrs Obama, dress like Kate Middleton (not Pippa, Pippa's too sexy), know how to drive a car, must cook like Giada (oh and if she looked like Giada too!!). She must also have some sort of a college degree, preferably one that gets her a job so that she can contribute to the domestic earnings. And then if you have managed to make it through this tough selection, you need to talk over phone and pretty much give Tina Fey a run for her money or your sense of humor is not so good. You also need to adjust to their OCDs. At this point, I think I decided a career switch will be an easier option and hence online dating needs to take a back seat. I am just not cut out for it. More on this topic later....to be contd.
But I suddenly thought about my online dating project and how it is similar to writing an NIH grant proposal that will never see the light of funding. Now here's a disclaimer, NIH pays for my salary, so I am grateful to them. But in times of recession, it has become increasingly difficult to get funding- and I am sure everyone will agree on that.
Pressed for time this will be a short post.
NIH grants these days are hard to come by. You have to not only really write a good grant (short and scientifically sound as well in English), you have to have preliminary results, an impressive background of productivity, publications. Also you have to submit to the correct study section at the right time and hope that you will be the top 5 percentile in your section to get that funding. However, according to my knowledge sometimes your budget is either cut or you are not given the amount you asked for based on inflation (I was about to write inflammation!!!). And no experiments can be fishing expeditions. So in a nutshell, pretty much you have to be the best scientist, coming up with the best experiments, and at the right time.
Now think about finding someone online- this project will never get funded for sure. To begin with its a fishing expedition. You kind of know what you want but remember its not what you want but what the other people out there want from you. To pass through the first round of screening this is what you must be like: she must look like a Miss World, have arms like Mrs Obama, dress like Kate Middleton (not Pippa, Pippa's too sexy), know how to drive a car, must cook like Giada (oh and if she looked like Giada too!!). She must also have some sort of a college degree, preferably one that gets her a job so that she can contribute to the domestic earnings. And then if you have managed to make it through this tough selection, you need to talk over phone and pretty much give Tina Fey a run for her money or your sense of humor is not so good. You also need to adjust to their OCDs. At this point, I think I decided a career switch will be an easier option and hence online dating needs to take a back seat. I am just not cut out for it. More on this topic later....to be contd.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
MM's online stats and an actual chat conversation
So at 126 days:
Profile views 1350!!!!!!!
Expressed interest 313!!!
Compare this to 120 days and you can calculate the rate of views per day!!
Oh well so I wake up today, blissful snowy morning and decide that I need to hit the gym today- its been a long time and I need to get rid of that excess energy (now you smirky little people do not try suggesting other ways of fulfilling that); but I need to check the online dating site so I log in .... and pop comes a chat window...
(FYI Pesto has a Phd and is working in some company, 37 yrs)
Pesto : ooo pick me pick me
Michki: Hi
Pesto: Hello, so what type of a scientist are you?
Michki: A real one!
Pesto: OOo good answer, you win
Michki 1 pesto 0
Michki: is this a competition?
Pesto: No, sorry if I offended you, anyway how is life? just wanted to start a conversation
Michki: if this is your starting line, I guess I am not the right person for you.
Pesto: no thot (sic) science was the common ground.
Do I need to add that the conversation ended there? Did u get a good laugh? Oooo I did I did!!
Profile views 1350!!!!!!!
Expressed interest 313!!!
Compare this to 120 days and you can calculate the rate of views per day!!
Oh well so I wake up today, blissful snowy morning and decide that I need to hit the gym today- its been a long time and I need to get rid of that excess energy (now you smirky little people do not try suggesting other ways of fulfilling that); but I need to check the online dating site so I log in .... and pop comes a chat window...
(FYI Pesto has a Phd and is working in some company, 37 yrs)
Pesto : ooo pick me pick me
Michki: Hi
Pesto: Hello, so what type of a scientist are you?
Michki: A real one!
Pesto: OOo good answer, you win
Michki 1 pesto 0
Michki: is this a competition?
Pesto: No, sorry if I offended you, anyway how is life? just wanted to start a conversation
Michki: if this is your starting line, I guess I am not the right person for you.
Pesto: no thot (sic) science was the common ground.
Do I need to add that the conversation ended there? Did u get a good laugh? Oooo I did I did!!
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Perception Vs Reality
As I think about the various things that happened to me during the last few months and are still happening, not necessarily related to me directly, I wonder how much of it is our perception and how much is reality.
If you saw us in public you would never think we were fighting the moment we closed the door on you. After my brother knew about our situation and had already intervened, he came to meet us during our 2nd anniversary; we took him out for lunch, I got flowers and gifts from my X, we seemed to be the most normal couple around- he left confused. We had the perfect couple pictures on the appropriate social networking sites, we had people commenting on how cute we looked together! We never made you feel out of place- we were the most gracious hosts holding dinners and lunches. And in all of this we would smile- my house looked perfectly done- actually picture perfect sometimes. Perception vs Reality!
And so I sit and think about how many of these "oh so perfectly cute for each other " couples that I see around me have a direct relationship with happiness. Is it just my perception? I hope not!
And so I sit and think about how many of these "oh so perfectly cute for each other " couples that I see around me have a direct relationship with happiness. Is it just my perception? I hope not!
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