Walking on a street

Honk honk, rumble tumble

Red bangle green bangle red bangle green bangle

Pigeons swooshing upwards, feather gliding down

Manly swagger, red splatter

Children 1, 2, 3

Phosphorescent lamps of kerosene

Snap crackle crackle

Bottles of Snapple apple

Bright plastic tightly wrapped

Vendors selling movies and rap

Water and ice in a big earthern pot

Sequined sari in the door caught

Man in saffron riding away

Green, blue, orange fountain on a road so gray

A street play happening live

People spilling out of the five knot five

Home is where the heart is,

Walking on a street sure beats this.

Do we really Care?

Written on Dec. 3, 2008

There’s a vigil at the Gateway of India today. It’s a protest gathering as well as a showing of solidarity for those who passed away in the terror attacks on our beloved city recently. There’s a horde of people going – I see people chatting about it at the water-cooler and online as if it’s the Bombay Times anniversary bash that they just got invited to. Pardon the sarcasm, but I have been questioning over the last couple of days – do we really care?

Do we care about those who died or what happened? Do all those people crying foul and asking for resignations concerned about what happened or about their ratings? Many who are attending seem much like a 3-year old attending a relative’s funeral. He doesn’t know who died or why and thinks more about the crows circling the premises than the person on the pyre. Yet, he bows his head out of obligation, and well, cos everyone is doing it. What if, we are attending just to keep appearances? To not be labeled as selfish bastards who have enough troubles of our own to deal with and could care less about who died.

These terror attacks are not new. There have been similar happenings in Delhi, Malegoan, Ahemdabad, all over the country. There wasn’t a vigil then, why now? Have we finally found the time out of our busy lives to mourn the dead? Or has the fact that we could have been at CST or at Leo’s that fatal night chilled our bones and made this personal? The tragedy has struck too close for comfort and suddenly we are aware, that our surroundings are not safe anymore.

Is that why we are conducting a vigil? A little for those who died, and a lot for those who survived, to reassure ourselves that our collective voices are the harbingers of change. That tomorrow, it will not be you or me who dies the hands of a terrorist as we ride in a train going home or unwind with a drink after work. To overcome the guilt of being secretly glad that it wasn’t us.

I sure as heck hope not. But it will be just one of the questions on my mind as I stand at the Gateway, sharing that moment with a sea of Mumbaikars, who have shown up because they really care and not because they could get off work early on this pretext. Hopefully.

Where are the Good Men?

Forget the Futures & Options. With the stock market plummeting, my parents now have my Marriage Options on their mind. And the rest of the khandaan, finance oozing out of every pore in their bodies, has cast the newspapers aside, flicked off CNBC and actually discovered the web and its offerings such as Bharat Matrimony. and proceeded to educate my parents about it as well. I harbor the secret suspicion that my doting parents have created a profile of me on these sites – the thought is enough to make me break into a sweat.

But the question is not whether I want to marry (No is still the answer, aai). Rather the question that I find myself screaming is where are the good men gone? When I was in the US, I figured that I didn’t find a suitable boy because I lived in an oasis of Indians among a desert of Salt and Pepper. But now, even back home, its water water everywhere and not a drop to drink. Sure, there are lots of men, but I am yet to meet someone who has piqued my interest.

For starters, Indian men have loads of testosterone in them, man. This works in 2 ways – one, it makes them hairy enough to be mistaken for a grizzly, and two, the hormone manifests itself in a male chauvinist ego. An, anyone who knows me will vouch that I am not one to take the women should be at home, cook and take care of the kids crap. Hey, as far as I am concerned, he had a 50% share in creating those kids too, so its only fair he takes 50% responsibility for them. Heck, I even play pool better under the influence of anti-feminist comments (I just channel my anger to whack the shit outta them balls... figuratively speaking). As for hair trichosis, its best as the trademark of chubby cheeked politicians. I really don’t fancy hair sprouting like thin blades of grass all over my beau.

Also, I have bigger problems to worry about than Gold Diggers. I have discovered the Nasty Nose Diggers. These are men who spend their time exploring the recesses of their nasal passages, in plain and full view of members of the opposite sex. What a turn-off! I swear, I have seen a man’s finger disappear so far into his nostril, that I thought he was spooling his brain out from there – old school Egyptian style! Two words for these men – tissue and restroom. Take the first with you into the second, and conduct your explorations with the first wrapped on the finger, in there. It’s really not that hard!

Once in a while, I do meet a guy who’s well-groomed and pleasing to the eye. Unfortunately, he opens his mouth and I realize that he is all Brawn, No Brain. That one’s quite a no-brainer from that point on. In my quest to seek out a smart man, I even rather foolishly listened to my friend who introduced me to her friend via the web. We chatted online and after a refreshingly intelligent conversation, decided to meet. Sadly, he turned out to be a Virtual Reality – his e-persona being poles apart from his true self.

Oh, and let me not forget the Addicts – men obsessed with the next "conquest", or the latest gaming console, or the other vices like sex, drugs and violence. I love playing the Wii, but do I enthusiastically plan a night of Wii debauchery with beer and chips? Hmmmm, No. Also, worht mentioning are the Suck-Ups who think that it’s so cool that I am from the US (translation: I must be easy) and come tumbling over to kiss me on the cheek. Honey, I learnt how to politely brush cheeks at social dos in the US, not slobber over people. Besides, I’d do it only with a girl friend, not random men! Back off and pipe down in your seat.

I am just waiting for that knight who can yield a sword as well as he can spill poetry from his lips, who is chivalrous and not a chauvinist, whose words are kind and actions kinder. Till that time, I am going to remain single, thank you very much.

Thankfully, my parents haven't seen “Dostana” yet and fretting about whether I don’t like guys. Hopefully after reading this post, they will not start fretting about whether I don’t like guys.

Misadventures of the weekend

Why does it always happen that the worst laid plans tend to be the best ones? Okay, that’s an exaggeration (I work in the advertising business, can you blame me?). But honestly, the last 2 days have been a whirlwind of on the-spot plans and rushing around from one place to another. And, I have enjoyed every moment of it. Well, almost.

It all started when we realized that we had a long weekend coming up – 4 days away from work sounded like an idea that begged to be exploited. And, boy were we ready to. We all wanted to take off somewhere. I, for one, had been craving to run out of this city for quite some time now. So, we started throwing ideas around – Goa, matheran, lonavla, nashik. As more people got involved, the options thrown out got proportionately bizarre and grandiose.

After much talk and no action, all our plans fell flat. As if the universe was laughing at us, none of us were able to get the Friday of that week (the only working day of the long weekend) off for various reasons. Undaunted, we decided that plan or not, we were going off somewhere, dammit.

On Friday, all the interested parties showed up with a backpack – location unknown. We didn’t even have a place to stay once we reached - wherever we were planning to reach. I am so aware, that this sounds like the most ridiculous idea ever. Hey, we were heady guys and gals – to many, even an excursion to my house was more or less like a trip because I lived so far away (that was our last last last resort in case we ended staying cooped in Mumbai – a weekend at my place). Thankfully, around lunch, I pulled names of some resorts/lodges in Murud Janjira and started calling just about each one on that list. An, what do you know? We got lucky and actually found a place – a decent one, with clean toilets that flushed promptly and check this out, beds – mattress, pillow and blanket ke saath!

So, there we were with a place but no way to get there. Enter Mumbai’s public transport system. Post work, we rushed to the closest bus station and got onto an Asiad to Murud. It isn’t the classiest thing ever – even a Greyhound ride is a limo in front of these ancient roaring things but we had to make do. Besides, we were so excited that we were finally making this trip that our excitement colored everything in beautiful, sun shiny colors.

Transport proved to be a logistical nightmare with 3 different groups on the trip – one that got on the bus, one that was to meet the bus on a transit stop en route and a third group that decided to ride on the motorbike from Bombay. Needless to say, we were on the phones constantly coordinating. The rains and lack of network weren’t much help at that end, one constantly lashing at us and the other constantly giving up on us. Grrr!

We landed at Murud after 7 long hours of painful journey – asses hurting, mentally exhausted and sleep deprived. The dark circles under my eyes were darker than the pitch black of the idyllic rural hamlet. But I can tell you, our faces lit up on seeing the care-taker of our lodge when he came to pick us up. Even though this trip could not have been more ill-planned, it was filled with joy, excitement, spontaneity and adrenaline that even the best laid out adventure could not have measured up to.

Damn, it feels good to be a maverick!

Anyone have any good news?

Take my newspaper. Just take it. And, I am going to throw my TV away too, in case anyone’s interested. For it seems that there is nothing other than bad news these days. No, make that shockingly awful news. Not just the boo-hoo types. But the ones that make you sit up and say, “Dude, wtf?!”

I mean what has happened to the standards of journalism here? News channels seem to have made it their “bidness” to create sensational stories from utter rubbish and spew it on the hypnotised public. Even worse, the newly educated, suddenly Benji-spending middle class of India is devouring the crap being dished out in equal fervor. Every night that I have sought to update myself on the news, I have been subjected to “Tabaahi ki roshni” or “Sai Baba ka adbhut chamatkar” or headlines of similar ilk which is nothing but hyperbole for a solar eclipse or a supposedly alive eye of Sai Baba(this reminds me of the similar hype that was created when it was found that Ganesha idols drank milk..remember the insane and insipid coverage of that, anyone?). I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when I saw the story about the Oriental mummy who had been asleep for thousands of years and had now been disturbed from his hellish slumber. That was a PR plug for a movie – “The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor.” Lovely.

Did I miss the time machine that transported us back to the Jazz Journalism era or what? Why the need for all the hyperbole? Is the public psyche of India so retarded that we actually appreciate these banalities made into grandiose episodes like some Bollywood movie? Or do news channels have the false belief that by repeatedly telecasting their buffoonery they will hammer it into our heads? It’s a battle of repetition versus retardation and it seems that latter is taking a clear lead.

I certainly don’t buy that there is no worthwhile news to be covered that stations has to resort to this chicanery. There is plenty of sensational happenings everyday – stampedes, bomb blasts, famine, flood – take your pick. While scion of India shining, the Nano project is whacked around among political factions like a ping pong ball, and hundreds are trampled in narrow alleyways of a temple, stations are licking their nibs and scribbling down lines and plots that could send Ekta Kapoor’s writers scrambling for the hills. Shockingly, these are the very stations that are high in TRPs ratings and channels that still hold onto some fragment of journalistic integrity rank at the bottom of the ratings.

Don’t even get me started on the newspapers. Gossip is the new frontier that newspapers have boldly gone where they hadn’t gone before. As if all the aunties that have ever fed the grapevine have suddenly been wiped out in one fell swoop, tabloids in Bombay are crammed with one gossip story after another and faithfully taken over their role. A loves B, B was at a rave, X,Y and Z were there too, that’s when Z decided to make fun of C, an ex of A, A was rather upset, bla bla bla…I can feel my brain cells dying from lack of stimulation as I read the morning news. My intelligence screams in pain at this attack of insipid happenings about people who live so well-off that nothing can ever harm them, and whose lives would be no different if people like you or me who have to read about them popped off tomorrow.

The only thing I do look forward in the news is the Sunday editorial – thank you God for Bachi, Jug and the likes who still have a sane head on their shoulders and are not afraid to call a solar eclipse just that. A freaking eclipse.

P.S: I am not kidding about the good news part – please do share if you have any. I am all ears to hear something positive happening in someone’s life.

Visiting the Big Guy

For the uninitiated, around this time of the year, Mumbai dons a happy, nay, jubilant face for 10 days. The reason being the celebration of the birth of our beloved God, Ganesha. The story goes that Marathas (Shivaji maharaja et al.) celebrated this festival. Later, during the British Raj, Lokmanya Tilak, a popular Maharashtrian freedom fighter reinstated this festival to promote a stronger community feeling among the people of Maharashtra. The venue of festivities also provided an apt location for speeches to agitate throngs of Indians, a tradition that is still carried out to this day in the chawl where Tilak first celebrated Ganesh Chathurthi.

Not a doubt, this is what we Maharashtrians look forward to – it’s our Christmas if you will and Ganesha our Big Guy, Jesus like. Except Ganesha has the head of an elephant (the mythological intricacies behind Ganesha will take up a whole book, let alone a post).

This year was rather special to me, as for the first time in four years, I was able to participate in all-out festivities instead of the demure puja at home that would not disturb my American neighbors. The city was dazzling with lights stretching on for kilometers and throngs of people lined up over many more kilometers to seek darshan at some famous sites that hosted massive celebrations of the Elephant God’s arrival.

I was more than enthusiastic about visiting the most talked about site – Lalbaug, whose idol is well-known as Lalbaug cha Raja( the king of Lalbaug). As luck would have it, this was the 75^th year of the Raja which meant that more than the normal amount of devotees showed up to take His blessings. So much so that some devotees waited for nearly 24 hours. As I read these news reports and watched the devotee line snaking its way all the way from Lalbaug to J.J, my enthusiasm was dampened by a fair measure. Somehow, I was certain that my impatience would outrun my devotion. Not all was lost, I sought blessings at another site – the Ram Mandir in Wadala also hosted a beautiful celebration and their Ganesha was decorated with real gold! And, the line was way shorter too.

When I got to Ram Mandir today, there was a queue. Of course. There was police force. Of course. But there were also many small businesses that had sprouted up. As we waited in line, stalls were lined on the side of the road selling pickles, religious offerings, food etc. But what caught my eye was the line of beggars right in front of stalls – they were handling the task of managing shoes (In Hindu tradition, one always seeks blessings barefeet). For a nominal amount, one could simply entrust their shoes to a beggar and remember which one they had handed them over to. Mind you, the temple itself had its own shoe stowaway spaces but they were choc-a-bloc – some even had 5 pairs of shoes stuffed in them!

As the line crawled into the temple (yup, we were lined out on the road amidst taxis and buses), I noticed so many contradictions. Poor children sat on the ground beseeching you to leave your shoes with them (a girl as young as 3 called out to me as her mother was attending to another “customer”) while women dressed in saris sat within the temple, weaving garlands from rose petals, asters and young white buds of mogra. On one hand, priests were scraping out coconuts and tossing the shells into large jute bins, while on the other, babies were wailing for their mother’s milk. On one hand, there were men and women dressed in fine silks, elaborate brocades and glittering jewellery while on the other, some devotees were dressed in white dhotis and the jhanva(thread of cotton strung across the torso), the rest of their body bare. Yet, none of this mattered in front of beloved Ganesha. Strange how God sees no difference in the devotion of a philanderer and a philistine, and yet we are so quick to judge – always evaluating, even as we stand to take blessings of a divine being who looks upon all as equal.

When we entered the prayer room, I was blown away by the deity – there was a massive idol of Lord Ganesha, the Vighnaharta (remover of obstacles), son of Parvati, the benevolent and magnificent God! He was bathed in soft golden light and richly decorated in gems – gold, rubies, diamond studded jewellery. And all of this from donations of devotees, mind you! There were large, many tiered lamps on either side of him, burning dimly or perhaps it was Ganesha’s sheer presence that diffused their radiance. Perhaps words cannot fully describe the effect it had on me which is why I shall refrain from attempting an explanation too.

The darshan itself was a comedy of errors of sorts. There were priests constantly ushering us to keep moving and I was so busy trying to take pictures that I didn’t even realize when the darshan was over. All of a sudden, I found myself outside again, squinting in the sunlight, amidst more throngs of people AND without having bowed my head or touched Ganesha’s feet! I scratched my head for a second and realized in shock and mild fear that I might have to stand in line all over again. So I turned around and went back from where I had just been sent out in my daze-y disposition and begged the priest to let me back in.

I told him about how I had not visited in nearly four years, how I was offering prayers not just from me but from my entire family that didn’t live in India anymore, how it would be a tragedy to let a bhakt leave without having expressed her bhakti. I am not certain if he bought my story or just got tired of hearing me bawling on and on. Either which way, he let me in! I was the happiest person as I touched the Vighnaharta’s feet and prayed for…

well, you never tell your prayers to anyone or they won’t come true!

Of Dad’s departure. And the maid’s too…

It’s been a manic past few weeks. What with huge festivals back to back and Daddy wrapping things up before he heads out of the country and my maid leaving, I feel like a headless chicken running helter-skelter.

So, yea, my Daddy is heading out to join me mum and bro. And, it’s been crazy trying to take over the reins of the house from him. Firstly, my dad is one of the conservative types. He used to his set ways, and likes other people to follow them as well. This is fine by me, except that how I work when he isn’t around really shouldn’t bother him. Ha! Some days I am just so naïve!

There’s been many a power struggle that I have had to fight – most of them with my Dad emerging victorious. Not that I am not aggressive and won’t stand up for myself. I just figured once he’s gone, he can’t really make me dance to his tunes anyways.

The second frustrating thing with my Dad leaving is that he has this faith – and, it’s deep-rooted too, that as soon as he is gone, the house will fall apart. As if he is the glue holding together the cardboard of the walls of our home. I have to admit, he has been an immense support in my re-acclimatization to India and when I started working in Far Away Land. But this has been going to far. Any day, the lock is somewhere other than its location (oh yea, we have a set place for the locks, the keys, the calendar, post it notes….), it’s a certain sign to my Dad that house will be in ramshackles when he returns.

I have also been having lessons on the weekends – the everything-I-need-to-know-when he’s-gone kind. So, in the last two weeks, I have had a crash course on where to get milk, groceries, vegetables, an alternative location to get milk, groceries and vegetables, where to stack the newspapers, who to call to dispose aforementioned stack, the investments in each family member’s name, which bank accounts are where, insurance policies, as well as locations of laundry, photo studio, stationery depot. And, let’s not forget the processes on boiling milk(which I knew), steaming rice and dal(which I knew) and the contact numbers for the gaswalla, telephonewalla, electricitywalla and dhobi walla. It was enough to make me go walla-walla.

It’s all very endearing and I love the bonding time before he’s off, but sometimes I wish he was off already. I get exhausted reassuring him that everything will be fine – apparently, in his world, I never lived in the United States for a good 4 years all by myself! He still thinks I am the 10 year old, frock(with red sash) wearing little girl with fountain ponytails that he would push on the cycle or pull down when she climbed too high up on those giraffes in the park!

And, just as Dad was settling down with some semblance of security that I would (as I have been constantly telling him) not burn the house down in his absence, our maid decided she was going to quit. It all happened so fast, I didn’t know what to say to her.

There I was sitting and drinking my morning tea, shaking the grogginess out of my eyes, heck, my entire body. The maid was diagonally opposite me, wiping the floor, when she suddenly looks up at me and says, “I won’t be coming from tomorrow.” At first, I was waiting for her to finish – I thought she was saying, she’s off to her village, and will be back in 10 days or something like that. But no. There she was actually quitting. I was in shock and barely could speak. Who would sweep? An mop? And dust? An the utensils – I was not sticking my hand into those cream smeared milk vessels – I still feel like vomiting when I see the cream floating on top of the milk. Shudder.

When I did manage to blurt out, “Why are you leaving”(the caffeine was taking its time to work on me that day), she offered a garble of excuses one after the other – something about her husband not wanting her to go to the village because she can’t afford it. Like I said, it was plain gobble-di-gook to me. And, to top it all the cheek of woman to say she wouldn’t wipe down the furniture because she had handed in her notice. She was quitting the next day, not that day I reminded her. She just blinked at me. *blink blink* Sometimes I really wondered if she was daft or so damn sly as to act daft to get out of work. When I talked about the situation to an aunt in the colony she cluck-clucked about the “hired help these days” – professionalism is a tall order to expect, reliability even taller, and there are very few who are amazingly good at both, my aunt told. She proceeded to regale me with her experiences with the help for some 45 minutes – as if I wasn’t having enough lessons swimming in my head already.

After the maid left, I sort of resigned myself to the idea that I’d have to cook, clean and the whole sha-bang all over again. Dad though, was in a tizzy. If he was feebler, he might have had a spike in his blood pressure. He was positively livid about how she could quit, what an inopportune timing it was, that he wouldn’t pay her goddamit. But, after he calmed down, Dad just right-hoed and set about finding a new maid – one who would not hand in her hat and leave me in the lurch. And what do you know the glue that he is, he did find one.

Joy! Our home’s natural order has been restored. We have someone to clean the cream crust on the milk vessels! My Daddy is once again the brave hero who would save his little girl when she had climbed too high up and didn’t know how to get down.

God, I am gonna miss him when he leaves.

Shopping in a different world.

“Hello, excuse me Madam. Just 2 minutes..”
“Yes, Cds, mobilephones, covers, yes ma’am...”
“Last offer..”
These are some of familiar calls you will hear in the many bazaars that abound in India. Welcome to the world of hawking. A world that thrives on the cobblestone pavements of South Mumbai. A world that yawns its way through the day before coming alive under the soft yellow light of bulbs at dusk. A world of diversity and hardship. A world that I love losing myself in every time I visit the city.
Shopping along Colaba Causeway and Fashion Street is an enchanting experience. Tourists may crinkle their nose at the thought of walking along pavements, looking at wares in rickety shops or even haggling with the vendors – but to me, the whole encounter poses a charm that subtly peeks out and entices you to immerse yourself. Would you dare?
I would say that no trip to Mumbai is complete without indulging in shopping on the pavement. As a child, I have run up and down Fashion Street, completely mesmerized by the numerous shops that stretch out along the sidewalk and the plethora of objects they contain therein. The calls of the vendors to try out their wares, my mother’s hand gently holding mine as she picked out a shirt and measured it against my shoulders (on the back, you can’t get an accurate read if the shirt will fit you otherwise), the bulbs that dangled from wires hanging on boughs of trees – all of it exudes a human warmth that cannot be found in the antiseptic, bright aisles of a supermarket. What’s more, you get just about every trinket as in a supermarket for half the price!
Over the years, I have learnt some valuable nuggets of information to shop along these strips- always start bargaining by quoting half(one-third for the foreigners) the price and slowly raise it to the price you would be willing to pay for it. NEVER accept the first price that the shop-keeper quotes – after all, even the vendor wants to enjoy the flavor in the banter of a good bargain. At some point, he won’t budge – if you are convinced you can get the object at your price, move on. If he knows you can get it for less, he will lower his price – you can reach an amicable compromise.
I learnt that Leopold’s café is a wonderful retreat from the heat of sun without meandering away from the heart of Causeway.
I learnt that at a good time to shop is morning – noon, to be precise. That’s when vendors have just set up shop. They are eager to make the first sale of the day – they might even give it to you at a lower price to start the day well.
I learnt that an even better time is at 4 pm, when parts of Causeway are full of export-reject wares that have hardly anything wrong with them. It’s a brand lover’s paradise. If you are lucky like me, you can pick up everything from Old Navy to Banana Republic for under $3 each. Make sure you check each piece thoroughly though – inside out and from all angles to your satisfaction before handing over the dough.
I learnt that large, intricate earrings dance beautifully on steel frames and twinkle incandescently at night. I also learnt that earrings may not appear the same in the day, much like the drunken mishap that happens be in your bed on some morning.
I learnt that even fashion designers and actors/actresses come to these streets to buy the chunky jewellery, stone studded ornaments, and very desi attire of kurtis with prints like “Aum” and pictures of gods & goddesses prints. Or they come simply to be inspired.
Above all, I learnt not to give up in the face of hardship. These vendors wake up each morning and slog till night to earn a decent living for their family. Yet, we customers are fickle and there is really no loyalty for one vendor’s wares over the next. Every hour is unpredictable. It’s a cutthroat world – each vendor trying to make a sale of an item that is to be identically found in ten others. Yet, they are hopeful and put their heart and soul into clinching each deal. And every new morning, they clean their shop, worship the premises and decorate her like a new, blushing bride – for a new day. For a new start.

MInd our business

A curious thing about us Indians – we are a curious lot. We make it our business to poke our nose in other people’s affairs. I have been pointedly asked some very perturbing questions right from my salary to my bust size. However, what really annoys me is when people take the unasked for onus on themselves to chastise an act that hardly affects them in any manner. And even more vexing, they will talk but wouldn't spare a drop of sweat to rectify it.

Case in point: My plumpness. I admit it, I am no size zero. I used to be a size 6 but that was a long long long time ago. Granted I could lose a few pounds, but a hectic lifestyle afford me with very little time to indulge in weight-loss activities (I would much rather use that time to nurse the bags under my eyes with therapeutic shut-eye). It also does not help my case, that India happens to nurture rather slender stalks as an excuse for women (Food crisis be damned! Has Bush seen the paltry amount these women eat in name of a dinner?).

Nevertheless, I am secure in myself and knee-deep in the conviction that my friends, family, would-be husband are in love with me for the person that resides within the physical shell.

My confidence must not be shining at its fullest these days. For Auntys have taken it upon themselves to tell me that I have put on weight since I last met them 2 years ago. Of course, their hips don’t lie but then again, they have been busy birthing children. I smile and nod, patting the tummy and promising them I will work on it. These days, the commetary has become so frequent that I am marking all the exit routes as soon as I enter the room. My situation is further aggravated their eternally slim daughters, who I secretly wish in moments of envy, are bulimic. I vented to a friend online who pointed out that in many cultures, such as India, saying that you look big is actually an indirect way of appreciating the good times that have fallen on you. Fair enough, but I ask, must you appreciate it every time I see you?

And, here is the clincher. A work colleague who thinks its his moral responsibility to point out every time I am inserting fare into my mouth and saying "How much you eat" for exacerbated effect. That is when I lost it. Auntys I have to bear, work colleagues who know less about me than they know about the Dalai Lama, are going to be whacked. And this one was. I told my colleague that my weight or lack thereof, was none of his business, in no less words. It’s not like I am eating his flesh or for that matter, embezzling money from him for my meals. My money, my body, my mouth, my food. Back off okay. Unless he is ready to foot every meal bill and pay for those weight-loss programs, maybe he can shut his hole and mind his own business. Not mine.

More rain mayhem...

Perhaps only Seattle in the US experiences the kind of torrential rains that lash on us poor Mumbaites. Then again, they probably have some great infrastructure in place to combat it, knowing the penchant Americans have to be organized and prepared. Those of us living at the mercy of the Indian bureaucracy that manages a city that has historically been shaped haphazardly, are not as fortunate. Every other day, I am wading through ankle-deep puddles – bye bye stilettos and pretty pretty heels, hello sandals. I made the mistake of getting a pedicure after my first day walking in puddles – it lasted 5 minutes in the muck. I also have learnt to gingerly feel my way around gutters on the sidewalks– there are many open gutters and ones that are covered, are only just barely. There is a fair chance that they might collapse into the gutter when subjected to a human weight. I shudder at the vision of me stepping on one, which promptly gives way and I drop into a dark, rat-infested tunnel full of trash and faeces, and god-knows-what-else infected water.

I also wonder if the mortality rate of pigeons is directly proportional to the onset of rains. For there seem to be an increasing number of dead pigeons on the roads, sidewalks and building compounds. The ones I have witnessed so far, are completely squashed, the bones sticking out of their blue, spattered feathers and bloody, mangled heads mixed in with thick, pasty mud. Quite the appetizing sight before dinner, sigh!

But, Indians have developed a thick skin for hardships and we still manage to have our fun. With the rains, comes the chance for all sorts of warm food – fried dumplings in tomato sauce or how about barbecued corn with butter, lemon and red chilli powder smeared all over. Of course, cradling that steaming, hot cup of coffee or tea in your hands while watching the rivulets of water run down the glass window is a joy entirely its own. I love the verdant green carpet that covers everything, bringing a liveliness to even the dullest rock.The scent of wet earth is intoxicating - I often times stop by the garden, just to take in a few whiffs of the heady aroma. An, it is an amazing feeling to peek out from under my cozy covers to watch rain drops kiss the green leaves in the wee hours of morning.

I have been meaning to get a few pictures of the rains but turns out my camera is not exactly waterproof. Hopefully, I can share a slice of my rainy life soon J

Rain madness

It has been barely three days since the rain gods have undone the silver lining that binds the dark clouds and Mumbai already feels as if it has been in the throes of monsoon for weeks. Over the weekend, I had the (mis)fortune of traveling to all parts of the city and watched the monsoon saga unfold in front of eyes – some scenes were amazing and, others just blew my mind.

As late as Thursday, I was grumbling to my mother about the balmy weather and how I wished it would just pour already and douse the searing heat. I should have wished for a million dollars – by nighttime, people were running drenched on the streets, caught off-guard by the sudden onset of rains. Within minutes, the vendors had put up bright yellow -colored plastic tarpaulins over their little carts, staving off the showers they assumed would last only for a few hours, if at all. Ha! The torrential rains whipped the city all night – letting up only for a few hours of the early morning. But one could see the signs that heralded the oncoming of monsoon everywhere – the bus floors were marked with mucky imprints of shoes, umbrellas were ensconced under the shoulder of travelers, traffic cops were wearing their flimsy, shiny yellow, translucent ponchos that did not stand a chance of keeping them dry. Parts of Bombay had already flooded by this time – the compact cars struggled to wade through water that was steadily rising and creeping through the crevices into the cars. The whole city was so easily crippled by the rains – and to think, these were only the pre-monsoon showers!

Later in the morning, I happened to visit a friend in Bandra- we were sitting outside a coffeeshop at Bandstand, overlooking the sea. It was a beautiful morning – cool and refreshing breeze blew from the sea as it lashed against the rocks. As we sat drinking coffee, it got dark as the clouds glided over us and let loose once again. It became extremely windy - so much so that the umbrella we were sitting under swayed precariously before toppling over. Like a scene out of a movie, giant waves laced with white foam rose up out of the tumultuous sea and crashed over the rocks. I don’t think I will be able to forget the wondrous display of the force of nature – how humbling an experience it was!

Of course, the BMC failed to contain the water logging once again. In a classic and expected case of bureaucratic lethargy, the BMC’s false assurances that they had prepared adequately for the rains were shamelessly exposed as many parts of the city reported rising water levels and many citizens called into radio stations with reports of accidents, crawling and in some cases, non-moving traffic as a result of water logging. Yet, with great effrontery, one of the BMC officials on radio today morning claimed that there was little flooding and congestion due to the rains. He failed to mention that the fire department had SOSed the Navy to send in rescue boats to help citizens stranded in the “little flooding.” It is quite appalling that the municipal corporation of a city about the size of New York can be so ill-prepared to deal with a crisis that it faces annually with predictable regularity. How many times do they have to do it wrong before they get it right?

(Joke: How many BMC officials does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Ans: For your request, you have to first fill in a form, with black ink, deposit it, then follow-up on the file, ensure the supervisor is “happy” with what he sees, get the form signed, take it back to the official, only to find out he is out at lunch, wait for an hour for him to return, whereupon he will ask you to fill in the next form……..).

Bizarre instances occurring less than 50 feet away from me

In the last few days, a couple of events quite out of the ordinary have happened to me. Indeed, I thought this stuff was what tabloid fodder was made out of and never imagined it would happen in my sleepy little suburb. Oh, the exciting life I live.

1. A bomb was found in the auditorium bang opposite my apartment building. I live so close to the auditorium that I often watch the crowds mingling at the cafeteria during the intermissions, as they grab some food and make it back to their seats while floating through the sea of hungry people. The funny part is, the auditorium was heavily frequented by politicians, film stars, thespians and the likes when it was newly inaugurated. Now, however, it barely attracts any attention unless a political rally has been organized there. Which is why it was bizarre that there was a bomb found under one of the seats and during a play that was attracting a small audience at that.
When the bomb was diffused, we heard a loud “boom” which shook me to the core. I was visibly shaking ( and those who know me will testify that I get startled quite easily). Even my father who was watching TV was surprised by the noise and wondered what it could be. As his eyes darted about the living room, checking if we were witnessing a minor earthquake, my mother’s cool response was “Must have been a flat tire!”(What are tires made of TZ that they make such explosives noises when they go flat?!). It was only later that we found out about the bomb, after a frantic phone-call from a friend and then, as a news alert on TV. Aah, don’t you just love the information age!
The icing on the cake was my brother’s reaction - He quite depressed because he had missed “all the action.” He wanted nothing more than to run out and be in the auditorium, watching the investigations and the live newscasts. We had to remind him that bombs are sort of life-terminating, at which he rolled his eyes, mumbling something about a generation gap as he walked away.

2. Last night, me and a friend were waiting for another friend to pick us up, when an auto rickshaw zoomed past us at a very busy intersection. Within seconds, it rammed into silver Maruti Zen and toppled over right in front of our eyes. By-standers rushed to help the driver and the passengers in the auto while its wheels were still spinning in air. And, surprise of surprises, the Indian police was there barely a minute after the accident happened! Unfortunately, the silver Zen had driven off, obviously maneuvered by a man with no conscience or moral responsibility, irrespective of whether it was his fault or the auto driver’s.

3. This one happened to me in the U.S. but it came haunting back to me in light of recent events. I was waiting for a bus at night. On the diagonally opposite corner of the intersection, was a large alcohol store that was heavily frequented by all sorts of weird people at night. It also sported an ostentatious red neon sign with dazzling lights that flickered round in circles around the store’s name, “XXXX Liqour.” As I contemplated the ugliness of the sign, 6 police cars suddenly pulled up on the corner out of nowhere. Within minutes, they had surrounded a white sedan sitting on the kerb. The police flashlights and the sirens seemed to be competing with the store sign in their ability to blind passersby. Through the blare, I made out some cops arresting 2 men(face down on the car, hands behind the back, reading rights and all that jazz – proved to me that COPS is no fiction) while some others were going through the car, looking for drugs, I presume. Not knowing what might happen next and preferring not to find out, I didn’t stay and watch but boarded the first bus that stopped my way.

Sexual Starvation

Forget about the Kamasutra baby. I have observed that Mumbai, and perhaps India is a land of contradictions when it comes to sex. We could not be more schizophrenic about it. On one hand, society taboos dating, sex before marriage, heck, even kissing and holding hands unless you are promised to each other. Yet, we seem especially keen to gorge on ads, movies, posters that display women and men engaged in dating, erotic displays and talk.

As the economy booms and we have more and more financial clout, we seem eager to adopt many Western practices into our lives. However, social norms seem so entrenched in our lives that weeding them out and replacing them with “new-fangled ideas” such as dating, sex before marriage is no small feat. Despite all our advances, the fact remains that we want to still pretend that sex and sexual activities do not exist, while at the same time in a voyeur like approach, we are, err, very much on top of it. The end result being sexually uneducated and confused individuals who very soon become quite frustrated and seek other avenues for releasing their pent-up energies.

This cannot be more apparent than when I take my evening rounds at the local jogger’s park. The track surrounds a small lake and is lined with semi-circular benches. Every evening, I find many couples occupying these benches, with their backs towards the track cozying up to each other. They hold hands, they cuddle, they kiss – they do everything which has been ostracized by society and is therefore, a strict no-no. Even the pungent stench of fish lying in a fishermen’s wicker basket nearby, cannot deter these eager love birds (mind you, a large majority of the Indian population is vegan) which only goes to show how wanting our norms have left the population.

The park provides an intimate enough setting – it’s not exactly candlelight and baroque chandeliers but love-making can make do under streetlamps and leafy trees. One can easily understand this phenomenon when you realize that in Indian society, most children tend to live with their parents and extended family. Thus, family living in these close quarters is too close quarters for private indulgences. Nevertheless, it is very amusing to see couples crouch in the enclave offered by the semi-circular benches. Or watching how the guy stealthily put his arm around a demure girl, coaxing her with sweet nothings to do that which is forbidden.

This same park is where my friend introduced me to “netra-cho****” (eye-f***ing). Allow me to explain. netra-cho**** is the name given to a guy checking you out but with such intensity, that given the opportunity he would want to do you right then and there. Of course, it is done discreetly so as to catch the eye of the woman but no one else. So sexually depraved are Mumbai’s youths that ever since my friend pointed it out to me, I have noticed that many guys have even done it to me. Today, there was a group of guys walking ahead of me and they actually slowed down and lined up to watch me as I passed by. And, I am one of the more ordinary, less well-endowed women around here!

Even an old guy forked his tongue out at me on a recent trip to town. His red eyes, beetel-leaf stained tongue and shock of white hair were more pathetic than desirable. We may scorn sex and dating but when it comes to uncouth sexual behavior- well then, all bets are off.

We are more than unabashed when it comes to sexuality on television or in movies. Here’s where the contradictions could not be more extreme. Ads talk about Aamsutras (a pun on Kamasutra, Aamsutra refers to the pleasure derived from eating aams or mangoes) or accountants named Mahalingam (roughly translates to “large penis”). As my friend puts it, “Some copywriter thoroughly enjoyed writing that ad.”

On the silver screen, there is a new item number everyday with the likes of Malaika Arora and other chest-heaving PYTs( pretty young things) gyrating to some dhik-chik dhik-chik beats in negligible negligees. Let’s also give due credit to Kareena Kapoor sporting a itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, lime-green bikini which makes headlines on more than one news channel. And we devour these with fervent pleasure and pat ourselves on the back for being advanced as the Westerners and being open-minded.

But ask a girl’s father to date her – perhaps drowning in the Arabian Sea might have been easier way to die. So much being open-minded.

The mind boggles at the thought of how the land that gave the world the Holy Grail of love-making - the Kamasutra - has become so closeted in its approach to sex that individuals act as depraved maniacs and f*** like jack rabbits once they are married. I can see no other plausible explanation for a staggering population of 1.4 billion people, only a fraction of whom can afford a comfortable life for themselves and their children.

Instead of adapting rules such as no sex before marriage(which made sense in olden times when children were married off at 14 years) to changing times, we are clutching on to them as if the were written in stone, resulting in friction and lack of social awareness about sexuality. Think about it.

birthday bumps

A really interesting incident happened to me on my birthday. Other than the aging (gracefully) part. Other than the gift of Nine West heels (pretty pretty shoes!). I had traveled to Bombay to meet some friends and was returning in a rather crowded train. For those who have never traveled in a Bombay train, I must say it is an experience in itself. Trains and the train commute is as much a part of the culture of Bombay as the golden zari that forms intricate patterns in a sari. Nevertheless, navigating a crowded train is no mean feat. Still being fresh off the boat and not fully accustomed to traveling in crowded trains yet, I had taken a safe option of standing close to the door, flat against the walls of the compartment. Or so I thought. About 4 stations from where I was going to get down, a huge group of women boarded the train like an ocean wave. As I struggled to get my bearings, an obviously poor woman got on and proceeded to squat on the compartment floor right at the door (as uncommon as it may seem, squatting in compartments is quite a common practice due to the perennial lack of seats). This would have been quite fine, except that she chose to use my feet as some sort of cushion and squarely sat her buttocks on them. Now, I am fairly uncomfortable being at such close quarters with people I don’t know, much less allowing them use of my feet for seating their ass. So, I quickly pulled out my feet from under her at which she started yelling not to kick her. I had to gruffly inform her that she was the one sitting on my feet and so, I wasn’t kicking her but pulling my feet away.

Turns out this woman was rather drunk. Although, she was holding on to the pillar in the middle of the doorway, she swayed so steeply side to side to make it obvious that it was not the train’s motion causing her to sway. Of course, as any extremely drunk person, she could not keep her eyes open and very soon, started to lay down flat to sleep – right there, in the middle of the door, on the floor! Once again, she thought my feet were some kind of cushion (must have been really soft that day) and propped her head against them. Once more, I endeavored to pull my feet out from under her, telling her to wake up and not sleep in the doorway – she lay crouched in such a fetal manner that one steep turn and she would have rolled right off the train floor on to the train tracks! There were other women around me coaxing her as well at which she resumed her belligerent shouting.

Now, all this time I had been listening to my I pod so I could tell she was shouting but I really didn’t hear what she was saying. I knew better than to care. Curiously though, some of the women around were casting quick glances at me. Some even said “Don’t listen to her, she is crazy” or “She is drunk”. One of the women next to me even moved back and gave me space to crouch further into the compartment and away from the drunken lady. I did think it was odd behavior but I wrote it off as them wanting to avoid a catfight – especially between a young girl such as myself and a drunken old woman like her.

However, the real reason became clear only when we alighted. It seems that this drunken woman had somehow got it in her head that in pulling out my feet from under her, I had pushed her purse off the train. Now, she demanded Rs. 120 from me and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t give her the money. I must have laughed in her face – I was laughing in my mind at her ludicrousness. This woman who could barely stand was blaming me for losing her purse! Ha, the cheek! I started walking off, dismissing her. But to my shock, I realized that she was clutching on to my purse and refusing to let go. That really set me off! No one, especially that filthy woman had the right to touch my purse without asking me – and my leather Fendi at that! I asked to to leave the purse and she said in a very Keshto Mukherjee style “no”. I shouted at her to let go and leave me alone and she refused. She kept threatening to beat me up. “Sun, main tereko itna maarega na, tune mera purse giraaya. Mere ko ek-so-bees rupaya wapis kar (Listen to me, I am going to beat you up so bad, you lost my purse, give me my 120 rupees). She even threatened to take me to the police. This tottering, drunk and belligerent woman was telling me she would get me arrested. I managed to unhook her grip on my purse – that’s when it got really amusing.

The intoxicated buffoon couldn’t even stand and flopped onto her knees, at which point she grabbed my hands and started marching me to the police. Of course, she didn’t even know where she was, so she really didn’t know where she was going. She stopped soon and then changed her tune. Now, she wanted the money, not get me arrested. She kept slurring “Tu chal mere saath, aur paise de (you come with me and give me the money).” I asked her where she wanted to take me. She was so lost, she couldn’t even think. I kept asking her where she wanted to take me because I was so amused at her audacity and sheer foolishness at hoping to con me into getting money. She kept repeating herself like a broken record while trying to come up with an answer to my question. It was almost comical as every time she demanded to take me “somewhere”, I asked her where and we batted words back and forth like this for sometime. Finally, she said in slurred speech “Vhee-tee” (V.T. aka Victoria Terminus – the furthest end of train line in the heart of South Bombay). I laughed again and asked her if she even had any hosh of where she was. Of course she didn’t and I told her to herself together and then worry about her money.

I was getting tired of her belligerent behavior - the amusement wears off rather quickly - and I threatened to take her to the police if she didn’t shut up and talking lies. They were more likely to believe me than her anyway. When I said this, she quivered as she realized that it was a plausible truth. Watching her – this woman wearing a faded sari, with tobacco-stained brown teeth and crazed, yellowed eyes, I felt sorry for her state. Who knows why she was drunk - it might have been a tough husband, a frustrating life, a disappointing job. One thing Bombay does - it teaches yuou to develop the skin of a rhinoceros. One has so many problems of thir own to deal with, others' problems pale in significance. I too, am a culprit of such callousness as I just dismissed the drunk woman and walked off – I had to be home before my allowed deadline.

In the meantime, the woman had managed to compose herself and hurled vulgar abuses as I departed the platform.

Ah well, happy flocking birthday.

Summer Wedding

It has been an interesting last couple of days. I went to an Indian wedding on Sunday. A friend from high school was getting married and a bunch of us from high-school decided to attend the wedding (free and awesome Indian food being a very strong motivating factor for some). Of course, we couldn’t just walk into a wedding empty handed. So, two days before the wedding, a friend met me online and we started brainstorming ideas for a suitable wedding gift. Now, the last wedding I went to, I gave the bride lingerie for two reasons – a. she wanted it and had told us so herself(even her size) b. we gave it to her at a wedding shower amongst many other women and no men. Since there are no wedding showers before a wedding in India and I didn’t know my friend’s size, lingerie was out of the question. Certainly, the appropriateness of the gift in an Indian setting never crossed my mind even once: P. I came up with another brilliant suggestion of a mixer-grinder set – “Sumeet” brand name at that and my friend pooh-poohed the idea right away. Come to think of it, I myself can’t fathom why I thought of such a clichéd and disastrous gift – what was I thinking? So much for all the feminist learnings in college! I finally settled on gifting the couple a wall clock – appropriate, practical and more importantly, gender neutral.

I should mention that my friend she is a Christian, so the ceremony was the same as in the US with a few Indian tweaks of course. As for the wedding itself, I am sure it was beautiful. I wouldn’t know since we made it in there just before the couple took their vows. Just for the heck of it, my friend was really keen on objecting when the priest asked “If anyone should have an objection, speak now or forever hold your peace.” By stroke of luck, we sauntered in really late (I believe the correct term for such chronic lateness being Indian Standard Time) and my friend couldn’t give it a shot. Oh well, the bride is certainly happy not to have to kill her friend on her wedding day. Even though we didn’t attend most of the ceremony, I have to say that what we did witness was wonderful. The bride looked radiantly happy and so did the groom – they couldn’t stop smiling.

One thing though, summer weddings, especially in Bombay, are a bad idea. All throughout the ceremony, I was fanning myself with my scarf and wondered how the bride was faring under the several layers of chiffon that she wore. She seemed to brave it quite well. Even the beads of sweat on her forehead seemed to be a part of her ensemble. Or maybe I was just hallucinating in the heat. Even though I am such a big fan of dancing, I couldn’t get myself to dance over there – I was afraid I might faint from heat. Not to mention, I was rather amused watching all the uncles with their jiggling paunches of prosperity swinging their arms up in the air and dancing to the music. My friend and I simply sat in our seats and “screwed in light bulbs” to the beat.

Now eating hot Indian food in such hot weather was certainly a not-so-welcome idea but when I saw the spread, I felt like a hungry tiger eyeing its prey. There was butter chicken, paneer tikka masala, tandoori chicken, and other dishes that were mouth-wateringly delicious. An, the fare was topped off with the traditional Indian wedding dessert – slabs of vanilla ice-cream with a trickle of chocolate syrup on top, served on a tea saucer. Aaah, yum!

Even though I saw it with my own eyes, I still cannot believe that one of us is married –what is the world coming to? My parents have been talking about looking for a boy for me for some time now. This wedding got them asking me the same question again. I have been fighting it tooth and nail, but watching my friend getting married made me realize how close I was to the event happening in my life as well. I am not ready to commit to an apartment, much less a partner for life. At the very least, I do hope that I hae as much of a say in my marriage as my friend did in hers.

Congratulations to the happy couple!

Jetlag, pollution and Hallelujah! We have a maid!

It’s been 2 whole days in Bombay. I wish I could say that I have been meeting lots of relatives and eating lots of delicious desi khana but nothing can be further from the truth. Jetlag has consumed me and I have been barely productive since I arrived. My day yesterday, went something like this:
8 a.m. Woke up, brushed my teeth, had some chai(yum yum!)
9a.m. Started unpacking one of my bags
11 a.m. Successfully finished aforementioned unpacking
12 p.m. Lunch and then, I took a shower
2:30 p.m. Decided to take a nap

Its 12 hours later and I have only just woken up. So much for physically moving around and meeting anyone. I couldn't even lift my head up and tell my Dad that I didn't want any dinner. I just mumbled something as I simultaneously licked my lips to overcome that dry-mouth feeling when you get when you have been asleep forever. Dad is fast asleep in bed as I sit in the other room updating my blog. Speaking of Dad, he has become quite the cook. In the morning, he cooked pohe for us. As if my eyes weren’t as big as rice-cakes already, he shocked me some more by cooking an entire lunch – rotis, sabji, rice, dal, and the works. I had to pinch myself. Was this my dad? It has to be, he scolded me for not keeping my shoes in order and for leaving things where they shouldn’t be. Just that now he is also an accomplished cook – go Daddy!

Nevertheless, I can’t say that I have not noticed some differences. Of course, the intense heat tops the list. A shower is pretty much useless in this weather. As soon as I step out of the bathroom, I am sweating all over and well, the whole “clean” feeling is lost. I am beginning to understand why Americans want to take so many showers when they are in India. Don’t blame ya guys. Next off, the dust and pollution. This one was hard not to miss. I am amazed at how nasty it has become in Mumbai. As soon as I got off the plane, I felt a blanket of dust envelope me. Even right now, I can feel the dustiness in between my fingers. I have been washing my face like crazy - I must look like a hysterical mudrderer who is frantically trying to wash blood off my hands. Only in my case, it happens to be dust and grime.

And, the pollution is just out of control. I landed in the night, and I could clearly see the sky – it was not black but a dull, darkish gray, thanks to all the smoke. More importantly, you could not see one star up there - forget constellations and far off hazy galaxies. This Bombay sky is a far cry from the Bombay sky I used to look at as a child. Even today, I remember clearly those nights when the whole family would tramp up to the terrace when the electricity was out. We would lie down on our blankets under the starrry sky and mom would point out all the different stars and constellations and tell us stories to lull us into sleep. I can hardly imagine myself taking a blanket and lying down on th terrace now - I would probably run down in 10 minutes to wash my face. I don't even want to think about locating glaxies through all this smog.

Now, I realize I sound like quite the firangi talking about the heat and the dust. But after living for 4 years in near Siberian weather and well, lets just say, a lesser polluted city than Bombay, one can’t help but notice these things.

Not all is bad though, I do have some good news. Dear Friends, this is truly been a gratifying day. We have a bai in the house! God bless her soul, she sweeps, she cleans, she washes the clothes and does the dishes – I don’t even have to lift a finger. Aaah, what bliss! I have not experienced such comfort in 4 years and I am going to make the most of it. Ironically, even though I was excited to have a bai again, I was still taking out the dishes, setting the table and then, promptly cleaning them after we were done on the first day. Dad had to remind me that we pay our bai for exactly what I was doing, so maybe I should pipe down and sit in one place. Old habits die hard, hehe.

Next on my India re-experience- eating chaat on the street and I am going to an Indian shaadi this Sunday! Definitely watch this space for an update!

The Story so far..

About 4 years ago, I packed my bags and came to the United States to live the American dream. Like many Indian parents, my parents wanted me to get a "good" education, be employed in a high-paying job (starting salary of no less than 1 lakh rupees), find a suitable Indian boy(Koknasth brahmin, Master's educated, reputed family and decent background) and settle down. But as John Lennon said,"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Sure enough, my job and visa situation didn't work out as planned and as luck would have it, the Indian economy boomed as the American one went into a "slow-down"( the r-word is a no-no, it would send the public into panic). So, to mix things up, I decided to pack my bags and go back to India and start afresh - new job, new perspective, new way of life.
Now one would wonder why I would need to blog about this at all- after all, I am simply going back to my home country. Well, I'll tell you why. See, I am at an interesting juncture in my life - right at the cusp of establishing a career and becoming eligible marriage material. I want to take this time to spend more time with my family. Also, I am single and therefore relatively free of many responsibilities. So, I also want to travel and see the world, take some risks, figure out my true calling in life.More than anything, this trip back home is juxtaposing my beloved India and its culture with the American way of life that I have become so accustomed to in the last few years. I think it would be interesting to journal my experiences as I travel and hopefully, grow in more ways than one. Best of all, it is a great way for all my near and dear ones to read and know what I have been upto. Hence the blog.
I am flying to Bombay on April 30th. Wish me luck!