Break Ke Baad*

I was on a holiday that took 25 years to plan.

It all began in a small town called Kharagpur. There, a few boys barely out of their teens, regularly discussed their aspirations and plans. They were all students of an engineering institute that was "Dedicated to the service of the Nation". Through the years, the 'ser' of the word 'service' had worn off, inspiring laughter and jokes. The college building was rather ordinary. The hostels were even more spartan. In one of those hostels, named after the first President of Independent India, these boys shared their notes, shared their tea, shared their limited wardrobe before a big interview and shared their dreams. Just before their graduation, they made a promise. They vowed to meet again, after 25 years. Rather like 3 Idiots, right? But unlike the reunion in the movie, this meeting after 25 years would be to celebrate life. It would be to celebrate their successes, their marriages, their kids. It would be to celebrate everlasting friendship. Most important, it would be to celebrate the institute that would ultimately change their lives forever.

This celebration happened in August this year. And that is where I was. In Orlando, Florida to be a part of this big event that was planned almost 25 years ago, on the fourth floor of a nondescript hostel. As you might have guessed, my husband was one of the planners.

Why USA? Simple. Most of the ex-students were now settled there. A fact that continues to sadden me. As we were the only ones from India, (two others from here had to change their plans for some reason) it made more sense to meet them there than to fly all of them here. Although the party was for the kids as well, I had to leave mine behind. My children had school. I really hated leaving them here but there was nothing much I could do about the situation. The American kids had holidays in August and this was a suitable time for all of them. Majority, after all, always wins in a democracy.

The seven days that we spent in Orlando were amazing. There were unlimited fun and laughter, plenty of impromptu songs and dances and many anecdotes to share from the past. Of course the splendid view of the Atlantic did not hurt. Early morning the pelicans would dive to the ocean for their breakfast and the dolphins would perform synchronized jumps. As the ad says, it was priceless.

Florida was hot and steamy but as Mumbai has a very similar weather, it was hardly a bother to us. What surprised me though was the temperature of the water. I guess I was used to the warm Arabian sea. The cold water of the Atlantic came as a shock to me. But you get used to it after a while. The kids went crazy trying to surf and I missed my older daughter so much. She is a water baby. She would have loved it.

In the last 25 years, there have been some changes in the institute. The 'ser' in the 'services' has been restored to its rightful place. There are more girls to be found there, making the place less drab. There are some new wings, new buildings. Modern technology has made the lives of the students easier. But the boys still dream. They still study hard and make plans. They still talk about reunions. I just hope the reunions they talk about, happen in India. It would be so wonderful then.

                                               The view from the place where we stayed

                                       Just some ordinary birds, trying to make a living

Shopping for breakfast

The planners, they may have lost some hair and found some weight but the twinkle in their eyes remain the same

                                       Not all of us are there, but you get the picture. I'm the woman in red!

America was beautiful but every time I go away from India, I realize how tied I am to this place. It may be maddening, it may be chaotic but this is a place I call home. 

And it feels so good to be back.

* After the break.

The Dragon Slayers

When I was small, it was my brother who took on that role.

Delhi, like the rest of India, was not a stranger to insects, rats, spiders, lizards and other creepy-crawlies. And where I grew up, a flat in a government colony in Minto Road, New Delhi, there was no dearth of such creatures.

Often I would find roaches invading my study table. Or spiders in my cupboard. There was once a lizard floating in my bath water. No matter how hard my mom tried to keep her home clean, there was always an alien lurking somewhere to invade her space. My brother, who for some reason found such creatures rather fascinating, was the designated bug buster. Broom in hand, he would gleefully chase the offending creature, driving it away. I, being petrified of it, would stand on the tallest structure in the room, a bed, a chair or the table and try to direct him to his prey. " There, there, behind the T.V., strike, whack, swat..." Or, "There it is, climbing the curtains, kill it, kill it". Fear turns the best of us into killers. My brother, who was not a killer, would hold the creature in his hands, (eeewwww) and release it outside. That got him another round of blood curdling screams. " Why did you not destroy that damn thing? Now it will come back again."


For all his faults, (he was a weak wimp after all) he took his role as the dragon slayer rather seriously. His primary job was to defend his little sister and he never forgot to inspect the bathroom before her bath or the bedroom before her bedtime. He kept an hawks eye under the sofa, behind the curtains, inside the shoe rack and all other such vulnerable places. He spoiled me to such an extent that I'd often wonder how I'd ever cope without him in my life. Being a brave girl of the New World, I could fight my battle against any two-legged beast and win, but who would chase away the anthropods and the reptiles?

So, when I decided to get married, one of the first questions I asked my husband was " Are you scared of cockroaches or lizards?" If he thought I was mad, he never let me know.

Over the years, my husband has protected the women in his life, his wife and his two daughters, countless number of times. He saved us from those big brown cockroaches with beady eyes and long tailed lizards with clawed feet. He saved us from smelly rats and ugly spiders. Over the years, he has been able to gauge the seriousness of the threat by just listening to our screams.  He now knows whether to pick up a rolled up newspaper or a long handled broom just by hearing how much stress we put on our vowels when we say "Aaaaahhh" Choosing the right weapon is half the battle won.

So my house, thanks to my husband and my pest control agency is normally alien free. The problem arises when he travels. Like now. There is a big, revolting, lizard on my kitchen wall and I do not know what to do. I gave my kids bread for breakfast, I asked my mother in law to make the morning cup of tea and I'm here now, in front of the computer blogging, when I should be thinking of lunch.

The fire breathing, broom weilding Dragon Slayer is quite appropriately in China. And I'm missing him terribly.

India Through Their Eyes

Last week I had some guests at home.

Though they were of Indian origin, they had not been a part of my country for a long time. The husband was an American citizen who left India almost 25 years ago. The wife was an Australian who had never lived in India. Their laptop was stolen at Mumbai airport. The wife sheepishly admitted they were pretty lax when it came to such issues and the thought of locking their suitcases had not occurred to them. "We no longer have the habit" was what she said to be precise. Traffic snarls, potholes and numerous questions later, (What are these? Slums? Is it where Slumdog Millionnaire was shot? How come there are so many people on the roads? Why do trucks have Horn Please written? Isn't it impolite to honk here?) when we finally reached home, it was almost as long as their journey across an ocean and several seas. The weather was gloomy and it continuously rained which created further delays.

And I kept on thinking, what do they see when they look at my country? When they see barefoot children playing in the rain, do they see the poverty or do they see happy children? When they see policemen taking bribes from commuters, ( happened right in front of us) do they see how immune we have become to corruption? When their laptop went missing, did they think this was inevitable? And the unruly traffic and the constant honking? What do they think of that?

When they see my India, a country that I think is vibrant, colourful, confusing and endearing, what do they really see? A billion people working hard just to survive? A dirty, messy, smelly country? A country full of crooked people trying to con the foreigners? What do they see? Do they see the love?

He Said She Said Part II

He said: Wan't to go for a walk?

She said: Are you crazy? In this rain?

He said: I thought you loved the rains.

She said: I do, but not the Mumbai variety.

He said: So what do we do? Want to eat out tonight?

She said: OK. Let's go to McDonalds.

He said: McDonalds? That's hardly suitable for the occasion.

She said: Who cares? The kids will love it. Moreover I don't want to change out of my track bottoms and sneakers.

He said: What happened to your high heels?

She said: I packed them off. Mumbai monsoons are shoe-killers. Moreover, I get my sciatica pains if I wear heels for a long time.

He said: Alright, that's settled then. I have to check my mail and make some calls. We'll leave at 8.

She said: And I have some groceries to pick and vegetables to buy. 8 seems perfect. Oh, don't forget to sit with the older one with her math problems. I will be teaching the younger one for her tests tomorrow.

He said: Right. Remember to buy Ma's BP medication when you go out.

She said: And you don't forget to return your cousin's call. He has called twice already.

He said: Sure. Hey kids, guess what? Tonight is special and we are going to celebrate it by going out to McDonalds!

They said: Awwww, can't we order some pizza instead? We don't want to miss our TV show.

He said: (Looking slightly relieved) Well, we can do that, what do you say?

She said: (Looking relieved too) We can certainly do that. Let's order pizza. I have to get up early tomorrow morning. And I have this book to finish. May be this Sunday we all could go out.

He said: I have to go over some reports. And make a con-call. Fine, next Sunday kids. Meanwhile let's call the pizza guy.

They said: Yayyyyy!

The story actually started like this. And then continued like this. But that was some years ago. He is still gallant, she is still romantic. But for both of them, the definition of love has somehow changed...

The Carousel

I slid into the driver’s seat, let in the clutch, and we were off. I knew it was illegal, but it didn’t matter any more. All that mattered right now was where I was heading. What I was doing. Saving a life.

8 hours before…

“I’m so excited. I’ve never been to an amusement park with so many rides before. And they’re all so high. Wow.”

“Ok, I need you to keep quiet. For a while at least, I’m going to make a call. So don’t move.”

We both knew that I had just wasted my breath. As if keeping silent was possible for Libby. She had yakked all the way to the park.

“Ooh ooh! Look at this!” Libby cried.

God, when is she going to shut up?

Ignoring Libby, I continued to argue with my agent on the phone. She hadn’t managed to land me a role in months.

“Ishita!”

“Shhh!” I waved my hand at her without turning around, motioning her to stay shut.

“Ishitaaa!” Libby cried again.

“What is it?” I snapped, turning around. “I thought I told you to–“

There was no Libby. Only a large throng of people enveloping me.

“Libby?” Great. Just great. Now she got herself lost in the crowd. “LIBBY!”

My phone rang. “What?” I angrily snapped into the phone, seriously considering hanging up.

“Looking for Libby?” A sinister voice called from the other side.

“Who is this?” I said cautiously into the phone.

“Now, how does that matter? All that matters is that you want Libby back. Am I right?”

“Who is this? Where is Libby?”

“Oh don’t worry, Libby is with me.” He snarled into the phone.

“Then give her back to me.”

“Of course I will. Why would I keep her from you? I just need something in return.”

“You want to trade her?”

“For a price, obviously.”

There was silence. I had just received a ransom call from a stranger who had my niece, and I didn’t know what to do.

“How much?”

“Ah. There’s my girl. It’s not much. Only five lakhs.”

My mouth went dry. I hadn’t had a job in months. Where was I going to get so much money?

“You’ll get it. Just don’t hurt her.”

There was a sinister laughter on the other side. “You just get the money, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“How do I know that she’s alive?” Immediately I heard Libby scream. “Libby!”

There was that laugh again. “Oh and just one more thing.”

“What?”

“You have only eight hours. Or she’s dead.”




I closed my eyes and prayed to God, asking him to help me through this. Taking a deep breath, and pulling my ski mask on, I slunk through the huge backyard. Reaching the building, I broke the window with one swift kick. Jumping in, I loped to the large safe.

“Fifty five, thirty one, six, and ten, two to the left… ah!” I muttered; as I cracked open the safe. All those years of safe - cracking finally put to some good cause, instead of stealing. Everything should be a safe - cracker turned actor. Both skills were useful during a crisis. Like now.

The safe had opened completely, and in front of me, I saw bundles of cold, hard cash. It was everything I wanted, everything I needed. And more. Taking exactly five lakhs from the safe, I put it in the bag, shut the door, and fled.

I should be counting my blessings. There had been no alarm, no hidden cameras, no police, and best of all – no one had seen me. And everything contained in the posh abode screamed rich. It was as though God had willed this crime. How ironic.

Pulling off my ski mask, I jumped into the car, and immediately sped to the amusement park. The journey to the park felt like eternity. I just couldn’t get there fast enough, all the while hoping, praying Libby was safe, and unhurt.

Reaching the park, I tried to jump the turnstile, but as soon as I did, I was stopped a security guard.

“Ma’am, the park is closed. You can’t enter.”

“But I need to go. My niece is in there.”

“We will go look for–“I silenced him with one swift punch to his nose, and I heard the sickening sound of cartilage snap as he fell unconscious to the ground.

“Sorry.” I muttered, as if he could hear me, and ran to where I had lost her first.

“Libby!” I screamed desperately searching. “LIBBY!”

And then I saw her, taped to the carousel. Screaming her name, I ran to her, but I was stopped by a man. It was he.

“You came.”

“Here’s your money.” I said to him flinging the bag at him. He let me go, and I ran to her. Libby was bleeding, and her breath was shallow. I could feel tears roll down my cheeks, but I didn’t bother to brush them off. I gently removed the tape of Libby, as fast as I could. When I was done, I picked her up and ran to my car. The man was gone, I noticed.

I slid into the driver’s seat, let in the clutch, and we were off. I knew it was illegal, but it didn’t matter any more. All that mattered right now was where I was heading. What I was doing. Saving a life.

Love, Like, Hate, Adore.

Do you remember your first crush? The thrill? The madness? The excitement? Do you remember the anxiety?

I remember. I was 14 and so was he. He was a geek, (how I loved those glasses!) Had an overbite. ( Isn't that better than saying he had buck teeth a la Dharmendra in Ghazab?) He spoke with a slight South Indian accent. ( I found it super cool....would have used another word but my daughters read this blog.) In other words, I was totally mesmerized.

I remember talking about it with my friends. I remember writing down my name on a sheet of paper,  A-P-A-R-N-A and then writing down his below mine , V-I-, well never mind, my husband reads my blog too. I remember striking off the letters that were common to both our names and softly counting the ones that were left. Love, Like , Hate, Adore...ticking off the remaining letters one by one till I arrived at the conclusion. It was such an innocent, silly game.

Two of the books that I read last week dealt with first loves. In Alice Munro's collection of short stories, Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage; Johanna, the protagonist of the title story is a strong  yet vulnerable woman. The story centres around a deception two school girls play on her and the unusual turn her life takes due to this childish prank. Incidentally, Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship Marriage is also the childish game the two preteen girls play to determine the fate of Johanna's love, something very similar to my own Love Like Hate, Adore. Interesting, isn't it?

The book has 9 stories in the collection. Alice Munro, a Canadian author, sets the stories in provincial towns of Canada. The stories are of ordinary women and their ordinary lives. Their dreams, love, fate and aspirations. Nettles, a story that I particularly liked, dealt with a girl's chance meeting with her first love after many years. The story is poignant, reminding us nothing remains the same forever and fate can be cruel at times. Some stories in the collection are simple, some are more complex. The author, the 2009 Man Booker International Prize winner for her lifetime work and a contender for the Nobel Prize, deftly unwraps the lives of women in small town Canada and moves you with her simple and powerful narration.

I do not know whether I should recommend the book. Authors like Chekhov, Saki, O Henry or Edgar Allen Poe, to name a few  short story writers, have impressed me more than Alice Munro. But you can try out her books, they are definitely worth a read.

The other book that I read was South Of The Border, West Of The Sun by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese author, now settled in the USA. This 186 page novel, which you can finish in 2 days, is a somewhat touching tale of Hajime and Shimamoto who were classmates in an elementary school. They have similar taste in music ( the title of the book is taken from a song by Nat King Cole) and spend hours listening to songs in the girl's house.They are perhaps in love but are too young to know for sure.Years later, Hajime,  now a successful owner of a jazz bar, married with a pair of kids, meets Shimamoto again and they begin their clandestine love story.


This book is about wrong choices we often make in our lives. A flawed man, Hajime is not your typical hero. He is selfish and insecure and he ultimately does something that causes his almost perfect life to come crashing down around him. A lot of people would perhaps identify with his character. His lady-love Shimamoto on the contrary is a mystery woman. Till the end the reader has no idea about her true nature. All we get are some small glimpses into her life. Sometimes sappy, sometimes touching, the book left a lasting impression on me, though I admit I really hated Hajime at times. I loved Murakami's style. I now know why there are some people who swear by him and I would definitely love to read more of his work. His language is soft and rich and each word dazzles. He creates a strong imagery in your mind and you can see his characters right in front of you. Although, this perhaps is not the best work by Murakami, it still is a highly enjoyable read.


There was a delightful book that I picked up called In The Pond by Ha Jin, a Chinese writer, settled in, you guessed it, USA. The literature students would be familiar with the Picaresque novels of Europe in the 17th and 18th century. In The Pond reminded me of those novels.The protagonist, Shao Bin, works as a  pipe fitter in a fertilizer factory in a small village in Northern China. He is a senior worker and deserves an apartment in the Worker's Park Apartment Compound. But he gets passed over for the corrupt officials of the Communist Party and their cronies. The episodic novel tells the story of how Shao Bin, with the help of his art (he is a calligrapher) and a few journalist friends, takes on the commune's Party Secretary and fights for his rights. I loved the book. The book (only 178 pages) made me realize how similar the Indian Babus are and how the common Indians, waiting for a telephone connection, a house, a gas connection are harassed every day by these corrupt bureaucrats of our country. The Indians and the Chinese are not so different after all. The Hindi-Chini Bhai Bhai slogan may actually mean more than we ever thought! Who else will know better than the officials who coin such terms! I highly recommend the book. It is funny and entertaining. You will not be disappointed.


The other book that I finished was The Bookseller Of Kabul, by Asne Seierstad, a Norwegian journalist. The story is an account of her stay with an Afghan family in Kabul. It is yet another tale of Afghanistan's tyrannical male dominated society and the brutal treatment of Afghani women. Apart from making me happy about the country of my birth, the book did not do any thing for me. It lacked the raw emotions of A Thousand Splendid Suns or the poignancy of The Kite Runner. This was nothing new and can be completely avoided. Those who have not read Khaled Hosseini's books on Afghanistan however should definitely pick up his books. I simply adore them.


I am thoroughly enjoying my journey of the world through books. The next few books on my list are

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I love her poetry and I did not know she also wrote novels. This apparently is the only novel she wrote.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, in fact I have already finished this one. It is a superb read.

In The Country Of Men by Hisham Matar.

I hope you will keep on recommending books for me to read. This is such a wonderful world, this world of books...

Phish, Phutball And Jamai Shashthi

My husband has been excommunicated from the Bengali community.

He does not have the typical Bengali traits and hates everything the community loves.

In the current football crazy Bengali world, he is showing utter apathy towards the game. He does not know how many teams are playing in the FIFA World Cup, he does not know the names of the players, he has no inkling as to who Ronaldo is and what colour jerseys the Brazilians (the eternal favourites of the Bongs) wear. His sins do not stop there. He hates fish, the Bengali's staple diet and has not touched the creature in the last 20 years. He hates Rabindrasangeet, every self respecting Bengali's pride and joy and he absolutely abhors eating rice before going to work. Naturally the community took major offence and finally kicked him out.

But my mother, the most loyal supporter my husband ever had, of course is not giving up. She uses every trick in the book to convert him back. And the most lethal weapon that she ruthlessly uses for this noble cause is the Jamai Shashthi.

For the uninitiated, Jamai Shashthi is celebrated all over Bengal on the sixth day of the Shukla Paksha of the month of Jyeshtha. (Translated into English, it means every year in June, around this time.) On this day, the mothers-in law prepare mouth watering delicacies and invite the jamais, or the sons in law to their homes. It goes without saying the food prepared by the moms-in-law happen to be the favourite of the jamais. Bengalis love to eat and on this day, tradition demands a grand feast. The more exotic the food, the better. Since my husband hates the traditional Bengali food, my mom actually serves him Chinese. Then there are the sweets. There are at least 5 varieties of them.  And yes, in between the sweets and the fries and the lunch and the dinner and elaborate tea, there are also huge plates full of fruits. After this, a lot of jamais simply collapse and are unable to attend office the next day.  Most bosses in Kolkata also suffer from the same condition and hence fully sympathize. The leaves are granted without any hesitation. They later on compare notes on whose mother in law prepared the best fare and who got the best gifts. (Did I tell you the jamais get gifts also? Shirts, trousers, wallets, books, watches...whatever they fancy) The daughters, though lament the fact that there is no special day assigned to them, do not really complain very loudly. Along with the jamais, they are also invited to their parents' homes for the feast.

Today happens to be Jamai Shashthi. My mother has been calling me for the last 2 weeks, nagging me to take my husband shopping to buy him whatever he wants. My husband asked if he could buy a BMW but my mom said she only had the money to buy him a cycle. So he had to be content with some clothing. She again called me last night, and then this morning to check if I had prepared his favourite stuff.  Not satisfied with the food cooked at home, she demanded I take him out for, you guessed it, Chinese.

This has been going on for the last 17 years. Since my mother and I stay in different cities, she sends me some money every year and coaxes me to take my husband out for dinner. Next day she calls me again to know what all we ate. As he loves sweets and fruits with passion, she expects me to fill up my refrigerator with his favourite stuff and feed him all that periodically.

Today Kolkata would be wearing a festive look. Over too much food, the jamais and the rest of the gang would be discussing the rising prices of the fish, Brazil's not so charming display of football this year and the latest spat between Mamata and Budhdhadev. There would be a smattering of jokes that only the Bengalis could come up with, there would be some Rabindrasangeet and of course there would be enough food to feed the entire country. My husband, who is going over to Delhi on work, would be missing out on all that fun. In the morning he surreptitiously tried to find out what all my cousins would be eating today at their sasural and seemed a bit unhappy for missing out on all those jamai shashthi sweets.

BTW, the other day I said, "Did you see Messi? Absolutely dazzling foot work!"
He replied, "Your masi came? When? How is she? And since when has she dazzled with her foot work? She can hardly walk...."
And then he said, " Your Kaka, Masi are all in South Africa to watch  football? How come I did not know?

So guys, do you think the Bengalis were wrong to throw him out of the community?