The Choices We Make At The Expense of Love

 We left parents behind when we came to this country. Some 18 to 20 years back our parents were working and full of vigor. They came for regular visits and we had a home to visit in India, to warm welcome and love. The parents generation has aged now. They may do things on their own, but for some we depend on siblings or relatives to act as caregivers. And some parents simply refuse to make the 22 hour plane journey to the States.

Increasingly we hear of friends boarding flights to India, to take care of aging parents and then returning once the parents are out of the medical facilities. Often on reaching the States, they get news that a parent who came out of a hospital ultimately did not make it.

I know my parents. They would not have made any choice over me. Parents will rarely ask us to return, as they value our happiness above all. So why have we made a choice to live in a distant land when the people who love us the most, desperately need us?

I am not just speaking about others.

Mr Ray's Country Home

At some point in life and according to priority, Bengalis have this desire to own a home in Kolkata or surrounding areas.

Mr Ray did not own a sprawling ancestral home in India. Of humble origin and from the rural part of Bengal, he was proud to have made a modest living in the US. And in the nineties he bought two acres of land in a picturesque village in Bengal for a negligible sum of dollars. He built a house on it - his pride and joy.

The construction of the house was completed by 2005. It dwarfed the landscape of a semi wooded area next to a red dirt lane, flanked by green paddy fields of the shared crop holders. The winding dirt lane went on for a few miles before merging with the village main street. From his balcony Mr. Ray could see the occasional hand pulled carriage or rickshaw kicking up red dust, and also the sandy pebbled beach of a river that meandered along the village. The village boys playing truant from school gathered by the river on sweaty afternoons, and jumping into the water from high ledges seemed to be a favorite dare. The occasional cart drawn by cows crossed the river on the shallow side. Mr. Ray would puff away on his cigar till the evening bells echoed from a distant temple, and the villagers came in small groups to take a dip before the prayers.

Mrs. Ray, originally from Kolkata was unable to figure out the intensity of her husband's attachment to their country estate. She however was not inclined towards the rural, preferring the city of her youth.

The red tiled two storied house nestled in an extensive garden, surrounded by mango, guava, coconut, and jackfruit trees. The pond was stocked with fish, and Mr. Ray visualized bringing home a fresh catch every morning. He loved the way his wife cooked the fish in mustard gravy, and was at a loss to understand his son's preference for spaghetti and meatballs. After the struggle of making it in the US, it was time to relax and have tea under the shade of the mango tree! He had a little wooden table and two little benches placed in the shade.

Last month Mr. Ray was diagnosed with a terminal illness and since then has been thinking of relocating to India. But his children want him here since leaving their jobs for months and moving to India is simply not an option. For his part, Mr. Ray loves being a part of their lives, the scamp of a grandson practically lives with him.

With time not on his side, Mr. Ray has been unable to decide on a course of action. Should he return or just stay in this country which has been his home for long, but always craving the feel of a place he sees even in dreams?

One more year

Appreciation comes easier these days. Over the years I have realized that when others do things for you they are putting in effort and doing stuff which they had the choice of not doing. At nature's level too, it could have been cloudy and gloomy, but its a picture perfect day with a sunny blue sky. One more year of birthday and I am overwhelmed with the affection and beauty around me.

Have taken the day off. Nope, there is nothing on my agenda. Just to play with my son and the dogs, chat with the girls and maybe read a book. Lounging in PJs and tee I run a hand through my long silky hair. Tad narcissistic but it's a feel good moment. There is nothing like the rare serious lazing. I refuse to doll up. All of which remind me of my dorm days.

Started my morning with a spicy wheat cracker and three cups of tea - literally, now snacking on a cheese-stick and coffee. Things are in place, and I know I can cope with the few pieces that are not. Writing makes me happy, specially with the three year old sitting on my lap and munching animal crackers. Birthdays are fun at my own pace.

New York Mega Million Jackpot

The Bengalis in NY must have bought lotto tickets today! The mega million jackpot is some 640 million. I have seen people staring up for divine inspiration or uttering the numbers in a trancelike state - whatever helps. Has any Bengali ever won the lotto? Dunno. Will find out at 11:00 tonight and you can bet that I will stay awake. Someone in our house has bought $15 worth of tickets. The numbers were chosen with care, a birthdate, the house number - all rather significant. Naturally, there is a good chance of us winning!!

We Bengalis joke about the lotto but never tell each other if we have bought tickets. It's considered a sign of weakness or worse still associated with being a loser. You could almost say that free money is not good money.

There is this friend who suddenly came into some money, and his good fortune has been associated with the lotto. He however vehemently denies it all, and attributes all to his dynamic way of doing business.

We have decided to retire if we win the lotto. No blogging either. The children can leave school, since education will not be necessary to make a living. Will leave something to the dogs also, a la Helmsley.

Just checked the numbers. We have not won :(

The small town girl

The tulips and hyacinths are out in my garden. Hot pink and purple. The colorful pansies in shades of yellow and crimson, border the flower bed and bloom in the delicate urns. They never fail to bring a smile when I return home from work.

But I still crave the jasmines and gardenias which grew with such abundance in a small town in India, where I spent my childhood. The memory of  balmy firefly evenings and the heady scent of flowers has stayed with me for long, and become this one fragrance, that a sudden whiff of something instantly makes unknown surroundings familiar. Just for a second.

Migrated 17 years ago, but the small town girl has not left me. This is my home now, has been for a while. I miss my family in India, the groovy food and the shopping. Memories have replaced the small town as my home.