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.

Sunlight Sunlight

......... And..... it's a crisp sunny day in New York. I shuffled out of the dark curtained bedroom, and was pleasantly surprised to see sunlight seeping in through the skylights and illuminating the pastel colored walls. Sure, it's cold outside, but sunlight does wonders for my spirit.

You see, the memories of growing up in India, having that cup of chai or coffee in our sunlit balcony is always with me. My mom loved to keep things pretty, and the balcony or verandah as we call it in India, was full of potted plants, with a flourishing money plant twined all over the side wall. Maa loved taking care of the plants and trimmed them once a month. When we go back for a visit now, I look forward to the laid back sunny mornings sipping tea on the balcony and reliving the past with our kids.

On a sunny day like this, I can run a hundred errands, listen to the music a little louder in the car, and walk into the office with a huge grin. On a sunny day like this I skip the gym and go for long walks with our little boy and the pups. I love coming home with the daylight still there.

On a sunny day like this you can achieve what you desire. At least try to:)Feel good dear readers, I send you a steaming cup of chai and sunshine from New york.

The sun worshippers did have a point!

Our first born turned 16 this year. Although we had a few choices in names, we had not come up with one befitting a princess. As a result our last name was taped to my bed in the maternity wing, and was used in all references to the baby. On being asked to provide a first  name before leaving the hospital, in order to apply for a birth certificate and a social security card, we pondered over the initial choices and came up with a beautiful and traditional bengali name of 9 characters. It had profound meaning, and like all first time parents, we knew  our daughter would be simply amazing, true to her name.

We were ready with the name of our second child - another traditional and pretty one of 7 characters when she came into this world. The name was once again loaded with meaning, and we were sure it would reflect her personality.

First borns are usually simple and straight, and our child proudly used her name at school. With each year she cringed a little at her name, but nevertheless would not accept any shorter or westernized version.

Most middle children have minds of their own, and on her first day in Kindergarten, my daughter asked the teacher to address her by a shorter version we use at home. The teacher sent me a note. I was disappointed but agreed to the "arrangement".

Finally for our youngest we came up with a name of 4 characters. He would be living in the U.S. after all, and a shorter name would be easy on the local tongue.

Yes, we are much wiser and less traditional now. The world is after all going global.

From Jyotirmoy to Jeter (Part 2 of "From Prakash To Peter")

We visited Mr. & Mrs. Nandy yesterday. My husband calls them Nondi. They live in a gated community, and before we reached the guard I gently tutored my husband to tell the security that we were visiting Nandy, Nandy that rhymes with Brandy or Sandy. But by the time we reached the gates, Nondi and Nandy were kind of mixed up in my husband’s mind, and when the guard asked for a name he said:

Nondi

Guard: Excuse me sir....what?

(a poke in the ribs from me, and a whisper..."as in Brandy")

Husband: Oh yes.... Nandy.

And we sailed in smoothly through the gates.

By the way, our friend Jyotirmoy has reinvented himself as Jeter.

(Note: Article is is Part 2 of http://nina-theamericanbengali.blogspot.com/2008/09/from-prakash-to-peter.html )

From Prakash To Peter

I have rather liked my name all these years. Mom tells me that it has a melodious ring to it. But the melody seems to have been lost in the US. I mean if the Americans can pronounce Famke, Kardashian, Joaquin, is my name that tough?

Well to make things easier for others & to blend in, I shortened my name from Nilanjana to Nila, but people started calling me “Nile-aa”. After failing my second driving test I was informed, “Nile-aa you did not make it”. Very gently I tried to correct the pronunciation, and once again to make life easy for others, I changed my name to Nina.

My husband said that this was a lack of self esteem, and he set the bar in being unfazed by people addressing him as: Manjo Paulino, Manho Ball, and mails being sent to Mango Ball. A friend of his, Arijit Chattopadhyay, has for years survived the ordeal of people calling him Arihit Hihi. I'm sure he too has given pain to many by refusing to shorten his name, and these days he only speaks to those cold callers who can pronounce his name.

But on the other side of the spectrum, there are cases where our dear friend Prakash became Peter, Shyamal turned into Sam, Aniruddha to Rudy, Shayantini to Tina and Nilabjo to Neil. Peter credits his success in the US to the prompt change of name. No wonder then, Archhismaan Chakraborty recently became Professor Archie to his students.

I wish I had my husband’s confidence, but I am truly happy with Nina.

So to the Ritwicks I say - go ahead, "Rick" is all yours to use; and to Madhuchhanda, hey Ann is a cute name. But to those confident few who insist on being addressed by their given names, the Abhimanyu-s and the Anindya-s, I sure am proud of you; at least you are easier on the tongue than our brethren from the Southern part of India: Harihara Murali Nemani Pattabhiramaiya....... and folks that is the name of just one person.

All hail to the Bengali names and cheers to the strength of those who wear them in the US!

It's freezing outside, for me at least.  Winter in this part of the world has started giving me the blues(although this year it was pretty mild), increasingly so. How I miss those scalding summers of youth.


The best part of the day is brewing the pot of tea in our warm and cozy kitchen in the evening. Mix of the Darjeeling blend and English Breakfast. The day's work being done, I can now enjoy the company of the kids and the pups. My daughters tease me about the way I hug the teacup, the warmth seeping through my palms, as we speak of a hundred things.


Today I shared with them "Those were the days" by Mary Hopkin, and they loved the song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ulI-T0YxAw
Miss you college and school days:(

Trivial Reminiscences: Grandma Beauty & the SUV

Grandma Beauty was not really what one would call a traditional beauty, but her name has stuck with her even in her hallowed eighty-fourth year. The fairest of seven siblings, she happens to be the youngest of my mother’s four aunts and two uncles. My grandma was Bina, and then came Bela, Chini (sugar), Choto (or the youngster), Kutti (the little one) and Beauty. Why the brothers were called by their formal names of Shyamal and Amal has always been a mystery to me.

Born in an affluent family when the British ruled India, she married a handsome officer in the merchant navy in her late teens and moved into a rented three-storied house in an upscale neighborhood in Kolkata. She shared her home with Grandma Choto and her husband, Choto living on the third floor while Grandma Beauty had her household spread on the first and second floors. Both couples were very much in love, and though they did not have any children, grandma Beauty had enough nieces and nephews to keep her busy. However what she enjoyed was keeping track of all the happenings in her family and extended family, and narrating them with a relish. Each piece of news was chosen with care and bestowed on carefully selected recipients, some of whom referred to her as a nasty gossip.

A nephew’s success was narrated with pride to another who was not so fortunate, or a niece’s mansion was described in detail to someone who lived in a tiny rented apartment. A distant relative’s academic achievement was endured by a college dropout and her parents. But the same grandson after a nasty divorce had to patiently listen to the accounts of other happy marriages.

Perhaps she never had any intention of hurting anyone, and some of us still give her the benefit of doubt. This curiosity about other people and their affairs came naturally to her. As children, we loved to visit her stately home for it was filled with curios and period pieces which grandpa had collected from different parts of the world during his employment with the merchant navy. We would gently touch a porcelain doll, or gaze in wonder at a carousal, oblivious to the fact that our parents were eager to leave. She smiled animatedly while telling my dad about a cousin whose husband had bought an expensive car. This scored a sore point with my dad as he took a joyous pride in his used (second hand) fiat, and he found it hard to forgive grandma Beauty for years to come. Our visits to her house lessened, with my mother dropping by on rare occasions to check on her welfare.

A decade back grandma Beauty lost her husband of sixty years, and my mother who has always been attached to her aunts, resumed her visits. Financially, grandma Beauty and Grandma Choto were not doing too well, and my mom and some of the cousins chipped in to help their aunts. The landlord had sold the house the sisters lived in and the new owners were threatening to evict them.

But grandma Beauty was unfazed by the turn of events, and maybe, to fill the void created by the passing away of her husband, seemed even more interested in our lives. And somehow this kept our extended family connected! Being concerned with our own affairs is a malaise of the modern world. Where her gossip had been intolerable in the eighties and nineties, in the current decade her home was the place for hot gossip. She enjoyed the company of her visitors and welcomed all with steaming cups of tea; for a bad knee forced her to spend most of her days indoors.

Few months back, my parents decided to take grandma Beauty and grandma Choto to a nearby temple. By then dad had sold off his used car and had rented a nice air-conditioned SUV for the trip. When they arrived at grandma Beauty’s house in the morning, the sisters were all ready and waiting. Maa gently settled grandma Beauty and grandma Choto in the car, tucking them in with shawls. Grandma beauty asked dad if the car was air-conditioned and with a tiny smile he replied that it was. She turned to her sister and remarked that the air felt cool and nice.

Somehow she did not say much after that. She ate the offerings at the temple with relish, asked for seconds, appreciating the calm serenity of the surroundings. Throughout the ride back she gazed at her familiar Kolkata, perhaps mulling on the unfamiliarity of it all.

.....And that day onwards, dad has been a clear winner among all the relatives:)