Imagine a tunnel - a corridor - that leads you from one room to the other. Everytime you pass through a room, a door closes behind you. A conveyor belt moves you forward into the next room. You can turn around and start walking in the reverse direction but it won't get you anywhere. So, you jump off the belt and walk to the last door that closed behind you. You knock and you pummel on the door with your fists. You can hear echoes in the hallway. But, the door won't budge an inch.
That's life for you, sweetie.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
I remember, Part IV: Cuckoo's Boston
Boston, for me, will always be akin to a spa experience. Except that spas don't smell of old books and their pristine surroundings are not criss-crossed with T lines. Boston never failed to rejuvenate me whenever I visited her familiar streets.
You know how unknowingly you zone into a few qualities in a new lover - ones that remind you of your old one? Boston was an upgraded version of my old love, Calcutta. I never knew how I loved the old dame of the East until I was greeted with mild whiffs of her in Boston nooks and crannies. The frequent Boston visits started with a childhood friend's (lets call her Cuckoo, for reasons best known to her) move to the great city.
The very first visit evokes feelings of sweet pain - I had just gone through my first (and last) break-up and was hoping to get away from it all with a week-long trip to Boston. Cuckoo, at that time, used to share her living space with three other graduate students. One bedroom shared by 4 girls gives rise to very amusing stories. No, not that kind.
Boston Public Gardens, Quincy Market and Cambridge were some of my favourite (yes, the British spelling of the word) spots. Cuckoo loved to walk and did not have a car - which, I am guessing, is a blessing in Boston. Any given day, we would start from nearabout Museum of Fine Arts and traipse all over the city, crossing the Fens, walking by beautiful old residences adorned with bougainvillaea look-alikes. [A picture of lovers in the background and ducks in the fore was to inspire me in later days] At the point where my legs started to feel tired, our eyes were greeted by the Charles river, lined with jogging lanes. We would cross over the bridge into Cambridge - always synonymous with cobble-stoned streets and bookshops. And, of course, how could a Bengali restaurant with "machher jhol bhaat" listed on the menu stuck to its window be any less attractive?
Nov 3, 2010
If you are a Calcuttan, you know how you would (and possibly, still) take pride in the trams, dusty roads, shooting the breeze on dulcet evenings as you filtered the city's creaks and sighs into an experience that can only be romanticised? Calcutta is not a pretty city but we adorn her with the epithet, Tilottama because as Calcuttans, that is what we do - we romanticise. Every nook and cranny of that city strums my heartstrings effortlessly even as I choke on fumes during our annual pilgrimage. And, perhaps that is why I love Boston so. Calcutta's snooty sibling, Boston, entices me with her criss-crossing T lines, museums and sightings of lovers and ducks in the park. She exists because Bostonians exist. In their minds but more importantly, in their hearts.
A sense that envelops you, cocoons you, infuses you with a faint fragrance even when you find yourself friendless on distant Dallas shores.
You know how unknowingly you zone into a few qualities in a new lover - ones that remind you of your old one? Boston was an upgraded version of my old love, Calcutta. I never knew how I loved the old dame of the East until I was greeted with mild whiffs of her in Boston nooks and crannies. The frequent Boston visits started with a childhood friend's (lets call her Cuckoo, for reasons best known to her) move to the great city.
The very first visit evokes feelings of sweet pain - I had just gone through my first (and last) break-up and was hoping to get away from it all with a week-long trip to Boston. Cuckoo, at that time, used to share her living space with three other graduate students. One bedroom shared by 4 girls gives rise to very amusing stories. No, not that kind.
Boston Public Gardens, Quincy Market and Cambridge were some of my favourite (yes, the British spelling of the word) spots. Cuckoo loved to walk and did not have a car - which, I am guessing, is a blessing in Boston. Any given day, we would start from nearabout Museum of Fine Arts and traipse all over the city, crossing the Fens, walking by beautiful old residences adorned with bougainvillaea look-alikes. [A picture of lovers in the background and ducks in the fore was to inspire me in later days] At the point where my legs started to feel tired, our eyes were greeted by the Charles river, lined with jogging lanes. We would cross over the bridge into Cambridge - always synonymous with cobble-stoned streets and bookshops. And, of course, how could a Bengali restaurant with "machher jhol bhaat" listed on the menu stuck to its window be any less attractive?
Nov 3, 2010
If you are a Calcuttan, you know how you would (and possibly, still) take pride in the trams, dusty roads, shooting the breeze on dulcet evenings as you filtered the city's creaks and sighs into an experience that can only be romanticised? Calcutta is not a pretty city but we adorn her with the epithet, Tilottama because as Calcuttans, that is what we do - we romanticise. Every nook and cranny of that city strums my heartstrings effortlessly even as I choke on fumes during our annual pilgrimage. And, perhaps that is why I love Boston so. Calcutta's snooty sibling, Boston, entices me with her criss-crossing T lines, museums and sightings of lovers and ducks in the park. She exists because Bostonians exist. In their minds but more importantly, in their hearts.
A sense that envelops you, cocoons you, infuses you with a faint fragrance even when you find yourself friendless on distant Dallas shores.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
I remember, Part III: Cherries and the Big Apple
I despised Mike Monahan without ever having met him. He was an American colleague of my father - briefly stationed in Bangalore. He advised my father that for a year at least, I should not travel much outside Buffalo, being 'new' to the country. And, Daddy's girl that I was, I obeyed him and hence obeyed Mike Monahan and therefore, despised him.
Now that this bit has been explained, let me tell you how I loved the beginning of Spring in Buffalo. Imagine being buffeted in by snow - on any given day 2-3 feet easily - clumping through the whiteness in snow boots that, because they needed to be functional, looked like worksman's boots. [Perhaps some graduate student threw them out eventually - I left them in the lab as a gift for my erstwhile labmates] All the snow was to blame for the 30-40 pounds I packed on real fast. It feels so much better now that I can blame snow for my obesity.
The first sight of Spring in Buffalo came in the form of tiny pink cherry blossoms. A single sighting at 8 am would bring a smile to my face. And, when the whole tree burst into bloom, cherry blossoms and Spring brought with them a dear friend to Buffalo. Lets call her Winnie. The Pooh. Okay, just Winnie. I have a picture of her wearing a long flowing black/brown dress patterned with pink flowers - standing beneath a cherry blossom tree. Smiling. Although, she ceased to smile when she entered my room and took to cleaning with vengeance and a broom. On Winnie's insistence (and considerable indignation at being locked up in a closet-like room for 3 consecutive days), we made a day trip to New York City. And, THAT was my first trip outside Buffalo.
Now that this bit has been explained, let me tell you how I loved the beginning of Spring in Buffalo. Imagine being buffeted in by snow - on any given day 2-3 feet easily - clumping through the whiteness in snow boots that, because they needed to be functional, looked like worksman's boots. [Perhaps some graduate student threw them out eventually - I left them in the lab as a gift for my erstwhile labmates] All the snow was to blame for the 30-40 pounds I packed on real fast. It feels so much better now that I can blame snow for my obesity.
The first sight of Spring in Buffalo came in the form of tiny pink cherry blossoms. A single sighting at 8 am would bring a smile to my face. And, when the whole tree burst into bloom, cherry blossoms and Spring brought with them a dear friend to Buffalo. Lets call her Winnie. The Pooh. Okay, just Winnie. I have a picture of her wearing a long flowing black/brown dress patterned with pink flowers - standing beneath a cherry blossom tree. Smiling. Although, she ceased to smile when she entered my room and took to cleaning with vengeance and a broom. On Winnie's insistence (and considerable indignation at being locked up in a closet-like room for 3 consecutive days), we made a day trip to New York City. And, THAT was my first trip outside Buffalo.
I remember, Part II: Food - and how I paid for it in 2001
That December, I moved across Main Street from South campus to Callodine. To share a townhouse with two other graduate students. One from Economics and the other from Engineering. This was a huge rambling townhouse with hardwood floors and a separate bedroom for each of us. Space had been provided in the house for most amenities graduate students need (which is very little to start with anyway) except the bathroom. You would have to exit as soon as you entered the sole bathroom and as we all know, in such cases, the bathroom is to blame for all the problems that crop up amongst roommates :)
At that time, I was of the opinion that hot milk can set most things straight. This, from a purported lactose-intolerant milk-hater. Well....now that I have it in writing, it actually does make sense. Anyhow, the Engineering grad knocks on my door in the dead of the night - her pupils are dilated, sweat beads stand out on her forehead and I don't mind admitting now that I was just a little bit scared by the look in her eyes. She was having problems sleeping in her room - noises or some such. Could she share my room tonight? Sure - out come the hot milk and biscuits and we became steadfast oh-sugar-so-nice roommate buddies UNTIL....the bathroom interfered. You see, any and all of my friends/roommates will vouch for the fact that I am not the tidiest person in the world. I am one of the fast-dying breed of women who do not track down a speck of dust with a feather duster/vacuum cleaner. I clean my room if I have visitors - otherwise, I like the theory of order amidst chaos. And, we all know how that works - or at least, the few of us know. So - diehard OCD clean-freak battled diehard OCD dirt-freak and our friendship withered in the midst. What a pity - oh well. Ho hum.
It was here in this very townhouse that I hosted my first dinner party. To introduce my ex to my friends and to thank my friends for all the care they showered during my post-knee surgery days. [At this point, I should take a step back from Callodine and tell you that my winter break prior to moving into the townhouse was spent living at a friend's apartment - with a knee cast and a miniature refrigerator (it was actually an ice box) circulating cold water around the wound to keep the swelling down. I depended wholly on Sourav to cook for me and actually even entertain me - would you believe this guy and his friend took me to a movie on 25th December? Cast and refrigerator and all; lifting my leg off the road into the car; arranging for enough leg space in the movie theatre? I tell you - this guy was a Godsend. So, everytime I cuss out males in general, I have to make a few mental omissions] I cooked and I sang and we made merry. Lots of merry. Until the semester started and I was told there was no more funding. I worked in the university cafeteria slicing pizza and compiling sandwiches ("Tuna salad? Wheat or white? Mayo or mustard? Lettuce? Banana peppers? Oh come on, you **%%$!@ 18 year-old, buck the f$%& up!") - lapping up the free food and the 6.50$ an hour. This reminds me - you should try toasting an everything bagel, brush it with butter and top it with thinly sliced tomatoes. Absolute heaven.
So, one of these days (now that I have evoked sufficient sympathy from the here-now there-now reader), I hobble back home on crutches (notice 'hobble') to a yellow sticky posted on my bedroom door. The Eco grad has had it with my unkempt ways and thorough disregard for division of chores laid down in the house. Something along the lines of 'Please wipe the kitchen floor TODAY, it is YOUR turn'. So, I get down and wipe the floor. Seeing the unfairness of it all, God smote the Eco grad...well, not quite - she broke her foot descending the stairs to hell (our basement, what else). And, yours truly cooked and shared her food and chatted up the Eco grad. Needless to say, there were no more yellow stickies on my door after that.
(Sanctimonious chuckle in the background) Much more later.
At that time, I was of the opinion that hot milk can set most things straight. This, from a purported lactose-intolerant milk-hater. Well....now that I have it in writing, it actually does make sense. Anyhow, the Engineering grad knocks on my door in the dead of the night - her pupils are dilated, sweat beads stand out on her forehead and I don't mind admitting now that I was just a little bit scared by the look in her eyes. She was having problems sleeping in her room - noises or some such. Could she share my room tonight? Sure - out come the hot milk and biscuits and we became steadfast oh-sugar-so-nice roommate buddies UNTIL....the bathroom interfered. You see, any and all of my friends/roommates will vouch for the fact that I am not the tidiest person in the world. I am one of the fast-dying breed of women who do not track down a speck of dust with a feather duster/vacuum cleaner. I clean my room if I have visitors - otherwise, I like the theory of order amidst chaos. And, we all know how that works - or at least, the few of us know. So - diehard OCD clean-freak battled diehard OCD dirt-freak and our friendship withered in the midst. What a pity - oh well. Ho hum.
It was here in this very townhouse that I hosted my first dinner party. To introduce my ex to my friends and to thank my friends for all the care they showered during my post-knee surgery days. [At this point, I should take a step back from Callodine and tell you that my winter break prior to moving into the townhouse was spent living at a friend's apartment - with a knee cast and a miniature refrigerator (it was actually an ice box) circulating cold water around the wound to keep the swelling down. I depended wholly on Sourav to cook for me and actually even entertain me - would you believe this guy and his friend took me to a movie on 25th December? Cast and refrigerator and all; lifting my leg off the road into the car; arranging for enough leg space in the movie theatre? I tell you - this guy was a Godsend. So, everytime I cuss out males in general, I have to make a few mental omissions] I cooked and I sang and we made merry. Lots of merry. Until the semester started and I was told there was no more funding. I worked in the university cafeteria slicing pizza and compiling sandwiches ("Tuna salad? Wheat or white? Mayo or mustard? Lettuce? Banana peppers? Oh come on, you **%%$!@ 18 year-old, buck the f$%& up!") - lapping up the free food and the 6.50$ an hour. This reminds me - you should try toasting an everything bagel, brush it with butter and top it with thinly sliced tomatoes. Absolute heaven.
So, one of these days (now that I have evoked sufficient sympathy from the here-now there-now reader), I hobble back home on crutches (notice 'hobble') to a yellow sticky posted on my bedroom door. The Eco grad has had it with my unkempt ways and thorough disregard for division of chores laid down in the house. Something along the lines of 'Please wipe the kitchen floor TODAY, it is YOUR turn'. So, I get down and wipe the floor. Seeing the unfairness of it all, God smote the Eco grad...well, not quite - she broke her foot descending the stairs to hell (our basement, what else). And, yours truly cooked and shared her food and chatted up the Eco grad. Needless to say, there were no more yellow stickies on my door after that.
(Sanctimonious chuckle in the background) Much more later.
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