Wanted to update the blog but without much effort. So, a tag this time. Thanks, Skeety!
Name three most valuable assets.
Laptop, debit-credit card, cellphone. These must be on everyone's list I assume with a plus or minus.
One truth in your life that haunts you every day?
It’s also the only “episode of regret” but over time, I have coached myself to suppress it with distractions, however less than suitable they might be.
If you were to be stranded on a deserted island, who are the three blog buddies you would take alongside with you?
Rohit, Amiya, Aritro...purely for their sense of humor value.
Where is the place that you want to go the most?
Akbar’s court in Fatehpur Sikri while in session.
If you can have one dream to come true, what would it be?
Write a book.
What are you afraid to lose the most in yourself?
Stubbornness.
What would you do if you found a briefcase full of money?
Depends.
If you meet someone that you love, would you confess to him/her?
Ten years ago, yes. Today, no, I don’t have the balls anymore.
Which type of person do you dislike the most?
Whiney, self-pitying kinds.
What is your ambition?
This one’s easy...total and absolute world domination.
If you were given the chance to have one super power, what would it be and why?
The ability to read people’s minds.
For you life is?
An unpredictable bitch.
If you could do one thing different in life, what would it be?
Get a new name.
Are you a shopaholic?
Depends on the kind of shop.
Which actor/actress would you like to be?
Without a moment's hesitation...Shahrukh Khan. Several reasons: He is a Delhi boy, he is a North Campus boy, he is incredibly successful at what he is doing in spite of not being from a filmy family, and most importantly, he was a very good student all his life (I have always had a soft corner for those)in addition to being involved in half a dozen other things. In short, I admire the combination of discipline, persistence, intelligence, and unapologetic power politics he must have had to put in to reach and remain where he is. Oh...and I was 15 when I saw DDLJ for the first time. Few men have left as big of an impact as Raj Malhotra from there.
One song that gives you goosebumps?
A well-rendered version of the national anthem, whether vocal or instrumental. (No, this is not some sentimental tosh I have developed while living here in the US. It was the case even when I was in India.)
Do you have any plans for tomorrow?
Yes. I have to teach in the afternoon, and go for drinks at night.
I tag?
Rohit, Amiya, Jayant, Butterfly, Swetank, Aritro, D, Skeety, and Twisted Gourmet. Do at least some of these questions, please. Add some of your own if you wish.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Friday, June 06, 2008
Language Barrier
The closer I am getting towards my thirtieth birthday, which is a little over a year away, I am becoming more and more like my parents when they were in their thirties.
Those days we had just arrived in New Delhi from Calcutta, their hometown, and my homesick parents were determined to surround themselves with as much Bengali-ness as possible. Right from the location my father chose for our house, Chittaranjan Park--originally a refugee colony for Bengalis forced to flee, what was then, East Pakistan--to the food my mother cooked at home, to what we listened to. Of all these vestiges from Calcutta that we desperately hung on to, it was the music that depressed me the most. While it is sacrilegious for any Bengali to not be obsessively in love with Tagore’s music, or Rabindrasangeet as it is better known, it tired me. The words and emotions were too heavy handed, most of it sounded too melancholic, and I really couldn’t be made to care one way or other. The same ritual was repeated when satellite television entered our home. By then, we had moved out of our Chittaranjan Park house, but because of access to channels directly from Calcutta, the house was infiltrated by not just sounds but visuals as well. And I protested. Nearly every time that a spectacled, harmonium playing singer took center stage and went about business. Of course all these rituals quadrupled every time that we actually went to Calcutta. Again, while authentic Bengali food was closest to my heart, Rabindrasangeet and most of Bengali cinema tired me. (Except Ray of course.) One evening, while in my unruly teens, I went so far as to say to my grandfather, “All this is repulsive.” It also stopped our conversation for an hour, which was a big deal, considering that my granddad and I have very rarely needed anyone else in our sphere of conversation.
All that was before America happened.
Youtube has one of the finest collection of black and white Bengali cinema, and since the last few months or so, not only have I combed through most of them, I have inflicted them on the only person I can…my roommate. Fortunately for me, she is half Bengali, and enjoys good cinema. Last night, it occurred to me that I was doing the exact same thing as my parents did. Surround myself with the roots lest they disappear in a country where I get to use my mother tongue only twice every week – while chatting with Ma and Baba on Saturday and Sunday mornings. A complaint that my creative writing friends have heard sometimes is that my head seems jumbled with words from English, and I cannot think anymore because I need to do something in Bangla in order to be able to get back to English. Which either means putting Bangla music on a never ending loop, or watching back to back 1950s movies, or at the very least, reading a Bengali newspaper or webzine to ensure that the language and I are still old friends, and that I haven’t forgotten a letter or two.
So finally I think I have forgiven my parents for all those afternoons and evenings when their very act of switching on a tape player or TV made me cringe. I do have one question for them though: every movie that I have so far seen of my grandparents’ generation or from the time when they (my parents) were very young, inevitably shows the man and the woman get married almost instantly or at least reach the conclusion that “this was the final and only one” by the end of the movie. Why did things change so dramatically and drastically within my parents’ generation that by the time the next one appeared, cinema as well as real life began telling us again and again “this is not the final one, this cannot be the final one, but there is nothing to be depressed about, after all the options are unlimited.” It would be interesting to see what sociologists have to say about this.
Those days we had just arrived in New Delhi from Calcutta, their hometown, and my homesick parents were determined to surround themselves with as much Bengali-ness as possible. Right from the location my father chose for our house, Chittaranjan Park--originally a refugee colony for Bengalis forced to flee, what was then, East Pakistan--to the food my mother cooked at home, to what we listened to. Of all these vestiges from Calcutta that we desperately hung on to, it was the music that depressed me the most. While it is sacrilegious for any Bengali to not be obsessively in love with Tagore’s music, or Rabindrasangeet as it is better known, it tired me. The words and emotions were too heavy handed, most of it sounded too melancholic, and I really couldn’t be made to care one way or other. The same ritual was repeated when satellite television entered our home. By then, we had moved out of our Chittaranjan Park house, but because of access to channels directly from Calcutta, the house was infiltrated by not just sounds but visuals as well. And I protested. Nearly every time that a spectacled, harmonium playing singer took center stage and went about business. Of course all these rituals quadrupled every time that we actually went to Calcutta. Again, while authentic Bengali food was closest to my heart, Rabindrasangeet and most of Bengali cinema tired me. (Except Ray of course.) One evening, while in my unruly teens, I went so far as to say to my grandfather, “All this is repulsive.” It also stopped our conversation for an hour, which was a big deal, considering that my granddad and I have very rarely needed anyone else in our sphere of conversation.
All that was before America happened.
Youtube has one of the finest collection of black and white Bengali cinema, and since the last few months or so, not only have I combed through most of them, I have inflicted them on the only person I can…my roommate. Fortunately for me, she is half Bengali, and enjoys good cinema. Last night, it occurred to me that I was doing the exact same thing as my parents did. Surround myself with the roots lest they disappear in a country where I get to use my mother tongue only twice every week – while chatting with Ma and Baba on Saturday and Sunday mornings. A complaint that my creative writing friends have heard sometimes is that my head seems jumbled with words from English, and I cannot think anymore because I need to do something in Bangla in order to be able to get back to English. Which either means putting Bangla music on a never ending loop, or watching back to back 1950s movies, or at the very least, reading a Bengali newspaper or webzine to ensure that the language and I are still old friends, and that I haven’t forgotten a letter or two.
So finally I think I have forgiven my parents for all those afternoons and evenings when their very act of switching on a tape player or TV made me cringe. I do have one question for them though: every movie that I have so far seen of my grandparents’ generation or from the time when they (my parents) were very young, inevitably shows the man and the woman get married almost instantly or at least reach the conclusion that “this was the final and only one” by the end of the movie. Why did things change so dramatically and drastically within my parents’ generation that by the time the next one appeared, cinema as well as real life began telling us again and again “this is not the final one, this cannot be the final one, but there is nothing to be depressed about, after all the options are unlimited.” It would be interesting to see what sociologists have to say about this.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Brevity
Sometimes, the best lessons in life are short, so short in fact that they can be wrapped up in less than five minutes.
A few days ago, I was in the local bus and coming back home from the campus. The bus was being driven by, shall we say, Fred. Amiable, friendly, and in his fifties, my favorite part about him is his distinguished silver mustache and the easy laugh lines all over his face. That day, while waiting at a traffic signal, his cellphone rang. Fred answered. Given the bus’s acoustics and the position of my own seat, I heard him very well. And however much eavesdropping is plain bad manners, there is a reason why I think I should be excused. This is how the conversation went:
Fred: Hello, this is Fred Wilson.
Other end: ...
Fred: Oh hello, Mrs. Wilson. How are you since I last saw you?
Other end: ...
Fred: I know it was at breakfast this morning. But I am eager to see you again!
Other end: ...
Fred: Of course! I would be delighted to give you a ride. I have about six minutes before I reach your bus stop. Will you please wait for me?
Other end: ...
Fred: All right then! Bye!
Other end: ...
Unfortunately, my own bus stop came before those magical six minutes. It would have been nice to see how Fred interacts with his wife even in real life, and maybe learn a lesson or two more from him about staying in love.
A few days ago, I was in the local bus and coming back home from the campus. The bus was being driven by, shall we say, Fred. Amiable, friendly, and in his fifties, my favorite part about him is his distinguished silver mustache and the easy laugh lines all over his face. That day, while waiting at a traffic signal, his cellphone rang. Fred answered. Given the bus’s acoustics and the position of my own seat, I heard him very well. And however much eavesdropping is plain bad manners, there is a reason why I think I should be excused. This is how the conversation went:
Fred: Hello, this is Fred Wilson.
Other end: ...
Fred: Oh hello, Mrs. Wilson. How are you since I last saw you?
Other end: ...
Fred: I know it was at breakfast this morning. But I am eager to see you again!
Other end: ...
Fred: Of course! I would be delighted to give you a ride. I have about six minutes before I reach your bus stop. Will you please wait for me?
Other end: ...
Fred: All right then! Bye!
Other end: ...
Unfortunately, my own bus stop came before those magical six minutes. It would have been nice to see how Fred interacts with his wife even in real life, and maybe learn a lesson or two more from him about staying in love.
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