Beyond the pale

Clammy hands, breath jumping out
Of its own body
Be still now, be still
Woman with purple wool scarf
Overpowering with the sweetness of her perfume
Be still now, be still
Muscles of the jaw are taut
Thin and fragile at tipping point
Be still now, be still
The number 42 trundles along, choked with fear and neuroses
Say thank you, remind the feet to walk
Be still now, be still

A City Lost

Sameer jumped over a puddle of brown slush on the side walk, and wondered why people made such a song and dance about New York. After several winters, his enthusiasm for both snowfall and the city were waning, though he still thought that it made a pretty sight from his eleventh floor office window – the whispery whiteness somehow seemed to soften the city’s hard edge. He entered the coffee shop, a place he had frequented for a long time now and realized that he had become the quintessential Manhattan yuppie – a latte drinking liberal who had just earned an obscene amount as bonus and yet was unhappy with both the state of the universe and the state of his life. He had worked on Wall Street for more than ten years now, and while he was competent and diligent at what he did, it was never something that he had thought he’d be doing as a seventeen year old when everything still seemed possible, seemed so exhilaratingly within reach. Of late, he’d been thinking a lot about his life and his work – which had become his life – and was a little unnerved by the discovery that he wasn’t really passionate about what he did, what was worse was that he didn’t quite know what he was passionate about. He felt trapped by his own apathy. As he sipped his coffee, he could see his hand holding the Styrofoam cup move towards his lips in staccato slow motion, drugged by the ennui.

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The tiny dimly lit bookstore and café bustled with the chattering voices of strangers, the conversations of intimates, and clinking of silverware.
Sameer had decided to spend his Thursday evening here in the company of a book. Though he had been an active member of a literary club in college in India, he hadn’t read anything significant in ages. He had resolved to make his eleventh year in New York at least a little different from his last ten years.

Towards the back of the room, he heard a woman ask the sales person, “Do you have this book called A continent for the taking?” “It’s a book on Africa.” Sameer stiffened. It was a voice that he had known, a voice that he had fled – a voice that he still remembered in the occasional early morning absent-mindedness as he rolled out of bed groggy and sleepless. It was Abby.

“So, how’ve you been?”
“Good, how about you?”
They exchange pleasantries, like acquaintances.
The American way, asking, but not really expecting to be answered.
Sameer feels suddenly bereft.
He knows how the scar on the back of her knee feels like - every groove, and every ridge, knows the smell of her skin on sultry summer days.
Yet now he is neither stranger, nor friend.
Abby smiles, shuffles. She is visibly pregnant, and almost shy.
A trait that Sameer would never have associated with her.
“It was nice seeing you, and congratulations! Unfortunately, I’ve got to run.”
“Thanks. It was great seeing you too. We should catch up sometime.”
“Absolutely,” he says and places a sliver of kiss on her cheek, knowing that they never will.

New Year resolutions

Do not fret. It will pass.
Drink more water.
Breathe.
Wake up early. At least try.
Eat breakfast. At least try.
Read.
Be less judgmental. It will make life easier.
Have fewer expectations. But be open to possibilities.
Travel.
Make an effort with your appearance but do not preen.
Seek love, but do not hunt.
Write.
Drink less coffee. Your skin will thank you.
Spend time with good friends.
Learn to be alone yet not lonely.
Pray.
Be less self–involved. Give a damn about the world around you.
Call/Email ma baba more often. They are the only parents you have.
Eliminate debt. Save, if you can do that.
Exercise.
Be more assertive at work. Make the job what you want it to be.
Think less of what others think.
Don’t over analyze.
Learn a new skill. Do two things you have never done before.
Spend wisely. Be more organized.
Give yourself a break. You deserve it.
(You are not half as bad as you think you are.)
Wash your face before you go to bed.
Brush your teeth thrice a day.
And always, always keep the faith.

An Angel in America

My earliest memories involve a swing and a sky. I rise higher and higher until I am engulfed in a gossamer swirl. I feel my chest rise and fall, and the pale blue air fills my lungs, flows through my veins into my fingers, my toes , my knees , my neck, my stomach. I am like an angel floating above watching the little people in the playground. The swing descends downwards pulled by the brutal force of gravity, and I hear my brother’s voice pleading, “Buli, Buli come down. I want to use the swing. It’s my turn.” I disregard him and rise up once again into my angel’s abode.

That was one of my earliest memories, and also one that I cling to whenever I feel less than perfect. Like today. I woke up with a little bit of a headache. I had been to a party yesterday and drunk a little, but it wasn’t a hangover. In fact, it wasn’t even a headache, it was a feeling that had crept up on me slowly , insidiously without me really realizing it. There were no warning signs, no epiphany , and no unseemly outbreak of acne in which case I could have just chalked it up to PMS. Much as I hate to admit it, it was me.

It’s been almost six years since I came here. I remember the day I left India. My parents and my younger brother had come to see me off at the airport. My mother was fussing over me, and had asked me nearly twenty times if I had my passport and travelers checks with me. I was twenty-two and it was the first time, I was leaving home. I had received a scholarship to do graduate studies in Mathematics at a university in Boston. My parents had greeted the news with a mixture of pride and apprehension. Pride, because like most Bengali parents, they valued academic achievement. Apprehension, because like most Bengali parents, they were overprotective and reluctant to see me go to such a distant land. But I was unashamedly thrilled at the prospect of going to the United States. I had lived in Calcutta for the better part of my twenty-two years. I had grown up in house in Jodhpur Park covered with bougainvillea. All the women in my neighborhood were distant aunts, the men distant uncles and the older folks my grandparents. In those days, when Calcutta was plagued by load-shedding, we would spend the dark electricity less nights by playing badminton on the streets, while the older boys and girls would sit on the sidewalks in groups , giggle and make comments about each other. It was a city that I loved – the people, the food, and the damp houses with paint peeling off the walls. But as I went to college, the city felt too small, too provincial. I desperately wanted to venture out, and the scholarship was my magic ticket.

“Bulbuli, don’t forget to call as soon as you get there,” my mother reminded as I pushed my cart into the check-in counter. My father, who is usually not very demonstrative with physical affection, pulled me towards him and hugged me. He gently patted my head and said, “Nilu – Bhalo theko,” which roughly translates as ‘be happy’. My father was the only who called me Nilu – the shortened version of my real name Nilanjana. Others in my family knew me by my pet name Bulbuli . For a brief moment there, as I hugged my father, I felt a fleeting pang at the thought of leaving home. In those initial days , I was consumed by the energy of this country – it felt like such a refreshing change from the lethargy of Calcutta. It was all exhilarating – partying late into the night with friends, being graded on a curve, watching the trees change color in the fall, and even those sad , misguided attempts to cook. I was pleased at how well I had adapted to my new life. I felt young and ready to take on the world. I didn’t understand what the big deal about immigrant angst was. I had none. And then it happened. Not with any kind of fanfare or fury, but it was there.

This Christmas season, as I walked on the streets of Boston and saw the snowflakes crumble on my winter jacket, I suddenly felt not so young and not so ready to take on the world. Perhaps it has nothing to do with immigrant angst but more to do with the fact that I am on the wrong side of my twenties and single. Most of my friends who were with me when I first came here have moved out, moved on. I am still partying but now when I get back home, I am left with this feeling. Last night, I went to this party- with mostly Indian people, mostly Indian music and mostly Indian conversation – and this large country suddenly felt a lot smaller, a lot more provincial than my home town Calcutta where I grew up in a family that celebrated Bastille day and unsuspecting babies were often nick-named Pushkin (which turned into Pushku or Pushki). I met this guy – who conforms to the stereotype of the Indian techie in the US to a T. It was depressing. The week before that I was set up by a friends’s friend with an investment banker. A Patel. I am not parochial, but I could just imagine my father’s face at the thought that his daughter was trading in the grandiose surname of Roychowdhury – a name bestowed by the British Sahibs on a select few in lieu of some shameless ass-kissing - for the measly Patel. For Bengali Bhadralok’s, Gujaratis are way down on the totem pole , even below Punjabis and just marginally above Marwaris. The guy had a receding hairline which was forgivable, after all that is something one has little control over, he was vegetarian which is understandable, after all different people have different tastes, he wanted his spouse to be vegetarian – and that was both unforgivable and understandable. It was depressing.

So the last few weeks, I have been wandering around feeling sorry for myself. I was led here by the lure of opportunity, and now, like a child of Hamelin, I have no way out. At times I call up my mother and whine. “This is the life you have chosen,” she says. I know she is right, but her answer denies me the comfort of blaming someone or something. I know that this feeling will not last, like most things in my life – it’s a passing fad, but on days like these when I am feeling a little less than perfect, I take comfort in my memory. A swing and a sky, and my angel’s abode.