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.