It bothers me

I am sensitive.

I have been this way for as long as I can remember. Little things bother me and stay on my mind long after the moment has passed. Not to the extent of dropping everything and being unable to move on, but definitely unsettled. For instance, after having lived away from India for a few years, I realized that I had learnt to respect and treat everyone as equals. Growing up in our social circles, we’ve always had people to do things for us. Be it our cooks, our drivers, the person who does our laundry, our gardener somewhere between being served and expecting to be served we grew up desensitized. I am not chastising people for having help, I love having help, and it’s probably one of the reasons why I will never leave India, again. I enjoy the good life. That being said, when I moved back home, I began to notice a pattern. Our behavior and tone changes when we talk to our help. Curt, dismissive and sometimes derogatory. That’s what most of us have seen while growing up and have emulated too. It really bothers me how some people speak to their help, it’s almost as though they no longer consider their help as humans. Barking orders, disrespectfully addressing them regardless of the fact that they are older or even have them do little tasks that one clearly should be doing on their own.

It bothers me.

We’re pushing thirty, is it really that hard to be compassionate? At what point did we become devoid of the finer human emotions? In parties and social do’s we talk about everything under the sun, health, marathons, golf, and sitcoms, sometimes-even politics. Every now and then someone will bring up the Trump administration, but seldom we talk about Aleppo. Quite frankly, it disturbs people to think about what’s going on in the Middle East, let alone recollect images of little children suffering. This is no dinner table talk; it’s impolite to talk about such things. However, I feel, the reason we don’t indulge in such talk is because we’re desensitized. We as a generation, and I know that I am generalizing, are unable to feel deeply for people whom we don’t know, don’t follow on social media, basically people we can’t relate to. How unfortunate is that. People often joke and say, if you’re not on social media you don’t exist. The sad reality of life is, that it’s actually true. So, on one hand we have the long list of benefits of social media. How great it is, how it’s brought people together, the world has shrunk because of the world wide web, but, it’s also made us a little desensitized.

I understand that it’s a dog eat dog world out there, now more than before. We must look out for ourselves first. Don’t get me wrong, its not a bad thing, perhaps it would be nicer if we could spare a few moments to be compassionate. It’s okay to talk about things that make the room a little uncomfortable, because it is somebody’s reality. One must learn to embrace the different aspects of life, some will come naturally, some not so much, but it’s a start. It is imperative that we pause a little when we read about the atrocities in Aleppo. To really explore the way in which we can help, every little contribution matters. Dialogue is important and it has to start somewhere. Being sensitive is a good thing, as humans intrinsically all of us can feel compassion. Some more than others, and that’s all right. As long as we can feel ‘that’ something.

‘Does this road lead to Aleppo?’

Your answer can be ‘yes’ or ‘no’

Your opinion doesn’t make it so

Consult a map before you go!

~ Rumi


Left behind

My pragmatic self knows fully well that life is not a race. We’re all exactly where we’re meant to be, doing what we’re destined to do. I know this. I understand this. But, for some reason my mind in its moments of space bubbles, tends to go into a semi dark loop of unhappiness. Unknowingly, I find myself comparing my present life situation to people around me. Social media plays it’s part perfectly, reminding me of the things, I could have been doing had things worked out a certain way for me. Reality of life is that things don’t necessarily pan out the way we had imagined. Some of us do get left behind.

Having been unemployed for a little over eighteen weeks, I have had a lot of time to wallow in self-pity. To be reflective, to be naive, to be in denial, to go down the rabbit hole of anxiety, it’s been a rather interesting range of emotions there. Special mention, to the people who have had to listen to my rants and bear with my emotional outbursts, thank you.

This isn’t a fun place to be in, mentally. Because, we want success, and happiness for our loved ones. We want to celebrate each of their achievements, their big moments, be a part of their joy. However, amidst all the champagne and cake and innumerable celebratory brunches, I find a sense of hollow, left behindness taking over. I am pretty sure, I am not the only one who finds themselves in this particular predicament, there are others too, but we’re afraid to verbalize it. Lest, we come across as bad people, unable to be happy for our closest. Believe me, I am happy. My feeling of inadequacy has nothing to do with what you have; it simply poses its self as a reminder of what I don’t.

Someone once told me, the easiest way to set your self up for disappointment is to have a five-year plan. I laughed, because I am all about the five-year plans, typed out, in a binder, with bullet points and a PowerPoint presentation. I like to plan, and work towards mini goals; it’s what gives me a sense of purpose. Yet, I got left behind.

When I look around and see the careers that my friends are having, the places they are vacationing at or even the stage in their personal lives that they are at. I can’t help but feel as though I lost this race. I tell myself, I had to restart my career and life when I moved back to India, and so I am allowed to be a little behind. This rationale doesn’t last for very long. It’s overtaken by a sense of being trapped, a sense of having to walk in the opposite direction of the current, a lack of control coupled with the uncertainty of the future. I wish there was a switch I could hit, as soon as I start tumbling down that abyss, but there isn’t one, and I have to force myself out of that headspace. It’s almost expected that, I shouldn’t be in that headspace. Being an extrovert on most days, I am expected to be a hundred percent enthusiastic about everything. Truth is some days, I cant. There are days, where all I can think about are those exact moments, decisions that have brought me here, to this very moment.

I would sound ungrateful if I didn’t acknowledge the great things that have happened to me the opportunities, and the support that I have received. I have been told, how lucky I was to get to leave the country and follow my heart. A lot of people I know were denied that, and I am grateful for the little things that I take for granted. It’s all about perspective in the end, from where I am sitting, I feel left behind. Someone else, probably feels the same looking at how far I have come?

Facebook Memories

Facebook goes through a gazillion updates every month. They keep trying to make it more relatable to the millennials. Truth be told, a majority of the millennials were toddlers when, my friends and I got Facebook. We were the ones who got on Facebook (thanks to our college email id’s) before they made it accessible for everyone. One of the nicer updates that started sometime in 2016 was Facebook memories. I am pretty sure the idea behind it was to invoke a sense of nostalgia. It’s an attempt to remind you that on this day, each year, what is it that you were doing. Some of the memories that surface are wonderful and puts a smile on your face, some memories, however, don’t have the same effect.

Recently, I have been noticing that a lot of my early 2007 statuses were passive. They sent me right back to freshmen year college and reminded me of certain instances that were the cause of my melancholy. That’s when I realized; why ten years later those status messages are still bothering me. I never got a chance to tell those who are now close friends of mine, how much they hurt me. I taught myself to move on and brush the incident under the rug. Two of the people whom I had met within the first few days of college, after a particularly distasteful conversation had individually written hurtful emails to me. Providence is that, we were able to move past that incident and become great friends. But, 19 year old me was completely broken. Friend A wrote out a lengthy email enumerating everything that was bothering her about me, and friend B sent me a nineteen page word document telling me everything that was wrong with me. I didn’t leave my room for two whole days. They never once came to check up on me. I was alone and broken. The day I was coming home for the summer, they walked into the dining hall and sat at a different table, walked behind me to the dorm and never said goodbye knowing fully well that I was leaving for four months. I was determined not to come back to America. I didn’t want to come back and see them. Those people who had gone to such a lengths to completely break me as a person. Thankfully, I have been blessed with a strong set of friends from school. Sure, we have our differences, we’ve become strong individuals, but, had it not been for them and Hotmail messenger, I don’t know what I would have done. Over the summer, I read a book called “Zahir”. There were these lines about letting go that I find myself going back to time and time again.

As I cried each evening trying to reason with my parents why I don’t want to go back, I couldn’t tell them, it was because my friends broke me from the inside. So, I pleaded, begged, and even told my dad that he didn’t love me till a deal was struck. I would go back to college, provided, that I could transfer out the following year. This also meant that I would have to let go of my scholarship. Dad, agreed. I must have done something right in my life to deserve him as my dad.

I went back to college, semi healed. The only mission I had was to transfer out and find new friends in the city. I managed to do both!

The process of healing can be a long one. Mine has taken ten years. I do get emotional thinking about helpless nineteen year old me, not knowing what to do. Not being able to talk to anyone about it. So I am glad there are books. Certain lines just speak to you. They can teach you to love yourself, even when everyone around you doesn’t. It has taken me all this while to understand, the just because we let go of something, doesn’t mean that it stops hurting you. Certain scars will forever remain.

These are lines that helped me begin the process of healing. I had written it out on a sheet of paper and stuck it to my desk in my dorm room. I’d read it once a day, till I realized I had 6 classes and no time to feel sorry for myself. 😛

“That is why it is so important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Don’t expect to get anything back, don’t expect recognition for your efforts, don’t expect your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Complete the circle. Not out of pride, inability or arrogance, but simply because whatever it is no longer fits in your life. Close the door, change the record, clean the house, get rid of the dust. Stop being who you were and become who you are.”

― Paulo Coelho, The Zahir


“Pakhi shob kore rob, rati pohailo, kanone kushumkoli shokoli phutilo”

It roughly translates to, at sunrise the birds begin chirping and with the chirping the buds of the flowers in the garden begin to bloom. Mornings have for the most of it been my thing. As I grow older, I find myself waking up earlier than before. This, might be because, of the tree that stands tall right outside my window, full of birds, chirping away at the first sign of dawn. The last time, I remember, having to habitually wake up at 6 am was, about a decade ago, when I was in school. Living in suburban Calcutta, we’d have to leave home much earlier than my friends, who lived just minutes away from school. We were up at 6, showered and ready by 7, so that we could get to school by 7:45 am after dropping off my brother and cousin to school. I don’t think I was ever a morning person; also, the concept of sleeping in didn’t exist at our home. So much so, even during our summer holidays, we would wake up by 7 and go about doing our thing for the day. As a matter of fact, apart from my brother no one at home has the propensity to sleep past 7 am.

Having had experience with the early morning routine, I made the mistake of taking morning classes in college. My rationale being, I have done it for fifteen years, I can definitely still do this. How wrong I was. The single most difficult physical task to do during your college years is to pick morning classes that meet thrice a week! To imagine, I had an elective eight am class on Faith and Atheism, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. As an added bonus, all homework assignments and “pop” quizzes were scheduled for Friday! Shocker! By the time I became a junior, I got smarter, unless it was a professor who handed out A’s like candy on Halloween, I would never take another morning class. Unfortunately, the junior housing dorms were a nightmare. If you wanted clean bathrooms, you had to be up early and go shower right after the cleaning lady left. Which, happened to be at 6:30 am. All year round.

Given my mild form of OCD, I found myself altering the very vow that I had taken at the end of sophomore year. I ended up taking three morning classes back to back, because I was waking up early to shower anyway. The things one has to do for satisfy their neurotic behavior. This change in regime, made me who I am today. Eventually, I discovered that I am a morning person. And, that I actually, enjoy waking up early to indulge in some quality me time. When, I moved in with my best friend from college, she’d stay up entertaining our houseguests, while I would pass out as soon as we got home. But, I did make breakfast for everyone with all the quiet time I had in the morning. I justified my inability to stay up post 11 pm.

Over the years, my mornings have become an essential part of me. It started as a need to find a little reading time before heading out to work, soon became an allegory for my zen cave. It is this imaginary space bubble of mine, where all is good. I am surrounded by art, books, caffeine and a lot of thought bubbles.

Chirping birds in the background gives me a sense of calm. The pregnant pauses between the cacophonies of chirping, provides my lone time with its very own original soundtrack. Mornings can be truly magical, if one can learn to appreciate the stillness and grow comfortable with solitude.

Where’s home?

As adults who are part of this rapidly globalizing world, we’re often asked to pinpoint the exact, city that we identify as our home. Honestly, it is the hardest question to answer after “…the nation wants to know.” For some people pat comes the answer, it’s mostly the city where they were born and raised. Where they bought their first home or had their first child etc. These answers are usually related to some significant moment in their life. This however, isn’t the case for the larger segment of our society. Take me for example; I was born in New Delhi, raised in Calcutta, college in Pittsburgh, grad school in Boston and worked in Mumbai, albeit briefly. So, when I’m asked where’s home, I find myself, flummoxing, just a little bit. To me, Calcutta will always be dear, I grew up here, my parents live here, my childhood is associated with this city, but, is this where I feel I belong? Or is it simply, just an emotional attachment, since the people I love and need in my life live here. On days that I was terribly homesick while still in college, I’d wonder if I simply missed mom and dad, or did I miss the city? More often than not, I must confess, I missed my family, my bed and my own bathroom. Living in the dorms and sharing your bathroom with 30 other girls can do that to you.

When we graduated high school, the obsession was to leave Calcutta, immediately. It was understood that one must “get out of Cal.” I too carried this feeling of wanting to leave the city that had watched us grow, protected us and given us the perks of innumerable Bangla Bandhs, thanks to the rivalry between CPI(M) and TMC. It was only, when I left the country did, my inner Shahrukh Khan from Swades surface. I became, Suniel Shetty from Border, not missing the opportunity to say, Bharat mata ki jai! 🙂

My first two years in Pittsburgh were miserable. I would fly back home twice a year, just to get away from everything America. One should have seen me on May, 27th 2010. It seemed as though I was being sent to prison, when I packed up to leave for Boston. I heard, Mariah Carey’s It’s a wrap on loop as my plane took off from Pittsburgh. Somewhere, my overdramatic Bengali self enjoys such moments.

Looking back, I think it was Boston where I found myself. People, who have lived in various cities, will tell you that by the time you leave a city, it has engulfed you and you land up leaving behind a little piece of your heart there. Every city in its unique way teaches you something. It could be something about yourself, how you deal with breakups, how to keep your head down and power through school, one’s strength of character is tested and a bond is thus created. We may find ourselves loving a place more than the others, but essentially, that has got to do more with the people and the memories you make at that particular place. I loved Boston, I had already been living and studying in the U.S. for about four years when I moved there, everything seemed familiar, so the transition to a new city was smooth. I remember leaving the airport and taking Storrow Drive down to Commonwealth Ave. to get to my apartment and falling in love with the city instantly. Boston was a city of many firsts for me, and for that reason it’ll always remain a huge part of my global home.

I cannot end this post without talking about, how some cities that were once a cause of great joy, leave a disturbing aftertaste. New York, for me is that city. A city, that I frequently visited during my time in Boston. Some wonderful memories associated with it, but it’s also a city that caused me a lot of hurt and pain. A place, I’d probably think a lot before visiting again.

Cities do that to us. They imprint on us. They mark us as their own, and consume us with every fiber of their being until we can’t tell ourselves apart.

Handwritten notes

The little library at home is full of books, books that belong to my grandparents, my parents, my brother and a tiny collection that I have procured over the years. Being Bengali, one is predisposed to love books. This gene however, surfaced quite late in my life. The warriors that my parents are, they tried every few years to inculcate the habit of reading into me. At first it was the Noddy collection, and then came the Enid Blyton series, everywhere they went they would bring back books for my brother and I. They even tried Bangla short stories! My brother on the other hand was a voracious reader, as a matter of fact he would average at least two books a week when we were still in junior school. While he looked forward to the Calcutta Book Fair each year, I’d wait for our trips to Nicco Park.

Something changed in 2004 when my brother left for college. Suddenly, I lost my companion, my permanent buddy to do things with. It’s during that summer after ICSE, that I started reading. This is probably why; I hadn’t really explored our little library at home as much as my brother had. All the Tell Me Why’s, the Encyclopedia’s didn’t know of my existence till much later. It was only recently, that I trekked down to our mezzanine floor library to look through my dad’s art books that I stumbled upon one particular book. This book, had an inscription, it said in Bengali, that it was an anniversary present from my grandfather to my grandmother. I stroked over that page and sniffed it to see if the smell would remind me of them. Alas, it reeked of mothballs. Agh!

In another book, I found a note, which said, that my grandfather had won the first prize in 10th grade while studying at St. Gregory’s High School, Dhaka. This was one of the few things that he had brought with him when they had to leave former East Pakistan. That’s the thing about handwritten notes. It transports you to another time almost instantly. I love handwritten letters! This is probably why, I always ask for birthday cards. While studying in the U.S. I’d occasionally send my parents handwritten letters and cards. Whenever they sent me a letter, I would hold it a little close and try to smell my mom’s shower-to-shower powder and dad’s old spice cologne.

While in school, we’re taught to write different types of letters. Formal, informal, official, inquiry, the list goes on. Truth be told, I am almost 30 and am yet to send out an actual formal letter. We are the generation that transitioned from learning to write letters in school, to work emails (mostly). Rummaging through the old books full of little inscriptions, I had the sudden urge to go look for my old letters and cards that are safely kept in the bottom drawer of my desk. Flipping through them, I felt my face hurting from the constant smiling. I identified the letters based on the handwriting pattern. Smiled, that some of my friends still write the same way.

Essentially, our handwriting gives our stories character.

I received an email last night from a dear friend of mine, who is a beautiful writer and one of the few people who still uses the USPS! Reading her digital letter made me miss her perfectly symmetrical handwriting. Every year as we exchanged books on our birthdays, we’d carefully inscribe little saying in it, in pencil of course! As I sat in our library this afternoon, I picked out books given to me by her to feel a little closer. I wish people took the time out to write actual letters. They’re so intimate and personal. It creates a sense of belonging in each other’s world. Also, I feel it would be a far more valuable thing to pass onto the next generation than, digital copies of WhatsApp text messages.

A steaming cup of chai

“ A steaming cup of chai, invokes the memories of the days gone by.”

I tried really hard, to think back to the exact moment that chai became a part of my life. As a child, growing up in a typical Indian household we weren’t allowed to drink tea. So, my first memory related to tea, was that there was always a certain air around teatime at home. And, that I could dip unlimited number of biscuits into my dad’s teacup. Perks of being dad’s favorite, I guess.

From a very young age, I understood that we, Bengali’s, were different from the rest of India when it came to the art of making and drinking tea. In the sense, we knew how to consume the finest tea (Darjeeling of course!); soaked in a porcelain teapot for exactly three minutes, strained into a slightly warm teacup. Saucer was a must!

This however, isn’t the form of tea that I fell in love with. I went the radical way; drawn to the quintessential masala chai, much to my mother’s dismay. Made by boiling milk and water, with a slightly lower grade tealeaf mixed with a powdery concoction of cardamom and ginger, boiled till it resembles the color of a terracotta tile.

Every once in a while, when my tea is brought to me, I catch myself missing my grandparents. I am reminded of my childhood, my brother and I playing around them, as they warned us of the hot cup of tea that they held at a slightly higher level, so that we wouldn’t knock it out of their hands. A steaming cup of chai, can sometimes, invoke those memories, tucked away somewhere in the corner of our brain.

For instance, up till 6th grade, every Wednesday, we’d have to recite the Bengali poem that was being taught to the class that week. We went around the class, standing up one by one, reciting stanzas of the poem of the week. My father claims that we come from a long line of elephants. Thus, he took it upon himself to help me, each week, to memorize my poem, before my class on Wednesday. Sitting out on the balcony each Wednesday morning at 5am with dad, trying to learn one of Tagore’s many poems for class, watching him sip his tea made my day a little brighter. My life seemed perfect.

Teatime, around my mother however, was very different from the rest of the family. Without fail everyday, she got the 5pm caffeine headache. This meant, that going swimming in the evening was in jeopardy. Each summer, my brother and I would wait for the sun to set, mom to finish her cup of boiling hot tea and for her to give us the signal, that we could go get dressed to be taken swimming. We secretly joked about mom being a tea-consuming dragon, as we watched her down her tea within minutes. Now, I understand the reason why mom used to be so quiet while drinking her tea. It was, her me time, something that I have grown to appreciate and enjoy. After, coming home from a long day at school, to have those few minutes before the chaos of the evening began. Years later she told me that she looked forward to go swimming with us, it gave her some lone time with the two of us. We were the three best friends.

About ten years ago, I met one of my best friends in college. We bonded instantaneously, being Indian in a foreign land, does that to you. As we braved our first American winter together, we found solace in steaming cups of chai. It gave us a common ground, a sense of security and the warmth of familiarity. Masala chai brought us together. Till date, whenever we set up our Skype dates, it’s a ritual that we must bring our chai mugs for the date. It makes us feel closer and stronger, perhaps.

A moment of silence must be observed, for all those who are yet to fall in love with the brown nectar of happiness. Also, for those unfortunate souls, who believe that green tea should be considered as a real beverage.

Dear non- tea drinker,

I wish you’d give me a chance.


A steaming cup of chai