r2i forum

?Ganpathi bappa morya!? she said, laughing, tucking a naughty tendril of hair back over her right ear.

?Morya re, bappa morya re!? I chanted, not wanting to be outsung.

We accepted the prasad that the pujari was handing out ? this being a cosmopolitan, albeit Hindu-only apartment building, a mix of South and North Indian offerings ? modaks, kozhukattais, appams, ladoos. Sugar and deep-fried dough, in various combinations.

My son Chota B was beside himself, counting aloud the number of Ganeshas he had already seen. ?Twenty-seven, dad!? We had just come back from lunch at my parents? place ? it had been potluck, but we had been free-riders, not taking anything. My parents - still getting used to our R2I, still too new for them -not thinking it a big deal.

?So,? she asked, ?nine months back, huh? What have been the highs??

It took me no time at all to start ticking them off. ?Not working, for me. After working all those years I was afraid how I would feel but, not working, or rather ?taking time off? as I am calling this exercise in being a bum, is awesome! Yes, I know you?ve heard me bitch and moan about the domestic challenges, the maid issues, the logistical issues that make up life in India, but I am still enjoying being a bum.?

?Do you think you?ll start looking soon??

?I don?t know, it?s going to be a whole year since our R2I and the question keeps coming up. I try not to think about it. Mrs.B is busy enough with her work that we need some stability at home. Or at least, that?s my answer and I?m sticking to it.?

She sensed the closed door in my last sentence and nimbly moved on. ?What else? Missed me?? she lifted her right eyebrow playfully, in that way I remembered.

?Absolutely, you betcha, girl.? I was going all Hollywood soul-brother in my confusion.

Awkward silence.

?So?, the weather? I said.

?What?? she nonplussed by the change in topic.

?I don?t miss the New York weather at all. It?s been what, nine months, and I?ve been dressed like a bum the entire time - shorts, tshirt, chappals. My suits, gathering dust, forlorn sentries lined up in the closet. By now, we would have gone through three changes of clothing back in the US. Winter armor of jacket/shirt/thermal/headwear, then the springtime ensemble of sweater/shirt/jeans, summer undress of shorts/tshirt/flip-flops; fall would have just started so back to the springtime look, except no whites. Here the big wardrobe decision I make is whether to go collared or uncollared.?

?But, change of seasons is also good, no??

?I suppose. I still remember my first snowfall in the US, all those years ago. I was in a Greyhound bus, traveling to Pittsburgh, poor Indian grad student, member of the Rho Beta Rho fraternity, and the bus stopping somewhere on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I remember getting out, wearing a nerdy green coat with attached hood, and feeling this intense calm around me. The flakes coming down silently, unreal yet so familiar from watching in movies. Me scared to make snowballs, conscious of all the other travelers, afraid they would think I was a boatie.?

?Boatie??

?Yeah, ?boatie?, you know, as in ?fresh off the boat?.?

She giggled, rolling the word around in her mouth. ?I like that. You?re a boatie now aren?t you, again??

?True that, girl. A much older, balder boatie.?

?Sorry, I interrupted your beautiful snow story.?

?No, it?s okay. So yeah, that magical feeling took its first hit a week later when I fell on the icy pavement on my way to class. And the magic turned into full-scale hatred a few years later, when we moved into the ?burbs and bought our house, and had to shovel the snow.?

?Aw, shoveling snow sounds like fun, good exercise too, no??

?Hrmp? I harrumphed. ?*You* try doing it for 2 months in a row, 6 am in the morning; sometimes, for extra fun, with a hangover from partying the night before.?

?Throwing snow balls look like so much fun though!?

?Sure, of course? I was backpedaling now, trying to sound cooler, less suburbanized, less of an old fart. ?We built a snowman once, when Chota B was about a year old. It was great!?

She smiled wistfully. ?Well, Bangalore doesn?t offer too many chances to build snowmen.?

Chota B came skipping by, tilak on forehead, modak in hand, smile from ear to ear. ?Daddy, I just saw another Ganesha outside on the road. That makes it TWENTY-EIGHT!?

Great read ! Can't wait for next installment.

Haha, wonderful style...fresh...just like that first snowfall experience of the poor Indian boatie belonging to the Rho Beta Rho fraternity :)

Waiting for more generous helpings of the delicacy that you have peddled in Post # 1 :)

Nice read. Feel like reading a fiction work of Chetan Bhagat or Chitra Divakaruni.

Oh yeah!

Waiting for the next installment where:
Chhota B goes out of the room to play with his friends and leaves you and your giggling companion alone.
You reminisce about the life in USA while she playfully lifts eyebrows and naughtily tucks away tendrils of hair.
You tell her about the America she never saw and she shows you the India you missed.

I'll get the popcorn ready... :p

Thanks all for your comments :))

Trip to Wonderla Resort – Part 1

Em got into our car wearing one of those new type salwar suits, the one that’s all wavy front to back to side; pale green with white embroidery, tangerine dupatta.

Never one to let the obvious remain unsaid I burst out, “So which drunken tailor designed that salwar of yours?” Followed immediately by an “Ouch!” as Mrs.B from the back seat gave my ribs a hard jab.

Em snickered. “Oh gawaar you! This, my dear” she said, doing a ta-da twirl, “is the latest craze around these parts. The handkerchief salwar.”

“Hmm, not sure why the top is sooo…asymmetrical – left side is down, center is up, all wavy-shwavy. Maybe the tailor ran out of material and decided to improvise. Or maybe he had a case of the trembling fingers; you know, from one tipple too many.”

“Yeah, you would know, wouldn't you, Mr.Johnnie?”

She got in the back seat with Mrs and Chota B, and the two women immediately got talking girly things - shopping, waxing ladies, Imran Khan. After the tenth word, my head spinning, I stated paying attention to where our car was going.

This being a Sunday, the traffic in Bangalore was thin. Our driver had decided to go to Wonderla using the Bangalore-Mysore road. I kept looking at the state of the road and thinking of that line from “A Wednesday” where the electrocuted guy (“Electric Baba”) is being interviewed on TV and says “Aaj kal maloom nahin ki raaste mein khadda hai, ya khadde mein raasta! Anushasan ko kuch karna chahiye!” (nowadays, I don’t know if the roads have holes in them or if the holes have roads in them. The government has to do something!) I think a lot about that line nowadays in Bangalore.

We were going through one of the densely populated parts of town.

Conversation in the back seat having lapsed, I decided to step into the breach. “So many airy people in India. Airy people, air-ye peoples, please to get out of the way” I sang. Mrs. B shook her head, having heard this theory of mine before.

Em hadn’t, so “How now, brown cow?”

“Well, I have this theory that people in India are full of air. Scratch that – they are air. That is what gives them the confidence to walk into the face of traffic. See, if you are air, then what do you care about getting hit by a car going at 40 kmph?”

“Hmm, brilliant point, I hadn't thought of that before”

“Look” I pointed, warming up to my exposition, “look at that dude wearing the Superman T-shirt and the backpack that says IBM. Here he is crossing through 4 lanes of traffic, 4.5 if you include the cyclists. Does he have any trace of fear on his face? Any apprehension? None! Now, that can be explained in a few different ways. (a) he is drunk, but it is 10 in the morning and he has a big tilak on his head, so we need a better explanation (b) he is blind (c) he is brave – (b) can be eliminated because he is looking at us right now, and (c) – definitely a possibility I give you that. But but but, here’s my genius theory, how can the entire population of a country be brave – that is statistically impossible, think bell curve and all that. Ergo, the only possibility left is (d) – he is made of air and people made of air do not need to worry about collisions.

She looked awe-struck. Then: “What a load of shit!” she said, in a marveling tone.

Mrs.B concurred, “Tell me about it! And I am married to this guy.”

“Believe don’t believe,” I said, “but look around you and don’t tell me you don’t think my theory has at least an iota, a rai worth of truth in it.” We watched IBM dude, having safely passed our car, now blithely negotiating his way past a chewing cow.

“And some of these hawa log, air people, they are also bandits; to be more accurate, some of the women are” I said, bit firmly champed in mouth, hobby horse firmly betwixt thighs.

“What fresh horseshit is this, husband?” demanded Mrs.B.

“Look at that hawa person!” I said pointing – excited at the chance to immediately do a show and tell of part b of my hawa people theory – at a girl moving through the traffic, face covered, only her eyes showing.

“Oh fool only you are!” Em laughed, “she is wearing her dupatta over her face because she doesn’t want to inhale the pollution in the air.”

“That’s what someone else said when I told him my theory. But how do you know that? Have you ever stopped one of them and asked, ‘Ms. Jahnavi, why you have your face covered’? Have you ever followed them inside a building to see them take off their dupatta? Maybe you will go inside with her and see that the big handbag she is carrying really has a knife and she is planning on holding up the poor Barista guy in the food court, maybe?”

Both women were struck silent by this fresh gem. I turned back to look. They had each decided to ignore me.

I turned to stare through the windshield again and broke a smile. We had arrived at Wonderla Resort.
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Gawaar – country bumpkin
Rai – mustard seed

Ha. Forgot to ask about your Wonderla experience, lovely writing, my friend.