Buried

How often have you felt pain, so great, so deep as Debbie felt that day? You can't count on it, that the answer is never. But the strange part about this story is, that Debbie never felt the pain that day. Not as much as she did each day, for the rest of her life.

She was running down the street, frenzied like the storm. Tears pouring out of her eyes and streaking across her face as she tears through the wind. It had been cloudy for a while, and just then thunder struck the sky. The ladies in their attires of bright colours popped open their umbrellas like a synchronized dance movement to the slight drizzle from the sky.

Everyone was so self engrossed outside, they were just looking for shade. While Debbie just ran, she ran as fast she could. Oh and did I mention she was clutching that thing, so close to her heart. It was a brown paper bag pressed within the fingers of her left hand.

Very soon, as the world began to turn into a haze behind her, she reached where she had to go. It was the canal, that was flowing through the heart of the city, dirty, murky and full of trash. She was sprinting so fast, she somehow stopped at the barricade. Thunder struck skies above enveloped her as she pulled the paper bag away from her heart. Little could she see what was inside, it was wrapped once, twice, thrice over. Her exercise had ripped the bag a little. Her hand was smeared with blood. Quiet as a rock, she parted the folds of the soiled paper bag and there it was, the fetus, a lump of flesh and blood. Then with one quick move and one brief grunt, she tossed it into canal and looked at her hands stained with blood. No it wasn't that moment when she felt the greatest pain. God had another plan for her, he showered the most torrential rain from the skies. Within seconds, her hands were clear. She looked around, there was no one. And that's how it was usually around that stretch of the canal. But Debbie whirled herself around, searched for a face but none did she find. And at that point she felt the sharpest kind of pain. For the rest of her life on secret and no one to share. Not even by accident, not even by chance, not even force was anyone there. It was buried.

Are you over this break-up?

New York has its unique ways of bringing people together. Five years ago Maya and Tara came together in their little New York apartment at 110th and Riverside Drive, Apartment 5C. Those days, Tara - six feet tall, blonde actress and fashion photographer, was struggling to find a paid gig of any kind. Maya on the other hand was a fresh arrival from India to pursue her Ph.D in Literature and Creative writing from Columbia University.

These days, Tara (29) is assisting James Black, Vogue's favourite fashion photographer. Maya (26) however, is still struggling to finish her Ph.D.

17th May 2012
Maya and Tara are chilling in Maya's room. Maya is sitting on the rug, painting her toe nails in a bright shade of "cherry tomato" while Tara is lying on her stomach, on the bed, is reading the latest issue of cosmopolitan.

"Do you think reading cosmopolitan is unintellectual?" Tara asks Maya.
"Ummm...I think you're good as long as you're reading something."
Tara clumsily turns the page.
"All right, let's do this quiz. 'Are you over your breakup', twenty glorious questions to freedom. Let's go with you since I have literally forgotten how to have a romantic relationship with the other homosapien sex."
Maya shoots her a "weird" look.
"So Maya, what's the most difficult part about life after breakup? Is it A) No one to take care of you. B) No one to make love with. C) No one to give you sweet presents or D) No one to fight with. Huh?"
Tara wriggles her eyebrows curiously.
Maya finishes painting her toenails with a master-stroke of her cherry tomato over her little toe.
"What do I say, these are ridiculous options. None of them make sense and I AM over this break up."

Tara bursts out laughing. Maya looks at her angrily.
"Oh, so you don't think I am over him?"
"Ah, yes. You are over him. But are you over this break up? Uh-ah. NOWAY."
"What's the difference? And what is,  'are you over this break-up' anyway."
"Come on Maya, what's your answer, A,B,C or D?"
"None. I mean the only thing that I find difficult about this break up is that I still find his golden hair camouflaged in my bed and that makes me sad. It makes me sad to remember that he once used to sleep in my bed. That I had someone next to me. And it keeps reminding me that it was not a bad dream, it was all real. And now he's sleeping in someone else's bed. Asshole!"

"Ok Maya, next question. Are you ready to sleep with someone else?"
"Sure. If my new thesis advisor Mr. Andrew Keller agrees to it."
Tara closes the magazine with an excited slap.
"Shut up, seriously? I thought you were kidding when you were yapping about his gorgeous brown hair that night at the bar."
"No way, I was perfectly serious. I have a major major crush on him and I have a strong feeling, now that he's my thesis advisor, I might just graduate next spring. And now I don't want to."
"You have this crazy thing for older men Maya."
"I don't know if I'd classify my "attraction tendencies" as that, but I do feel Andrew Keller and I connect in a strange, ethereal-romantic way but do I want to do anything about it - N.O. I don't think he's even thinking about it. I don't need another painful phase in my life by pushing this any further than where we are."

Tara listens carefully and then nods.
"Tara, tell me, do you like kids?"
"I would say mostly my relationship with kids of this world can be defined as peaceful." Tara smiles. "Peaceful? Seriously? Haven't you ever had a bawling baby next to you on an eight hour flight?"
" Eight hour flight? Come on, I am from New Jersey and that aside, no, kids are cool with me. I don't mess with them, they don't mess with me."
"Then why do they mess with me? Today, the entire time on the subway this kid just screamed his lungs out and his mother was pretending like she's deaf. And strangely most people even found the kid cute. I just wanted to punch him. And then I saw this ugly fourteen or something boy with like a twenty something woman kissing in the subway car. It was disturbing. Then I realized that the girl is not twenty, she's just dressed to look older. And then that was even more disturbing. I don't know, why do I have this strange relationship with kids?"

"It's all bad karma my friend." Tara speaks in a dramatic voice.
"Do you think even the break up was because of bad karma?"
 Maya looks up at Tara's face. Tara is silent.

Pages from my life

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try you don't get what you want.
Recently I may have run after things that I believed were good for me but it all turned out sour at the end of it.
I can't even say "at the end of it" because I never even got there.
Yes, there is a tremendous disjunct, a feeling of dissatisfaction, a lack of closure.
One might wonder if things so new, so embryonic in its existence could have the potential to effect someone so much.
But it's not the matter itself that is the problem, the problem is the nature of its existence, its form, its arch, its premature end.
I have made my mistakes, I know. But I never believed I could be worthy of this kind of punishment.
No one deserves to be in an emotional limbo and yet when I tried to free myself from it, why do I feel like I haven't budged an inch from where I was?

So I pacified myself by talking, by talking of good times, by talking rubbish but somewhere it didn't help.
Deep inside I am aware that it was all wrong, unworthy of probably even this blog post.

However, what makes this post worthwhile is the fact that writing has tremendous cathartic powers and with this I now have my closure.

Why

“The world is a terrible place.” She said taking a severe gulp off the clear green beer bottle dangling loosely off her hands and moving side to side between her knees.
His fingers still deeply engrossed in rubbing that delicate bit of paper filled with preciousness in the center, he looked up half way and smiled.

She assumed an offbeat crawl and went over to him. Her dark curls fell wildly over her face and she was clad in the most masculine t-shirts that revealed a sensitive shade of pink underneath, when she crawled.
“Nobody understands you.” She lit a cigarette dramatically.
He licked the rim of the paper and rolled it to ultimate perfection. The fragrant joint glowed between his lips and a vast mist of smoke covered his vision of her face. He took the cigarette from her hand and placed the joint within the soft horizon of her mouth.
“Nobody understands you.” She nestled into his strong strong chest and he wrapped his arms around her.
“But you do right?” He looked down at her face, so low that it almost looked like his eyes were closed.
“Nope!” The joint switched hands. He shook his head and let out a smile.

They swayed from side to side as the music became more pronounced in her world.
“Why is she singing so loud?” She said twitching her face to a strange contortion and putting her hands over her ears childishly.
“Who?”
She raised her eye-brows in response.
“Who?” He screamed.
“She. You know how I love her. Her voice is like silk." She paused. “Or used to be.”
“I am sure but I don’t hear her.”
She laughed wildly, throwing her head back. He traced his fingers over the smooth contours of her neck.
“Wow! I love your neck. It is so beautiful.”

She smiled, took his hand and got up from the floor. She swayed to the music and walked over to the low redwood table. She stood up on it and called him towards her. She started dancing. He walked over to her, pulled her towards him and rested his head under her heart. She held him so close. There was not a pore, not a molecule of air between them.
“Do you wanna dance?”
He had never danced on a table before. She could have, but this was her first too.

There was a haze of an earthy intoxicating scent around them. Yes, it was still glowing and taking turns between their lips.
He drew her close to him and they moved in the most lyrical dance ever.
“Do you hear the music?” She asked.
“No.”
“Do you know why you love me.
“No.”
“Do you know why I love you?
“Why?”
She leaned in and whispered into his ears, “Because…”

These days I get depressed just waking up in the morning and things get better by night. Right now I feel I will never be able to like NYC or life here. I feel stupid. I feel lonely. I miss my life in India.

She's got no music on her ipod. No money in her jeans. Just a bag full of memories and a lover she cannot see. She is not a hippie. She is not a tramp. She is not any ordinary girl. She has a hole in her sandal 'cause she likes to taste the earth beneath. She's probably worth a million bucks that she ain't ever seen.

It's another thing that she will not speak, she's got a spindle for a steering wheel. If you look behind her speedy wagon, you will see her stories billowing in the wind. She has no religion, just legends lingering down her long hair.

No road maps, just gut. No blinkers, just the mind. No whisper, no sweet sigh, just grunts of struggle. Swift, determined, masculine rhythm of the feet. Ain't she the most beautiful things? Mud covered and fiery with fervour.

The Post-coital Cigarette

There is nothing like a post-coital cigarette. Nothing envelops you in a more comforting embrace, not even the man next to you. And, it eases your journey back to earth in its charming haze. So it doesn’t matter whether he lights up first or you do, it is most essential to save it from the other set of greedy eyes and dedicate every drag to your very own solo cigarette. The sharing must not extend beyond the laboured love-juices. That's a rule. Because every cigarette speaks to you and the post-coital ones, specifically, have a mind of their own and are demanding when it comes to individual attention. So it can assume the role of the faceless agony aunt, a friend, the knock-some-sense-into-your-head sister, a potential lover or in short it possibly is the best virgin whore you’d ever come across. This makes me wonder if the post-coital cigarette is at all the “post-coital cigarette” or is it coitus itself. You may lose yourself with it or maybe just find yourself. But the post-coital cigarette truly lends itself beyond a concept or a cliché. It is the one guaranteed good thing, whether after a total downer or a complete jackpot. My vote goes for the post-coital cigarette and its dynamism.

From what I was to what I will be

The anticipation of change has engulfed me in its rough-uncertain clutches. From what I'll leave behind to what lies ahead - a big gorge lying before my feet. Right now, I am just kicking stones from the edge and engaging in an eccentric metaphoric calculations of the worst. I must take the big leap. Only in hope of something better. And let me tell you, change is always better, irrespective of its final outcome. And it is hard for someone like me, who in the deepest darkest corners of the mind shits bricks just thinking of change. But like they say, once you've done it, it never really seems like such a big deal. It's like a video game where I've just got through level one and I know not what level two holds for me. So why try to anticipate what lies ahead? It's a futile exercise that broadly has two ways to go - Either I get to level three or I don't. Worst case we can all start over again. After all, it's all but a game.

Truth and dreams

She stood there by the window, looking out at the little school children walking back home with their mothers. This scene had never moved her as much as it did then. She was unaware of these feelings, until that day. She felt a tug, a lump in her throat and doubt clouded her mind. She remembered the day they made love. It was not tender. It was psychedelic and passionate. They had smoked hash all morning and remained in a state of constant daze. They smoked the same joint but reveled in their own private spaces. Until the time she and him couldn't sit apart, couldn't be untangled from an embrace. What followed was a wild orgy of feelings, a mad rush, a splatter of vivid colours and the attainment of that corner of darkness that shines like light.

But once the daze wore off, once they both hit life's relentless treadmill again, she and him never believed in the truth of that night. She never believed she could have an out-of-body experience. She never believed it was possible for souls to connect in such a deep fashion. She never believed something could be so purely good. They, never believed it happened.

She blinked as she was woken from her thoughts by the ringing noise of the phone. She looked away from the little girls holding their mother's hands. She paused before the telephone and then she answered in one quick move. She said, "Hello doctor. Yes, I shall be there to terminate the pregnancy." She hung up.

You are searching

The more and more I grow up, the more the futility strikes me.
While sometimes I am basking in the glory of life, sometimes it all just falls flat.
I don't need much, but a purpose and love. But then again, is that enough?
I have memories of my childhood and memories otherwise. Traveling through the few years, I am who I am. It is so funny that it is history that fills us up with meaning, and then it is history that makes us so empty. I can be no other, nothing better. Nothing worse.
And then sometimes I think we're all lost. We're all wandering aimlessly with the false notion of an elevated existence. Our life is only about an interaction with the fellowmen. Guilty of desiring more, we are doomed collectively.
I know sometimes this feeling grows more intense and I start questioning my existence. It is a matter of minutes to choose to fall on the other side of the wall. But what grips my feet to this ground, is the fear. The immense fear of the unknown. Is that such a good thing after all?
It won't be quite untrue if I said it never struck me that this could all be a dream and our real lives lie beyond this point. It shakes me up completely. It is like that feeling when you look in the mirror and for a second, yes for second on the clock, you can separate your body from your
soul.
So then why is it that we run so hard towards God-knows-what? What makes us any better than the penniless wanderer down in the streets? What are we really? Where are we at? Dead or alive? We don't know.

Page

It lies blank before my eyes.
And then I see a shade of green.
Quite like the colour of rot, absolute decay.
Then it turns blue, like the veins peeping through my skin.
And in a minute it is red.
Dark and patchy, patterns of blotched blood.
Iridescent now, psychedelically spread.
Then again it turns blank.
Is it there? I no not.
What is real? I no not.
The colours or the page.

Apologies to everyone

Apologies to everyone that I exist.
Apologies, I dare to breathe off key.
Apologies that I lambaste rational and flout logic.
I didn't choose to muse the virgin passion hiding within emotions.
In denial, guilty of blasphemy - I know in a clandestine moment
my creators have questioned my being.

I got the balance all wrong.
I didn't understand the equation,
I am sorry I didn't choose to be like this.
I don't know who to blame or who to thank for a springtime mishap.
It spreads across my forehead,
in words more than it can hold.
Rubbish, rag, unfit, evil and demonic to a large extent.
I am not a fish out of water, I am just the fish who tried the fly.

I am guilty of existing, of being inadequate to rhyme.
The constant tussle between Me and how Me should be,
has left me battered.
The easy road is the one that leads to redemption
and the tough one leaves me back here.
It is a matter of seven days and I'd crawl back to my dungeon.
Yes, the same one where legends remain along with the corpse
of the past.
I am nobody's friend, nobody's daughter, nobody's sister
and nobody's lover.
I am a monster in a human jacket and the show will be off soon.

When shall we meet

There they lay your reading glasses, right over the scribbles of your unfinished love song.
There, the silent embers of your post-lunch smoke.
The car seat adjusted precisely to nestle you back in.
The warmth of the covers of our chatty nights, perfectly intact.

Remember the red ketchup blotch on the lace table cloth that was blushing like a bride, on the day you accidentally smeared it? You know today it is so dull with displeasure, it shies away from the burning eyes of the world.
My toothbrush now, once a twin of yours, resembles a hag frenzied by the years.
While yours, stands still in the pavilion waiting, never to bat again.
And you know, I swear, sometimes when I am not trying too hard, I can smell your perfume right around me. Feels like if i close my eyes you will come and kiss me.
Your voice is still so fresh in my mind that I am often deluded beyond control.
"Oh! Baby come with me", sometimes I say it out aloud after you. Then a deep sense of pain runs across my heart because I don't sound like you and you would never say it again.
But will you believe if I told you, that now I never cry. The gush of feelings that once charged through my veins at the drop of a hat, now remains unshaken by the greatest of the thunders.

And amidst all this (that I find very little) there is some of me still left. I know I am just waiting for you to call my name. I am in a hurry to join you and that's my prayer every night.
"Oh! Baby come with me", are all my ears desire.

The Queen of the Crescent Bed

In the darkness of the night it was all shimmering and shiny.
There was a crescent shaped bed with gold silk covers and embroidered throws.
It was queenly, the ambience and the moonlight. The bed gyrated slowly almost in a drunken delight. And as soon as his footsteps fell upon the tinker of the bling, a thousand glowing lamps suspended their heads from the hook of the sky.

He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. Like a goddess she appeared from behind the flowing drapes. Dressed in her famous crimson robe that had gold thread work, embroidering the story of her life to the minutest detail. Rosey cheeks, full red lips and dark cascading hair. Her beauty was captivating. Her charm inescapable. He stood there watching her as the music began to fill up the place. And as he smiled, she took it as a sign. Dropped her robe to reveal her black lace garter and the scarlet corset. Jazz music was her favourite and it always brought out her best moves. She moved like a diva, she shimmered like a star. She took his hand and made him climb the fourteen stairs to the Crescent Bed and then began her act, in the blanket of the balmy night.
With the bed gyrating in mid-air, they moved rhythmically to all that jazz. The gold of her eye-shadow sparkled around, her powdery blush sprinkled down. It was like magic bursting out.

Then the glowing lamps turned into fire crackers, magnificent upon the sky. They made love till the moonlight was shy. Her heavenly aura fused with his masculine cologne and it smelled like love all around. So while she lay within his tender embrace, catching time in the net of her lashes, she sang softly ta-da-la-la-ta-da-da-da. But there it was, her crimson robe upon the invisible soil, the dark floor. She noticed the curse was awake. Just around the corner of her breast pocket the gold thread worked upon a new tale. That was her story. Colour, in the dull of monotony. A tramp by profession, an angel by desire.

Just, by the way.

Girl: Okay, so what if I was an old woman. 88, wrinkled, very very sick, scanty gray hair and even fewer teeth?
Boy: (Thinking)
Girl: What if I was a man? Potbellied and content.
Boy: (Sniffles)
Girl: Maybe a hooker in a vibrant attire, with big full lips?
Boy: (Shrugs)
Girl: A young girl who could be so much but is nothing more than lonely?
Boy: (Knits eyebrows)
Girl: A killjoy. Just a very very bitter man?
Boy: (Shifts in his place)
Girl: What if, I was a stranger?
(Bit of a pause)
Boy: (Sighs and smiles.) You are but what you are now, and all of this in a lifetime. If this was a puzzle, I would never solve it. It is in our nature to be impregnated by multiplicity. It is, who is in the lead at a given point of time, that matters. The stranger, the hooker, the old lady or the killjoy, your essence is permeable. Dynamic like a kaleidoscope.
Your essence must be felt and rejoiced. Not killed in a grotesque attempt to capture it. Tic-toc, tic-toc and its time for another lead.

So when was it really?

Sometimes things lie right before you and you fail to recognize them. Feelings, most often are the biggest scams of 'em all. I have a memory of a memory. Memories that unveiled the truth before me.

That night when we were sitting on the floor with a half empty bottle of wine, when right above our heads the roof turned into the sky. When talk fused into a shimmering song and we got consumed by its magic. Right at that moment I remember, I fled back to the day we were on the big blue bus. When we were listening to Jesus the Mexican boy. When my hair was falling over my face and you blew it gently away to look into my eyes. A moment of nothingness turned around and looked straight into my face.

Then I came back to where we were and had an unconscious smile spread over my face. Now, when I think of it, I know it's that moment when I fell in love with you. Yes, it was then that I lived a lifetime in a moment without even knowing I did. It was then that I fell in love with you.

Notun Bou II

Two continuous days of relentless downpour and a house arrest is what perfectly describes our first two days in Calcutta. Top that with a sudden disruption in the normal digestive functions leading to a ban on eating any of the mouthwatering delicacies that were being whipped up morning noon and night, and you have a real bummer. No it wasn't Paris, it was me who was betrayed by my solid Indian digestive system, right after a gluttonous attack on the shingaras presented before us on the very first eve of our arrival.

Yes, right after the major drama over the Grand Old Man's coughing fit both Paris and I were taken away from the scene. I don't know if we were being protected from the wrath of the Old Man or he from the sinners. Whatever it was, he soon recovered after seeing the family doctor who adequately assured him that he was not going to die in the next hundred years. By late afternoon he went back to believing that Paris was English. He said she reminds him of Queen Victoria and smiled a toothless smile. Yeah right! None of us wanted to mess with the Old Man so we nodded and smiled.

At that moment the overcast sky climaxed violently in a deafening roar and let down heavy rain showers. What a relief from the sultry weather. Hot and crispy shingaras were ordered from the corner tea stall. "Dekhe baba dekhe." (Go easy honey!) Warned Jethima as I pounced on the Shingaras, greedy for the sweet crunchy peanuts that surprise your taste buds in every alternate bite. The greed paid off.

I had to place our old antique easy-chair close to the washroom and settle there with my laptop. Paris was sitting on the bed and enjoying sinfully aromatic topshe maach bhaaja. She had acquired a taste for the quintessentially Bengali food cooked in our house rather quickly.
"Let me sign into facebook. Please!"
"Let me eat the maach bhaaja. Please." I snapped.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." She spoke in a devilishly sweet manner.
I was supremely annoyed and decided to take my mind off the fish. I lit a cigarette and chose to concentrate on my dull e-mails from work.
"Oh my God! This is revenge right? You are doing it deliberately, aren't you?" Suddenly Paris lost her calm.
"What? What did I do?"
"You are smoking."
"So?"
"So, I want a drag." She said in a sulky voice.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." And that was the end of it. Paris got up and left along with the plate full of maach bhaaja. I was certain that I had guaranteed myself a couple of sleepless nights on the floor. But what does a man with a super rapid bowel movement really do when he has exotic home food all around him and silly family members running around to feed all of it to his wife. But then I had to concentrate on how to make it up to Paris. I had a plan. Only a cigarette could make up for the rising smoke of anguish. I knew that the bado chaat (big terrace) had a spot where no one usually ventured and that could be easily assigned to her as her official smoking hideout. The only problem was that I would have to get up from my strategic position and show her the place. At that time I just couldn't trust my gut!

Redemption was necessary for survival. So I said a small prayer and left my chair. Viola, I made it through the courtyard, two side passages and a climb of sixty six steps to the bado chaat with only a slight feeling of uneasiness. I had Ghontopotol, our ancient household help Raghu da's recently adolescent son, usher Paris to the chaat. I was hoping Ghonto would act quickly but I don't think he understood my urgency. I was leaning against the rickety wooden door and running my fingers through the marks of its age, the fractures running down its body, as I waited.
I heard footsteps. Two pairs to be precise. Paris appeared from the darkness of the staircase to the sunlight impregnated porch. I was just about to whisk her off to the backside of the thakur ghar (little temple in the house) where we piled up relics of our lives but she stopped.

"What's up?" I asked her.
Breathless from the exercise, she looked into my eyes with a sense of alien intensity and said, "Who's Dola?"

Scribbles

June 24th
Just before leaving for office, as I chew on my solitary jam sandwich.

Thought attack!

Dear Wife

It's that time of the year again. (Do not fear my opening line.)
Let us go just you and I to some solitary place where love resides!
Pack your bags and we shall be off to any place of your choice. (Do not fear the dreadful rhyme.)
If you do not like the mountains, I shall be pleased to understand your love for the sea.
Wake up my dahlin and make up your mind.
Let us travel. Let us explore. Again.

Yours

In a new shade

Changed the old template of my blog.
Though I really liked the previous look, this one's not too bad either.
I love the colours.
So maybe this new look will inspire me to write more, write better.
Here's to a new start...of life in a new shade!

Notun Bou

Notun Bou, a term typically used in any bengali family for the new bride in the house. From in-laws, distant relatives to her very own husband, anybody can call her Notun Bou. It's a generic term really but sometimes when the Notun Bou happens to be the last one of the family (as in married to the youngest son after whom no other boy from that generation is to be married) she maybe christened as that for a lifetime. As far as my traditional bengali family is concerned, I know that each notun bou in our family is carefully scrutinized like each and every chingri (prawn) that comes home for lunch. I can say that because I have witnessed two of my uncle's marriages while I was young. Once married, then quite like the chingri the notun bou too is brought out like a priced dish before the members of the family, who then (depending on whether she caters to their taste or not) pass a judgment about the selection. In short, she must appeal to a whole host of people before being accepted as a member worthwhile of our great Bengali brahmin family. I always wondered what made them so proud, so superior that a large section of the society was considered as unworthy association.

Anyway, here I was sitting in a yellow Ambassador Taxi after seven whole years with my Notun bou by my side to meet my family. I was nervous, I was jittery, I felt I should have never flown down or even told them about my white skinned American wife Paris. For starters it took me a couple of hundred dollars to call home and explain that Paris was her name and not where she belonged. My father had maintained a strict silence policy on the topic of my marriage with a Non-Bengali, Non-Brahmin, Non-Indian girl. It was however my grandfather who for some freak reason believed that his great associations with the British must continue in the form of an English Notun Bou. (Give me a break, I sent six e-mails saying that Paris is American not English.) However, the man was ninety-three already and pretty senile to say the least. Though it did work in my favour or should I say in favour of my blasphemous marriage. According to my parents, their handsome scientist son had been robbed off from them by a strange colonial force. Paris had laughed when she heard this. All I could say is, "you have no idea."

Enter home, freshly painted in a coat of pale ocher yellow. Dark green windows studded on the walls and a gigantic iron gate with intricate art, right in front of us. They had no idea we were coming home. I had deliberately not informed them of the correct date of our arrival. Maybe I was just trying to delay the great rendezvous. Even if by an hours journey from airport to home.

Before my family could find out, our neighbours had already collected in their balconies and were quite shamelessly ogling at my Paris. Paris remained unshaken like a pillar. She even made eye contact with them and smiled. Soon my entire family swarmed the gate to welcome us. More like they came to check out the great foreign specimen brought back by their very own son.

"Eta-e ki Paris?" (Is this Paris?) Asked my Jethima (Father's elder brother's wife).
I wondered what they were expecting, the Eiffel Tower? Before I could answer Paris dived in for her feet hiding between the pleats of her traditionally draped, off-white cotton sari and perfectly executed a pronam. (Plus five for spontaneity.) Inside in the huge courtyard remained the unenthusiastic members of the family like my father, Jethu (father's elder brother), and Naroo Thakuma (Grandfather's unmarried younger sister who was famous for making naroos or coconut laddoos). We were presented before them like convicts before the court of law.
"Meye na chele?"(Is she a girl or a boy?) reacted toothless Naroo Thakuma. I don't blame her as Paris had short cropped blonde hair, an athletic body because of her tennis obsession, she was almost 6 feet tall like me and wore pants. Quite radical for the 1920's generation. Paris smiled on. I almost felt criminal for inflicting this torture over my darling wife. So many hours in that flight and still standing before the jury...I mean my family.

"Shotti biye kore phelli?" (So you really got married?) Said my mom in a strange tone of disbelief.
"Ta biye korli to bou ke ekta sari poriye aante parli na?" (But atleast you should have brought home the new bride in a sari.) Interjected Naroo Thakuma.
"Sari ta porato ke? Aami?" (And who would have draped the sari for her? me?) Well spontaneous-me was never good news for my family. The younger bunch giggled while the elders just cringed further. My father cleared his throat in a rather frightening way and instructed the ladies to take us to the Grand Old Man of India. Paris did great at holding that smile amidst the overflow of Bangla and sublime hostility.

When we reached inside we saw the Grand Old Man resting on his bed. He had shed so much weight that I almost couldn't recognize him at first. But that majestic demeanor would certainly take nine lives to shed. So, the Grand Old Man was far far away from being the poor old man!
"Welcome to India young lady." He cried out from the bed. Finally someone spoke her language.
"Thank you. How are you sir?"
"Very well. I see the English are back."
(Honey just smile and nod. Just smile and nod!)
"But now you are married to an Indian boy. It is all because of my good relationship with the British officers posted here. But when I was in England my friends used to tell me that I would marry a mem sahib. I was very handsome, you see. But marriage is a matter of fate so never mind what happened after that."
Paris and I were both dying to laugh but the seriousness of his tone made us hold back.
"So I hear you are from Paris?"
"Actually my name is Paris. I am not English. Or French."
"You are not English?" Grand Old Man sounded furious. Like he has been cheated.
"I am American."
"American?" He said with a strange sense of disgust, made his eyes small, shook his head and started coughing violently. It got worse and turned into a mad coughing fit. I had no idea what was happening. Everyone came rushing and surrounded him like the paramedics. Paris was now officially kicked off from her "hold that smile" mode and I was just plain puzzled.

to be continued...