License to Drive

I am sitting in the waiting area of the DMV office of Tampa, Florida. This is the first time, in all these years, I am actually about to take a driving test on the road. But being born in India, I have had possession of a driver’s license, without having to prove my skills behind the wheels. Ever. Just one of the many reasons why I love my country so. 

But this is the real deal. Here, sitting amongst a swarm of people, counting every minute to my test, I had summoned all the 330 million Gods I have been told since my childhood to have existed. What’s the point, I had asked, if not help me on this crucial day? What’s the point of my Dad being the devoutly religious man that I have always known him to be? Or Mom, who despite her relatively pragmatic approach to religion, has always offered prayers, bending down on her wobbly knees, in our dingy 'goxai ghor' - the size of a full-fledged bedroom of the apartments here? Where idols of Gods in all forms, shapes, and sizes, sit peacefully staring at you and scaring the living daylights every time I stand under the aura of that roof. Not sure whether it is its age or that it rests on a slightly secluded area of our rambling old house, the one where a bunch of Dad’s siblings had lived, and left behind memories. Where vivid memories of my childhood were also being made. I think it’s the intimidating history that this part of my home cradles that overwhelms me each time I step inside it. Memories of pujas, kathas, naam kirtans - so sharp in my memory that it takes a mere nudge down that road for them to come tumbling down over me. 

But today, the patchy black cement floor of that room, which always stays cool, even during the unrelenting hot summer months, is all I can think of for solace. Sitting in the DMV office, typing away on my phone, I am oddly reminded of that house of Gods that had seen me through so many milestones. 

I think of them and beg for a good outcome, feeling the palpitations of my heart every passing minute. I quickly take a picture of me to freeze the moment. And hope that the ‘after’ picture of this event will be a happy one. I send a quick note about it to the brother who is slogging it out at work. Except him, none of the believers in my family know of this day which might be a dog-eared page in my life. I wanted the pressure off me. I couldn’t bear the thought of my dad making a trip to the temple and waiting in anticipation. He had done that for a lifetime. Although I know too well how much he would have liked it. But today, I am on my own, is also what my instructor told me while handing the keys to the car and giving me last few words of advice. Despite myself, I did say a little prayer at that point, although as always, not knowing who I was praying to. Before leaving home, I had bowed down in front of the Buddha idol I had bought as a decor piece from some trip I had made in the past. For the last few months, the Buddha is filling in for the 330 million Hindu deities, since I had been too lazy to take their representatives out of the carton I had packed them in while moving homes. Does my confused agnostic self get worried thinking about how this might amount to blasphemy in my father’s eyes? The answer is yes. But then again, when I close my eyes to pray, I am mostly summoning an inner force, and hardly ever the deities that line the top of his chest of drawers, or the one on his car's dashboard, or the idol of Ganesh stuck with a double-sided tape on top of his desk computer. (Ya, they still exist, those boxes.) The prayers I send out to the universe, in the most fundamentally spiritual way, is the closest I get to God or the idea of him or her. 

While I was lost in such thoughts, a guy in black tee and shorts materialized in front of me. Holding a file that carried my details, and as expected, struggling to read out my name. As usual, I stopped him before he completely and irrevocably ruined my name and invariably called it everything else but how my mom had meant it and had deemed it appropriate for her firstborn. The very reason why it took me as little as Google to come up with a name for my own daughter. Couldn't handle the Yanks slaughtering her name in slow-mo while she grimaced in pain like I do every single time they mispronounce mine. 

We sat inside the car. He made an interesting point about how this test does not expect me to show any tricks. It was a chuckle-worthy moment. Probably he meant it as a joke. Probably he did not. I was too tensed to tell. And he added that he would tell me what needed to be done. And very sweetly asked, if I was nervous. And also that, if at all I was, it was a good thing. I was instantly put at ease. Are the Gods already on my side? I wondered. 

I gently maneuvered the car as instructed, towards the right, then the left, making sure I stop at every signal. And generally, drive safely, and give my anxious nerves a break. At that point, my mind was finally cleared off all the cosmic forces I had invoked for this moment, and it was solely focused on the instructions being given out to me. When he asked me to park the car in between two lines, I might have felt a tiny flutter in my tummy, but I pulled that off somehow. The test of the three-point turn, oddly my most favorite thing during practice sessions, was surprisingly precise too. He read out a few more instructions and keenly observed the movement of my eye. I might have gone for an overkill trying to impress him. He, however, maintained a straight face even if he might have wanted to burst out laughing. The next few minutes were just about reinstating faith I suppose when he asked me to simply drive in and around the office. Realizing that now I was at the fag end of the test, my mind got busy calculating the result. The examiner, however, didn't let the outcome show on his face. I was asked to park the car since the test had come to a finish. This time the parking was near perfect since the performance pressure was lifted off me. My roving eyes couldn’t help but sneak a peek into the papers the examiner had been diligently marking on. At this moment I spotted the most coveted alphabet written down under a circle. I instantly felt my heart do a tiny somersault. But I feigned ignorance, lest he changed his mind seeing my excitement. Pushing back a smile that had crept up on my lips, I waited for him to speak first. Stepping out of the car, my eyes searched for my instructor like how a child looks for his parent to show off his trophy. Had he stood there waiting for me, I could have hugged him, causing a little embarrassment for all of us present there. But he had receded to a cooler area, dodging the Florida sun that had shone the brightest. A sign? Well! A cursory glance at me, and the examiner said flashing a smile, ‘you passed.’ 

Reign of Love

Lashing against the earth

Like a release of pent-up anger 

It turns into breathless kisses 

When it hits my lanai 

Like a reckless Romeo 

Its arrows wreak havoc on my plants,

From a corner I sit and watch 

This robust love of youth 

It soaks up my faux green grass 

And my delicate pinwheel trembles in fear, 

But what does the summer rain care,

For so selfish it is in its affair! 

Swaying to the tune of Bihu...

It all started over an otherwise ordinary Sunday. Over generous cups of tea, savories, and sweets, erupted a familiar happy commotion. And once we were fed enough to be seated in one place and not scatter around, the agendas of the meeting were laboriously addressed, thoroughly discussed, and dutifully highlighted. Interspersed with shrieks, yawns, and other kind of protests from the younger members of the group from time to time. But we remained largely unfazed by any of those distractions, and carried forward with the discussions before returning to our lives that waited for us the next morning. 

Two months away from this day, was fast approaching the Assamese festival of Bihu, that heralds the first day of the Assamese calendar. The first day of ‘Bohag,’ as we know it. ‘Pohila Bohag’ as Deta would say enunciating each syllable, separating it from the Bengali, ‘Poila Boishak.’ The mere word rushes a stream of emotion through my veins. So many fond memories of this day lived in the Assam we have left behind. And wonder if we would ever find our way back to it again. 

Over that first meeting to discuss the Bihu event, something unprecedented had happened. While the discussions steered towards who would be doing the ‘Bihu dance’, with the previous dancers being occupied, my tongue had uncharacteristically slipped, and uttered, ‘I don’t mind joining, if I have company.’ And I found myself retracting almost instantly, as always, adding, ‘I might not have the right clothes though.’ And wished that no one listened to anything I had said in the heat of excitement. And I can easily wiggle out of it in time. But if only impulsive tongue got a second chance! 

Next thing I knew was, I have been added to a group over WhatsApp, named - Bihu 2018. And that was it. The slippery slope I had set foot on, led me to Orlando one fine morning, navigating a travel time of almost 2 hours, to do what...you guessed it...mark the beginning of Bihu dance rehearsals! The lady who opened her home and heart for the session, also managed to fix a lunch worthy of a feast that day. And our hunger, induced by the sways and gyrations of the first few rounds of dance, was quelled enormously. It also pumped us for another few rounds. And to my utter surprise, I was actually enjoying it. And all my initial inhibition was slowly making room for some confidence. It must be the company, it actually is always the company, that can make or mar moments like these. And I had three fine ladies to share these memories with. Cracking one joke at a time. Sorting one step at a time. 

Although this was pre-meditated, yet I consider ourselves lucky to have a fabulous Bihu dancer to show us the way to what seemed like a very intimidating road ahead of us. She had promptly shared her dance video over WhatsApp so that we came prepared on the first day. The sign of a great teacher lies in simplifying things for her students. And far from making things appear daunting, she broke it down to us like taking a toddler though a maze of new words. That must have added the extra boost that our moves dearly needed. And in our head, we were ready to fly! 

This is only the girls’ part of the story though. The men had their own sessions going on over other premises. A ‘Husori’ must first set the mood for Bihu, and serenade the ‘nasonis’ to join them in the celebrations. So the boys had gone on with their part of the rehearsals, well ahead of us. Despite  failing to turn up on time, and sometimes to turn up at all, their spirits however, were always high. 

The second round of rehearsal was when the men and the women came face-to-face. Not exactly for a face-off, but to merge steps wherever they presented a possibility. And our very abled choreographer made sure we tamed the brisk steps, till our ankles ached, our legs gave up, and our heads felt nauseous. But this was crucial, this last leg of the song that we were struggling with. For it is always the last beat of 'dhol' and 'pepa', ending in a thundering climax, that decides the success of a Bihu performance. So there was no question of slacking, but to keep pace with a stead-fast determination, with our master’s words echoing, ‘faster..faster..’ in the air. And faster it got, with each round of practice. Or, that is the goal we are dancing towards. The other goal is to not create a stampede in the process. 

Come Sunday we head to yet another venue, for yet another round of rehearsal. Which might just be the final one before the main event. And come to think of it, if we can pull this off in rehearsal worth of three days, it will be an accomplishment in my tiny book of achievements. 

I have never danced Bihu before this on a stage. Atleast not as far back as I can remember. Thought it might be useful to divulge this crucial piece of information right at this moment. But at the same time, I can almost never hold myself back to the sound of its beat, when I am in a safe enough zone. So here’s to the first of firsts then, to friendships forged over unusual terrains, and to life, that holds surprises in each turn. 

That reminds me, we must turn really fast in the second last line, you hear me, ma girls? 

I am Dreaming of a White Christmas

It was the night of Thanksgiving. When the whole of America was busy demonstrating their gratefulness for the gift of ‘life.’ Over beautifully laid tables of Turkeys, pies and sauces, they were embracing the warmth of family and friends that may have been overlooked in the humdrum of life. And I, sat there transfixed, at the sight of soft snow falling quietly on the stairs to my apartment. The wide French window of the New York flat I had once called home, gave me the perfect vantage point to witness this miracle of nature. This seemingly simple act of snow settling on rooftops and pavements... evoking the melancholy in me. Particularly when one must spend this time of the year alone, holed up in a cardboard sized flat, while the entire world is proclaiming their thankfulness and sending out their love to the universe. 

I had two choices - to brave the bone chilling cold and head out for the Thanksgiving dinner. Or, to stay put, and be by my nine-month-old baby’s side. One who lay cradled in her bassinet, oblivious to the frolic of this world, of this season. While I patiently waited for the partner to return from his dinner, my mind was toying with thoughts of how it would have felt like to be there. What it would have been like to change places. And just when I was wallowing in such thoughts of longing, without a caution, my baby’s lips curved to break into the most wonderful smile I had ever seen - an impish grin. And in a matter of seconds, I was wiped off the melancholy that was settling over me. And a splinter of joy shot through my soul like a shooting star across the dark sky. And there, I found my reason to be thankful for. The Christmas tree at the other end of the room twinkled, twinning with my thoughts.

A year later in Florida. I am still in my cotton pajamas, as I labor over my Thanksgiving dinner. And Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ playing in the background intensifies my indulgent thoughts. Alas, here, down south, except for a brief whiff of chilled wind, there is nothing much to winter this place has to offer. Snow? You must be kidding! Ofcourse a crackling fireplace on a snowy winter evening over a cup of hot chocolate would have been the perfect setting for the holiday season. But a year in Florida, and I have trained my heart to believe that, a snow-free winter has its own charm too. To be able to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas in the woods for one. Decking-up in lacy dresses and high heels as opposed to being bundled-up from top to bottom for another. Sometimes, one has to cook up reasons to be thankful for.

My daughter will be two years old soon. And the only kind of Christmas she knows is the latter kind. One where she hops and flips in the outdoors, beneath a pleasantly chilled winter sky. I wonder if I would ever be able to express in words to her the delight of a white Christmas. The kind that lives in our memories now. The intangible fuzziness that the ruthless winter ironically bring in those parts of America. The kind this part doesn’t know of. But for now, I shall let her enjoy the Christmas in the wild - the outdoorsy, crisp Christmas. And wait patiently to see her excitement unfold, when she finally finds herself amidst the winter wonderful I so crave for. And then, I would be thankful for that day too. 

Here’s wishing that you never have to look too hard for a reason to be thankful for. May you create your own heaven wherever you choose to be. And may the sparkle and joy of Christmas, white or otherwise, fill your heart with warmth and love all year through.

This article was written for FMC(First Moms Club).

Here's the link to the article: I am Dreaming of a White Christmas 

The birthday that was - the uncut version

Roughly two months back, on an utterly ordinary evening, in a particularly inspired moment, I had sent out a message on my favorite WhatsApp group – a group with us few women sharing a common thread with Buffalo. And although with new commitments, we set off on different paths, the warmth of friendship nurtured through the cold months of Buffalo, was carried forward over this group. The message was an invitation to my daughter’s second birthday, and to make sure the invitation was received with the same eagerness with which it was extended, I had thrown in the temptation of a trip to Miami, if they cared to show up. That trip to Miami never happened, but they came anyway. And a tide of effervescence swept across our lives and reached every corner of our hearts, from the time these women, and the men folk too, joined us for our girl’s special day.

But only if things were as smooth and simple as it came off sounding. Particularly not, when friends are scattered across different cities, and have to work out dates around their busy lives, which translated to chaotic planning over the phone. And hence, to work out a method to the madness, a WhatsApp group was promptly created. And with that, any last vestige of intelligible conversation was put indefinitely on hold. Because, one could only get so far, when the discussions ranged from one’s sartorial preferences (over other things), to another’s concern with a certain ‘Game of Thrones’ episode, to another’s work pressure, to anything anyone fancied, but the ‘planning’, which was the sole purpose of the group. Hence in hindside, I am just grateful that the stars finally aligned, the clouds parted, and this scattered lot, with even more scattered ideas, landed just in time for the day. 

But from the day their visit was confirmed, till the day they finally arrived, as you would know it, the ‘Monica’ (as enquired by a friend) in me, was doing overtime. My phone’s battery would run out faster than ever with me raging down to-do lists on my phone’s Notes. From creating more room to accommodate everyone in the house, to acquiring air-beds and mattresses, to stocking up food and water, to sprucing up the place in between picking after toys and tantrums, to fixing meals, the tasks saw no end. And inflicting more pain upon myself, I quite uncharacteristically, turned up for most social events, even the ones we had a choice to pass. And this turned out to be the sole reason for the last-minute fixes which I could have so done without. But I must admit, the thrill of boarding the last train was a great high, and putting the welcome note on the main door, practically split seconds before the first guests arrived, was insanely exciting. Although in the two-seconds break I managed to steal to straighten my weary back, I had made a solemn promise of never losing touch with myself, ever again. And with that, as the guests started pouring in, the house echoed into the familiarity of a happy commotion, as suitcases settled in corners, and friends picked up from where they never left. And the balmy August night played perfect host to this bonhomie.

We had half a day to spare before the day of the Birthday party. Hence the next day towards evening, battling fatigue, and the infamous Florida rain that was hammering down in its most notorious way, we headed to the Clear water beach – the pride, and the saving grace of Tampa. But the rain thwarted any last desire to witness the glorious sunset from pier 60 which was the sole motive of the drive. Failing to catch any major activity on either the horizon, or the beach, we huddled inside a seafood joint and spent the rest of the evening juggling between food and conversations, and me with crayons, to keep the kid occupied. While another guest joined us straight from the airport. Although a fat dinner is known to induce lethargy and sleep, not quite, when ‘poker’ was in the agenda soon after we returned. And the supreme guardian of the ‘Game of Poker’, dear husband, saw to it that the game was treated with the same reverence with which he has been treating it, and earning a steady ill-reputation. And as the men and the ladies settled down for a game of Poker, I grabbed my favorite blankie, and collecting myself on my favorite spot, did what I do best – watch. As they continue with the usual ribbing and jibes.

The next morning was the birthday morning. And it was also the morning when I survived a fatal heart damage when the husband hurled me out of the bed like a maniac, and leapt out of bed himself, when he saw a baffling number of missed calls from the hotel which was the venue for the birthday. The manager was asked to inform us as soon as they were open so that we could spruce up the place and make it birthday-party ready. But when Poker pushed sleep to the wee hours of the morning, birthday plans had to go for a toss. And when our eyes reluctantly opened, it was close to 11 am. Making a dash to the rest room, and hissing and cursing at himself, he got hold of all the decor items that were arranged in various boxes and labelled (ahem!), and taking three trusted people, who can very well run an event company of their own, vanished in thin air.

But this is not how things were supposed to go as per the original plan. Besides the venue, food, photographer, cake, dress and accessories, we had a decor team in place too. Who, after raising our hopes to a record high, came back at the last minute, and slumped the most annoying, ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’, and left us in a lurch. But hold your horses. Before you put two and two together, and decide on the emotional turbulence the news might have caused me, you, my friend, is gravely mistaken. This new person that is talking to you, this one has long left her fastidiousness way behind her. Falling back on Plan B is her new thing. And hence, she landed firmly on her feet even at the face of such depravity. She flicked her hair, twitched her neck, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, and together with her partner in distress, summoned the messiah of the 21^st century *drumrolls* – Amazon. And together they shopped the shit out of it. And once satisfied, depended on prayers, for timely delivery of the stuff. And since they already blindly clambered on the ‘theme and color’ train, they picked the ‘Peppa Pig’ decor items (the character their girl is hooked to), and settled for a pink and gold color palette. This was their brief to the decorators too, and when the task fell upon them, they groaned under the weight of the overwhelming amount of work. And at once, bid bye to elegant drapes and balloon arches, and shook hands with kitschy DIY decor.

In the next one week, till the birthday, the stuff started coming in, and each knock at the door, each trip to the mail box, would get my heart racing. And out would come one item after the other. Since pictures from the event are more important than the real event in the post social-media scenario, a photo booth (O dear lord!) became almost inevitable (After all, how does one look ‘hot’ or ‘sexy’ or even ‘yummy’, without the props saying it for them?) And that’s exactly how I ate my words about never indulging into things like such and what not. And even went on to break the rules a little, and in my attempt to customize the props, lost few good nights’ sleep to put together a half-decent photo booth.

While giving the bats and the owls of the world company, as my pair of scissors would give shape to my ideas, a part of me would yearn for the simpler, the un-demanding birthdays of yore. Much like our lives then. When home-cooked food and home-baked cakes would do just fine. When year after year, the same streamers would miraculously re-appear, and hug the walls of our living-rooms. And even then, the fun would not be compromised. My aunt would whip-up some of the most memorable cakes for us, in the shape of a rabbit, a cat, a flower basket. A far cry from the snooty fondant-laden cakes that seem to have become the thing today. Hence, when my girl walked up and down around the cake, going, ‘Peppa, Peppa’ with excitement, it was almost a consolation for our efforts.

But it was not all hard work and no play affair, this.  And with that, we have arrived at the most notorious part of the event - the ‘getting ready’ bit. O. MY. GOD. (borrowing my girl’s favorite phrase), it’s incredulous, how much can one procrastinate, and delay things. Therefore, the night before the birthday, I summoned my most military face, and announced in my most commanding voice, that, anybody failing to arrive in time at the venue the following day would have to face serious consequences. And maintained a pretty straight face throughout the delivery. I think. And the next day when I woke up at 11 am, after everybody else had woken up, I wanted to dig the proverbial hole, as quickly and widely as possible, lest someone barged in with accusing glances. Guilt-ridden, when I came out of my room, I darted aimlessly, mostly to dodge eye contacts, and managed to drop an entire tray of knick-knacks! Which instantly broke the ice, besides breaking other items.

As I got on with the flow of the day, the decor team was decking up the hall, and me, and a special guest – a friend’s mom and savior, prepared lunch for everyone, and waited for the whole bunch to return, who had skittered across the city on various pretexts. Once lunch was done, and failing to force-sleep the birthday girl after numerous attempts, we started to get ready. And slowly and steadily, the house began to submerge under a sea of beauty products - hair blowers, hair straighteners, pins, clips, foundations, powders, lipsticks, liners, things-I-don’t-know-names-of, mascaras, discarded dresses, glimmering jewelry, a puff here, a whiff there, a frown here, a satisfied glance there, and it went on like an unending saga. And the chaos that had settled in, brought with it an odd happiness that surged and reached every corner. While the women didn’t have a moment to spare, the men folk nervously maintained that, they would wait for the tension to subside, because all they need to do is throw on a shirt and head out. And to think that I fell for that claim!

Once the first batch was ready, and we drove to the venue, miss birthday girl, dressed in her fine clothes, was partially dozing off. And on arrival, she had to be carefully balanced on my arms, as my high-heels were put to test that evening. When I walked into the venue, I was pleasantly surprised by the feat these guys had pulled off in such a short duration. And few minutes after our arrival, entered the legend of tardiness, who had set a record by arriving on time, thanks to blatant lies about the actual time of the event. Slowly the other guests started to fill the hall, and the last time I had felt a similar kind of tingle in my tummy was at my brother’s wedding. And the rest of the evening, as you can guess, was spent doing the usual shebang around a birthday party.

We have so many reasons to cherish the memories of this birthday in the years to come. But most of all, for how it became a pretext to reunite friends. Which is why my fondest memories from this day would be the ‘before and the after’, the ‘behind-the-scenes’, the ‘rough cut’ of the celebration. The ones the camera fails to capture, but the heart forever treasures.