Midday Musings

I can’t remember having touched the steering wheel of a car let alone driving one. But life in the US is not so smooth without a car plus I always have to be dependent on others – the public transit or my husband. So I had to learn to drive which was ok. Or so I thought.
The immediate problem was I had to obtain a learner’s permit first and in order to do that I had to scan the details of a 60+ page book issued by the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles). That was my main obstacle. I tried going through the book so many times. Remembering the blood alcohol content allowed in the bloodstream of drivers or the proper usage of fog lights and high beams didn’t quite appeal to me and each time I tried to read the book I either dozed off or found something else which seemed infinitely more interesting than the book. Even the history text books of school would have made my list of interesting things at that point.
Since my progress with the book was going nowhere the actual process of driving was also being delayed. Fed up with the delay Santa (shortened version of my husband’s name) took matters in his hands. Described below is a result of that action.

I was three months old in the US. It was almost ten pm on a weekday. We were returning home after one of our nightly excursions (read shopping for home goods) when a light bulb blinked in Santa’s brain. He suggested that I drive the car.
What? Who? Me? Drive? This car? Is he out of his mind?
He said he knew a desolate lane beside the Caltrain track near our house which had a speed limit of 30 mph, and not many cars travelled that road. I could learn to drive there. Though the idea sounded totally crazy to me it appealed to my adventurous side and I jumped in; as the Bengali saying goes uthlo bai to cuttack jai.
We changed seats and I buckled up for life in the fast lane. Now his car is a stick shift where you have to constantly synchronize your hand and feet movements in changing gears and pressing down/releasing the clutch. I had seen drivers in India change gears but who knew there was so much activity going on with the foot too? I mean I knew there was an accelerator and a brake and I somehow had this idea that you used one foot for the accelerator and the other for the brake. Now I found out that the left foot manages the clutch and the right foot has to manage both the accelerator and the brake. What if I press the accelerator instead of the brake? Mistakes can happen after all; car companies should consider redesigning.
Anyway the first thing I learnt was to press the brake and I was told repeatedly “anything happens you press the brake”. With the first application of my brake the car grunted to a thudding stop. I could see the pain on Santa’s face as his precious SLK 230 groaned and grunted under my antics. Nevertheless we continued. I drove at 5 mph, on a 30 mph road, to the other end of the lane and Santa drove it back to the starting point. Why didn’t I drive it back to the starting point? Because some backing and u-turn were involved in the process, which needless to say, would have been too much for me. I was on my second lap when suddenly I heard Santa say, “Shit! Oh shit. Oh shit. Police behind us. Stop the car, stop the car…brake brake…press the brakes.”
With the police behind us I forgot everything about how to brake smoothly and with my application of the brakes the car just lunged forward and came to a sudden stop.
“Roll down your window. Put your hands on the steering wheel. Don’t make any movement. Always keep your hands in sight,” Santa told me.
This was all so scary. I did as he told me.
The officer went ahead in front of us and for a fraction of a second we were hopeful that he was after someone else. In our excitement we were considering switching places when the police car turned around, lights still on and came in our direction.
Damn!
“Sit still. Let me do the talking,” I nodded my head in response.
The police car stopped near us in the opposite lane.
“Are you guys lost?” the officer asked.
“No sir, we were just going home,” Santa replied.
“Ok. But you can’t drive so slowly when other people are around. And the way you stopped you almost caused me to hit you.”
“I am sorry officer.”
“You should be more careful.”
“Yes officer.”
“Drive safely.”
We nodded our heads and waited for him to leave while I pretended to get the ignition started.
When he was safely around the corner we exchanged places as fast as we could and rushed off home. Thank god he didn’t ask for my license. On second thought, that’d have made for another interesting story; or not. I wonder how interesting life in prison would be!

Seven months after this incident I finished reading my driver’s handbook and was finally ready to take the test, i.e. after rescheduling test dates a couple times.
Went to the test centre, took the test and failed the first time. 6 mistakes were allowed in a set of 30 questions, I had 7! Damn!
Santa, the ever optimist that he is, forced me to take the test again—immediately. His logic was that I know all the stuff and of the two errors one was a ‘silly mistake’ (didn’t people make silly mistakes in math?) and I ‘misunderstood’ the other question. “So you see…you can clear this. Take it now, since you are already here,” he kept telling me.
“Ok…but if I flunk this time you are responsible,” I told him and walked reluctantly to the test area.
After spending forty minutes on thirty questions I walked to the examiner, a Chinese lady, with my answer sheet. She goes tick, tick, tick on page one. Only one mistake. Good. She turned the page. Tick, tick, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong…oh my god…I lost count of the crosses. “Seven mistakes…too bad”, she told me with a smiling face. Not again.
“You can take the test two more times,” she told me. “Next time study hard,” she said as she turned my answer sheet and saw that this was my second time.
“Oh…this is your second time. Only one more chance left. Study hard and then come,” she told me.
Now it was time for Santa to face the music. I gave him a stern “I told you” look which transformed itself into a verbal form as soon as we exited the test centre. What did he have to say? Let’s not go into the details and just say that he dropped me off at Michael’s, my favorite art store, so that I would cool down.
That evening I went through my answer sheet again. I was pretty sure I had made the right choice regarding the meaning of a road sign. The sign was of a ‘two-way traffic’ but the examiner marked the correct answer as a ‘divided highway ahead’. Didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t know driving but I had been going around in a car for the past nine months and at no time did the particular sign look like a ‘divided highway ahead’ sign. I checked with the DMV book and yes! I was right. So that reduced my errors to six.
Once Santa came home he went through the answer sheet once more and found out one more error on the part of the examiner regarding a lane changing question. That reduced the number of errors to five. He told me, “Let’s go to the DMV tomorrow and straighten things out”. I wasn’t so sure if they’d accept but the reminder of one more test promptly made me agree with him.
The next day we went to the DMV. A different person was at the examination centre. He agreed on the lane changing question and gave it to me. Down to six. I could have my license now. I’d have left matters there, not bothering about the other question. I could’ve lived with one more error as long as I got my license. But the stickler that he is, Santa wouldn’t let go and he took up the sign question with the examiner. The examiner didn’t accept the sign question and tried to feed us some logic which neither of us understood. (I wonder if he heard himself speaking.) So Santa asked to speak to the supervisor.
The supervisor accepted that I was correct and admitted that there was an error in their answer sheet stencil, the corrected version of which the examiner did not have. So the errors were down to five officially and I came out beaming with my learner’s permit. What better gift could I have given my husband for his upcoming birthday? The actual driver’s license, maybe. But for now the learner’s permit was enough.
By the way, on his next birthday, I drove him to a restaurant as a licensed driver – my gift to him. Though the gift was a good one (as Santa admitted) what transpired between us in that one whole year as I took driving lessons from him could very well be made into a soap opera.

My relationship with food goes a long way back. Way back to my childhood days. I've always loved to eat. With eating I am always in love but my relationship with cooking has been a love-hate kind of thing. I have fallen in and out of love with cooking. As a kid when my mom used to cook I used to stand beside the stove and watch her perform her magic. A bit of this, a bit of that, stir a bit, simmer a little and the end product was so good. Watching her I would sometimes help her by stirring the pot, or watching over a dish so that it didn't get burnt. In return I got to taste the food. And if the food in concern was a meat or fish dish nobody could make me budge from the spot. This was when I was in grade five or six.

After I grew up, i.e. when I was in grade nine/ ten I was considered a cook amongst my peers. The reason being I could make omelettes and egg rolls and chili chicken and fried rice. Once in grade twelve I invited my friend for lunch and cooked a meal of chili chicken and fried rice for her. And it was done entirely by me, except for the rice. My mom cooked the rice and I turned it into a fried version. The same me went to this same friend's house one day when her parents were not at home. We were very hungry and decided to boil some eggs. After a lot of thinking we decided on the appropriate pot, measured out the water, put the eggs in the water and put it on the stove. After a while both of us decided that enough time had passed and the eggs should be ready by now. So we promptly turned the stove off, drained the hot water from the pot and put the eggs under running cold water in the sink. As we tried to crack open what was supposed to be a hardboiled egg by now, out came a whitish liquid. The shell still stuck to the egg and it was a total mess. All our combined efforts couldn't even produce a proper boiled egg, not even a half-boiled one. Not knowing what else to do with the eggs we left them in their current neither-solid-nor-liquid state for my friend's mom to come back and take care of it. On her arrival at the scene she was flabbergasted that the two of us couldn't boil an egg. What will happen to you girls, she sighed. And then she turned to me and said, what happened to you today? At least you can do better than your friend. I don't know what she made of those eggs. I felt ashamed to ask her.

A few years later in high school and college I developed an aversion to cooking. I still hung out near the stove on and off but when it came to real time cooking I was nowhere to be found. Instead I opted to do every other household work starting from mopping the floor to cleaning the dishes. And when guests came I helped my mom but not by cooking. Instead I played the role of assistant. I chopped the vegetables, cleaned the meat, ground the spices, made all the pastes and cleaned the house.

Our house was perpetually in a mess. Amongst the four of us my brother was the one who kept his room in a more or less mess free condition. Mine was sort of messy with books strewn on the bed and clothes piled high. But the winner was my dad. The entire house was his playground, rather dumping ground. He'd come from office and his office bag would be the first thing to sit on the dining table followed by all the cash that he carried in his pocket. In his entire life he has never used a wallet. He just carries all the money -- coins, bills, everything -- loose in his pocket. So at the airport when it is required to empty your pockets he has a hard time fishing out the last coin from the depths of his pocket.

Coming back to the point. Throughout my college life and even after, I had an aversion towards cooking – sort of. I avoided it as much as I could. I made the occasional alu tikki and the dimer chop, which took so long to make that my father commented that people would die of hunger if they were to wait for me to finish cooking. Now come on, dimer chop is a complicated recipe for a young girl like me. It is basically a croquette made of hard boiled eggs, potatoes and a combination of spices.

Even when I stayed with roommates I avoided cooking as much as I could. People considered me a fool because any other job other than cooking was a thankless job in the sense that you didn't get any appreciation. Nobody lauded if the dishes were sparkling clean or the vegetables were chopped uniformly and symmetrically. But still I preferred it that way. Why take the trouble when there were four other people who were eager to show off their culinary skills?

So four of us stayed in a rented house and all of us were foodies. Other than me the rest loved to eat as well as cook. I was the one who only ate. All I made were salads. And when everyone else was either too busy or didn't have any energy left, which was very few, I cooked. Once there were only two of us and I gave my friend the privilege of tasting my food. I cooked a dish of spinach and baby corns with soy sauce and vinegar. But, the overdose of vinegar led to a frantic search for antacids which weren't that effective and my friend spent the rest of the afternoon throwing up. So much for giving her the privilege.

After my marriage, cooking was no more an option. It was a necessity now. I heard stories of my husband's culinary skills from his sister-in-law. Apparently he was famous for his Kashmiri Pulav, which his sister-in-law vouched for. It was definitely good to know that he could cook something complicated like that. But you can't have it every day. That's party food. What about the regular food…you know daal, chawal… By the way, speaking of the Kashmiri pulav, I am yet to have it and it's almost three years now. I am not too hopeful about it now; then again hope is what keeps us going!

Anyways, without putting much hope on my husband I set out to cook. After marriage I moved to the US and the cooking system was entirely different from what I was used to (mostly seeing) in India. Here my kitchen had four burners and they were all electric ones. I had never used an electric range before. The four burners with their controls seemed quite daunting. I had to think very carefully before I turned on a burner. Quite a few times I have put a pot of water to boil on the right rear burner and gone off to do something. I come back after 15 minutes to find that the water is just as I had left it. as I extend my hand to feel the water in the pan, I feel the portion between my elbow and my hands starting to get warm. It is then that I notice the red glow of the right front burner! These things happen even now though.

And then there was a huge oven. I had never seen such a huge oven in my life. I had heard of ovens and seen them but they were tiny compared to this thing. For the time being I forgot about the oven. Our next concern was to buy cookware. All my husband had was a pressure cooker, which had some melted blue plastic stuck to its side, and from its very look you could tell that it hadn't been used in a while, and by while I mean in a long while! And a pasta pot. The pasta pot was in good shape and it served me well. And he had a complete dinner set. So we didn't need to buy plates immediately.

A short story involving the pasta pot. My husband's brother lives 20 minutes away. They helped us move in and after all the shifting was done, we freshened up, got dinner from outside and settled into sleeping bags for the night. Now the next morning, it was time for tea. In what do I make tea? All I had was the pasta pot, and a frying pan and a 2 liter pressure cooker, (which I brought from India, both of which were wedding gifts, and useful at that). Isn't one always surprised at the weird gifts one can receive at weddings and other occasions. This is where the concept of a gift registry comes in handy. So I take the pasta pot and put in four cups of water for four people. The water comes to a boil, and after it had boiled I put in the tea leaves. Now I am used to measuring out the tea leaves, but this time I just eye balled it and dumped the tea leaves. Not being a tea addict, I forgot about it and when I rushed into the kitchen after remembering I realized we didn't have a strainer. So I pour the concoction into the big mugs, add sugar and serve them. After a few sips, my brother-in-law said it was too strong, so he poured half of it in a plastic glass and added water. But nothing could correct what I had made. In the end we decided we were better off without tea. I am sure my husband was very embarrassed at his wife's tea fiasco, because I remember he asked very mildly, in a casual sort of way, "Have you made tea before?"

How was I to explain to him that I had made tea before, that I used to make tea almost every evening for my father. My problem here was that things were huge. The cups were of enormous size. Tea cups in India are probably 1/4^th of the size of the mugs we were using. And on top of it, I had no measuring spoon. I was not used to making tea like this. But necessity and circumstance is the best teacher and you learn from them.

I don't remember exactly what I cooked each day but there are two things which I remember distinctly. Both of us are very fond of shrimp, so one day I decided to make a spicy shrimp curry and rice. The rice went well. Now for the shrimp. One major thing with shrimp is that it has to be cooked perfectly, otherwise it can be tough or it can disappear inside the gravy. Now how to do that? Using a pressure cooker would be perfect except I had no idea how to use one, in the sense how much water was required and how many steams you needed. So I gave up the idea.

As I was settling in I had found a big plastic colander and a nonstick pot which must have belonged to the previous owners. They seemed fairly new and I had washed them with hot soapy water and they were good to go. So now I had two pots. In one I put the shrimp, some oil and water, covered it with a lid and put it on the heat. Almost an hour passed by before they were anything near tender. Next in the pasta pot I made the gravy. (I couldn't use two burners at the same time then.)

After the gravy was done I dumped the shrimp in it and let it simmer for a while. When it was dinner time my husband was very happy to find out that it was shrimp night. We sat down to eat and I had to literally fish out the shrimp because there was too much gravy. You had to scoop it from the bottom of the pot. The pot was a deep one and my estimation skills weren't quite right yet. They are not perfect even now, but they have definitely improved. I asked my husband how it was, and while fishing for shrimp from the pot he said it was very good. I was a bit surprised that he said it was good, because though it tasted good, there was obviously too much liquid in it, but I believed it to be his honest response. I needed to believe in it. It was later when I had improved that he told me how scared he was that day. In his mind he had already started looking up Indian restaurants which served home style meals while hoping that I'd improve.

Another day I made khichuri – a one pot dish of rice and lentils and a few spices. It is usually made when the weather is all rainy or cold and anytime you mention khichuri and ilish mach bhaja to a Bengali, just wait and watch him drool. There was a problem with the liquid again, only this time it was drier than it was supposed to be. And then there was the issue of quantity. We ran short of khichuri. Time and again my husband told me, "Remember I am a guy. We guys eat more than girls. So please make some more next time." I nodded but I just couldn't get it right. Having four girls for room mates for two years wasn't helping here.

Almost after a month or so after I came to the country I was to cook for the first time for a guest. The guest in question was my husband's friend whose wife was visiting family in India. his friend called up one Saturday afternoon, and before long I heard my husband saying into the phone, "come over for lunch tomorrow". And my brain screamed "what! Lunch? Tomorrow?" I kept hoping that his friend would refuse, at least for his own sake, but apparently he had accepted very happily. You don't go to friend's houses for food within the first few months, unless you know for sure that the cook is a good one. By this time we had bought a cookware set and I managed to cook a simple meal of a curry, lentils and (hold on) fish! Luckily, for all of us everything turned out well. They were very simple, not quite what moms would dish out for guests, but I was nowhere near the level of moms. Apart from the food being simple this time there was no shortage in quantity, except for the lentils. I had made one big pot of lentil, and was pretty confident that this would be sufficient. But the way the two men gobbled up the lentil, I actually stopped after one ladleful, and that saved the day.

And after all the friends it was the turn of the in-laws. My in-laws came over to spend the summer with us. After all the great food cooked by my mom-in-law I thought I should treat them to something. So one Saturday afternoon I decided to make a tray of baked vegetables. I had made this before once with excellent results. I chopped up all the veggies into big chunks, drizzled olive oil, seasoned them with salt and pepper and then put it into the oven. It was to be a matter of an hour before lunch was served. But after two hours at almost two o'clock, when I opened the oven the vegetables were shriveled up, dry and half burnt. I didn't quite remember the temperature right and that was the reason of the disaster. Luckily for everyone bread and eggs saved everyone from starving but it didn't quite save me from embarrassment. To this day my father-in-law remembers the fiasco and asks me if he'll be able to have some decent food the next time he comes over. And he's visiting us this summer. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

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The very name alu bhaja (fried potatoes) brings a drool to my mouth. For me it is comfort food at its best and remains my all time favorite dish. I can live on it for days without any complaints. I don’t know how or when it came to be my favorite dish though.
As a kid I had a fascination for the fried potatoes without turmeric. I don’t know what it was that enthralled me about this dish being cooked without turmeric. Maybe because it was the norm to cook with turmeric, it was what we had every day that I wanted something different. The first time I saw those non yellow potato fries was in a friend’s lunch box. Probably that was the source of the fascination. At age eight or nine it is what others have that is always much more interesting and better than what you have. It was also escalated by the fact that my mom never cooked without turmeric; primarily because my dad didn’t like food which looked pale. He always ate with his eyes first, as do most of us. So food which didn’t have turmeric didn’t appeal to him and it automatically lost its taste.
And then one day my dream came true. My dad was away on an office trip and mom made the alu bhaja without turmeric. It is a very simple dish where the potatoes are seasoned with salt and turmeric and then shallow fried with some sliced onions and green chili. Dinner that day consisted of bhaat (rice), daal (lentils) and alu bhaja without turmeric.
Much as I love the dish, one fine day I discovered that I wasn’t any good in cooking it. All these years it looked a pretty simple dish until I tried to make it myself. I knew the theory of cooking it perfectly well. Cut the potatoes into strips, heat oil, and fry the potatoes with onions and green chilies. How difficult can that be?
In my first attempt I used russet brown potatoes, cut them into fat matchsticks, and for some extra flavor I decided to add scallions (in the style of alu-peyanjkoli bhaja). When my cooking was over, it looked more like chunky mashed potatoes with scallions. The potatoes were overcooked and they no longer retained their matchstick like shape. The scallions had lost all their texture and looked like green specs scattered here and there. And the worst part was a friend was coming to dinner. It was too late to make alternative arrangements so I had to serve the lumpy thing.
After this incident I have made alu bhaja a couple times, each time with more or less the same result. After that I gave up the thought of trying to make alu bhaja and somehow managed to forget about my favorite dish until one day my friend mentioned that they were having bhaat, musur daal and alu bhaja for dinner. As my brain registered the words my mouth started watering. But I didn’t make any attempt to cook the damned thing. I was very much tempted to invite ourselves over for the alu bhaja but felt a little embarrassed. As it is we frequently drop in to their place with just a phone call’s notice and often invite ourselves over for the awesome chicken biryani my friend cooks. The invitations are usually for lunch, but we end up having dinner too, and when the invitation is for dinner you can well imagine…Due to all these reasons I felt a bit shy in asking her. Added to that was a sense of shame at not being able to cook such a simple dish.
Then my parents came in the summer and for the Labor Day weekend we decided to visit the Grand Canyon since my dad was very much interested in it. “Since we are going all the way we might as well visit the national parks in Utah,” was my husband’s proposal. So the weekend turned into a weeklong holiday as tickets were booked from San Francisco to Las Vegas.
Since we’d be out for seven days we had to empty the fridge of all perishables. Most of the stuff was taken care of, except for a few potatoes and two bell peppers which were lying there sadly in the fridge. So my mom made alu bhaja and also threw in the bell peppers. In my mom’s hand the russet potatoes looked as good as our desi potatoes and they stayed firm and looked just like they should look – crisp and firm. There was no lumpy mess. So the culprit was not the potatoes as I loved to think.
Our flight was to land in Las Vegas at 8 pm, just in time to gorge on the buffets. The three of us – me, my husband and his brother – had already started arguing on which buffet to have. Since my parents weren’t accustomed to the food here and the buffet would prove too much for them, we decided that it would be best if we took food from home for them. So we packed the fried potatoes in a Ziploc along with some achar (pickles) and parotas (Indian flatbread).
On reaching Las Vegas the hot weather and the traffic jam took away our enthusiasm for the buffet and the five of us gobbled up the home made dinner in our hotel room. While we ate all of us agreed that not having the buffet was a good idea. The fried potatoes tasted awesome. Spicy, firm and crunchy – they tasted just like I remembered them from my childhood days. I felt so contented and I doubt the buffet with all its varieties would have given that sense of satisfaction.
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Things were going along fine until one gloomy Friday afternoon a few weeks back. The craving for alu bhaja surfaced. I tried to get over it but the harder I tried the stronger the craving became. When I thought of it I could almost feel the taste of the salty crunchy fries my mom made a few months ago. My mouth kept watering. I could smell it in the air – in the house, in the corridors of our building, even in the car. This was bad. I had to do something about it.
So I gave my mother a call. “Ma, how do you make alu bhaja?”
“Alu bhaja? It’s very simple…” and she went on to explain the procedure.
I did what she told me and voila! I had alu bhaja that looked like what she used to make, and tasted just as good.
For recipe see alu bhaja 
Now where did I go wrong? According to my mom, cooking is a form of art, and as with all other art forms or for that matter anything you do in life, there are no shortcuts. That is her opinion and I disagreed thoroughly, especially when it came to cooking. Since my childhood days I have had a reputation for being a phankibaaj (n. one who is lazy, always seeking shortcuts) and that phankibaaji applied to cooking as well. When I cook, I optimize the process so that I don’t have to stand there and babysit the dish. For instance, when it’s time to fry the masala -- a paste of ginger, garlic, onion and few other spices -- I put everything in the pan, give it a stir and go off to do something else. Ideally you should stand there and stir it continuously until the raw smell of the ingredients is gone and the paste turns brown in color. Typically this process takes 30-40 minutes and I can’t imagine myself standing there for the whole time while it’s taking its own sweet time to cook. I did try doing that but I got impatient and that resulted in a curry smelling of raw onions and garlic. So what I do is add some water when the masala starts to dry up, and buy myself time, because once it starts to dry up it can burn very easily. This process continues until the masala is cooked and starts to brown. That is when I put my full attention and do the rest of the task. This walking away has backfired a few times as I forgot about the masala. A burnt smell helped me remember but it was too late as the whole thing had to be thrown away and the entire process repeated and once I had to scramble because there was a dinner party that evening. Did I learn from those incidents? No. Because as they say, once a phankibaaj, always a phankibaaj. I still cook in the same process but try not to forget that something’s cooking and hope that it won’t burn on me.
Now I applied the same process when it came to making the fried potatoes. I heated up the oil, threw in the potatoes, added a pinch of turmeric, seasoned them with salt, covered the pan with a lid (so they would cook faster and easily) and spent 30 minutes with Rachael Ray. When I opened the lid…you know what it looked like. So that was the problem of making alu bhaja my way. If I were to have the real alu bhaja, I had to babysit it, just as my mom told me to. With no other option available, that is exactly what I did. Sometimes you need to go that extra mile. Does that mean I am no longer a phankibaaj? Now what did I say earlier? ‘Once a phankibaaj, always…’

The other day we went to pick up Chinese food from a nearby restaurant and we took our 4 year old nephew Orko along. (He spend the weekend with us sometimes.) As long as he’s not in the house he’s very happy. And when he says he wants to go home that means he’s really tired. It was a Friday night and the downtown was abuzz with people and the neon lights from the restaurants beckoning them to their station. Sitting inside the car, peeking from his car seat Orko told us that he wanted to eat in that restaurant with the purple light or the green light or whatever light caught his attention. I explained to him that we were taking food home and the next time he came over we’ll eat at a restaurant.
While walking to the restaurant he kept asking me, “Amra kon restaurant e khabo?” (In which restaurant will we eat?) Once inside the shop he started looking around, searching for a good place to sit while we paid the bill and picked up our food. Then it was time to go. “Come on Orko, let’s go.” I told him. “But I want to eat in this restaurant,” he told us in his childish innocent voice looking at his Kaku (uncle) and Kaki (aunt) very hopefully. “Come let’s sit here,” he said and started pulling my hand. In response I pulled him back and we walked out of the restaurant distracting him with the discussion of all the yummy food we were carrying with us. Pizza and noodles are his favorite food, and any time of day you ask him what we wants to eat, “Pizza” pat comes the reply.
What struck me in this entire episode was the fact that a four year old wanted to eat at a restaurant in addition to the fact that he could pronounce the word ‘restaurant’. A couple months back he couldn’t pronounce his own surname. When I asked what his name was he would say “Shreyaj Pal Chudhuri”, totally ignoring the ‘a’ in the Chaudhuri. (I admit Pal Chaudhuri is a long and tough one for a kid to pronounce. He’s able to say it right now.) And that sent me into a thinking mode.
When I was a kid eating out was a rare thing. For one there was a dearth of restaurants. Nowadays in my hometown, eateries, English medium schools and engineering colleges have popped up everywhere like mushrooms. Our eating out meant having outside food -- the occasional phuchka, egg roll or the shingara and alur chop. This changed though during my college days as I ate out more and more frequently with my friends. Much as I ate out with friends we never ate out as a family except for one or two rare occasions. This was primarily because my dad isn’t much of a culinary explorer (he likes his meals home cooked) and my mom isn’t much into food. And then there was the cost factor too. Back then the restaurants that were there were not meant for middle class families. Times have changed now. What was once a luxury has now become something of a standard (albeit for a selective group). India is developing fast now and with development comes a change in people’s lifestyle. The consumerism bug has bit the Indian society and each day businesses are devising new ideas on how to make people spend their money. And need I say they are succeeding. But I digress.
The point I am trying to make is that even a four year old now knows the concepts which we acquired at a much later stage. And he is not responsible for it. We, adults are exposing him to a whole different world. Not only could he say ‘restaurant’ before he could say his name, at age three he could click photos on a digital camera, and it’s not that he kept clicking randomly. He focused on people and then clicked. He is now the primary photographer of his parents when they go on vacation. And by the time he was four he could play songs on my ipod, was an expert in browsing his Kaku’s iphone, and seek out the games he wanted to play, and even taught me how to browse folders and play a movie of his choice on the Sony Vaio. The times they are really a-changing!

I am sure this has happened to all of us, sometime or the other – waking up in the middle of the night and then being unable to go back to sleep. Now what do you do when you are awake? Usually I fight to go back to sleep. I keep tossing and turning…keep telling myself 'go to sleep go to sleep'. More often than not this doesn't work. The same thing happened yesterday night. All of a sudden I found myself looking at the ceiling. I turned sideways and the bedside clock said 3:05 am. As is my habit I started tell myself to 'fall asleep' when all of a sudden an idea came to mind. I decided that today I won't make any effort, I won't struggle. I'll just lie there, silently, quietly and see what happened. Did I succeed? Yes. The blinds on our door were not rolled down yesterday (which was good) because it was a full moon night and the moonlight flooded the balcony and also half our room. I looked at the silhouette of the huge trees standing tall and straight, the plants in my balcony, their leaves swaying ever so slightly and shining bright when it caught the moonlight. It was all so quiet, which was broken down occasionally by the whoosh of a car.

And then my ears caught a steady rhythmic sound pattern. It was my husband breathing -- in and out, in and out, with the occasional sighs. Listening to the beat of his breathing I thought what would it look like if I started plotting his breathing pattern on a graph? And when I tried to imagine the graph pattern the stock market graph patterns came to mind. (This I'm pretty sure is a result of all the stock market review we do first thing in the morning.) Considering his breathing pattern yesterday it would have looked like the graph of Cisco – stable with minor deflections. I know there have been days when his breathing pattern very much resembles that of Aruba (his own company), swinging from highs to lows, stable for a brief while, then back to swinging again. And somewhere in the middle of all this Cisco and Aruba graph plotting I fell asleep, only to wake up at the sound of an emergency siren which was nothing else but our alarm!

After successfully putting off going to the zumba class for 2-3 months my success rate fell to zero as I succumbed to the persuasive qualities of my husband's smooth talking. It's amazing how he could make me believe that there's no harm in giving it a shot. And you would be surprised if you knew me. To say that I have two left feet is an understatement. And the one person who'll believe that without any doubt is my mother. Being a trained oriental dancer, she tried early on to pass on her skills to me. Like every other Bengali parent, she also had the wish that her daughter would know how to sing and dance and paint, the three things I found all of my friends and class mates engaged in, if not all three of them at least two of them with painting being the common factor. My painting, rather drawing skills at grade four convinced my parents that their money would be better spent in any other project than sending to me an art class. Since I could not draw at that time (I can copy pictures decently now and that too with pastel. If you hand me a brush I'll end up painting something like a 3 year old) all my science drawings were done either by mom or my bro, who is also a good painter. The day I drew the cow, I had a fight with my brother and he refused to help me. Proud that as I was, I drew the cow all by myself, and I can't quite describe to you how it looked. Any angle you turned the picture it didn't resemble a cow. At best it could be described as the symbolization of some pre historic animal. After seeing that picture my brother took pity on me, and drew the cow.

Coming back to the point, one fine day my mother decided to teach me how to dance. I was nine or ten years old. I think she tried to make my body move to the tunes of a rabindrasangeet. My body moved. But the way it moved was enough to convince my mom to say, with great sadness, that I don't have it in me. Dance is something not meant for me. And with that she had to let go of her dream. If circumstances were different she would either have been a professional dancer, or at least a dance teacher. And I could do nothing but feel sad to let her down. Some things are just not meant for you. After that there was no more dancing for me, other than the occasional group dances in college fests and stuff where basically you are having fun.

Then came my husband into the picture. Like my mother, he also had dreams that his wife would go to dance clubs and do the salsa and tango and you name it. To give him credit, he does know the salsa. in grad school he had taken salsa classes. I wonder which hot female in the class was the inspiration for this (sshh). So after two months in the U.S. he finally coaxed me into going to the downtown club which offered salsa lessons. So we went to the club and the lady who would teach us gave a performance before the lesson started. As she and her partner danced they were the epitome of sheer grace and rhythm. Their bodies moved in sync with the music like flowing water. Looking at them I realized that I had made a terrible mistake in succumbing to my husband's pressure. He did not know my skills. But I did. Anyways since the club had charged a fee of 20$ per person which was enough for me to gather up my courage and hit the dance floor. And contrary to my expectations I didn't do all that bad. Things were ok, I'd say though my hips didn't move as vibrantly as they are supposed to in a salsa. The best part was I was enjoying myself, until the time where we had to switch partners every few steps. And that was enough to put me off from salsa. I remember a few of my 'partners' – among them was a guy who trembled quite a bit and was so nervous that he couldn't hold my hands properly and I could feel the tremble between his fingers and there was another who probably had had a burger just before entering the club and he reeked of raw onions and sweat. I was relieved when my husband came along but that relief was short lived. So that was the end of my salsa and also my husband's and he very much rues the fact.

It is probably from this fact and the more important fact that I have gained some weight, actually a lot of it that my husband again found the enthusiasm to persuade me to go for the zumba. Upon entering the class I saw that most people were very fit and athletic but I also found a few who were in much worse shape than I was. Or so I loved to believe. Anyways the class started to the beats of salsa music and after staring at people for a while, trying to figure out what was going on I joined everyone. And once I let go off my inhibitions, put all those previous experiences behind me, I actually had fun. I didn't do it right all the time…when people went left I went right, when they bent down I stood straight like a sore thumb…but I found the rhythm that is part of dance. And at the end of the day that is what matters, finding your rhythm.

And in this endeavor I even formed a camaraderie with a Chinese lady who was next to me. Judging from the movement of her hands and feet I figured she was as good as a dancer as I was and her shy smile when our eyes met seemed to confirm it. We formed an invisible bond and smiled at each other when our eyes met while one of us was turning in the wrong direction. What struck me was the energy of the whole exercise. At home the very thought of exercising for an hour, coupled with seeing the youtube videos on zumba made my body ache. But out there on the floor the beats of the music, the energetic 1,2,3,4 of the instructor and the energy of the people around totally changed the scenario. Yes I did get tired, and I did pause frequently to catch my breath but I never felt like walking out of the room. And to think that I shook my hips to Shakira's 'Hips don't lie'…come on after all I have told you about my dancing abilities you have to admit that it is no mean task! (Luckily there was no video tape of the whole thing or else it could easily have made it into the funniest home videos show.) And then there was J.Lo and a whole bunch of lively music including 'Jai Ho' from Slumdog Millionaire and 'Yeh ishq hai' from Jab We Met. In the manner of exercise it also helped me brush up my almost forgotten salsa steps and introduced me to Bollywood dancing. The Yeh ishq hai number was quite exhausting with a lot of bending, stretching involved but the fact that it was a familiar desi number gave me that extra boost of energy.

And later that night I called up my mom and said that I had been to a dance class. Did I detect a subtle amazement, a flicker of happiness in her voice? Or was it just me in my still excited state?

 

Holud (in Bengali), an essential ingredient in Indian cooking is better known to the world as turmeric. Indian cooking can't be done without turmeric. It gives that distinct yellow color to foods -- curries, fries, anything. Every savory food you can think of has turmeric in it, even if it is just a hint.

But as a kid I was not too fond of the yellow color food. Maybe because it was the norm, it was what we had every day that I wanted something different. One thing which I craved for was the alu bhaja (fried potatoes) without turmeric. I don't know what it was that enthralled me about this dish being cooked without turmeric. The first time I saw those non yellow potato fries was in a friend's lunch box. Probably that was the source of the fascination. At age eight or nine it is what others have that is always much more interesting and better than what you have. It was also escalated by the fact that my mom never cooked without turmeric. Primarily because my dad didn't like food which looked pale. He always ate with his eyes first, as do most of us. So food which didn't have turmeric didn't appeal to him and it automatically lost its taste.

And then one day my dream came true. My dad was away on an office trip and mom made the alu bhaja without turmeric. It is a very simple dish where the potatoes are seasoned with salt and turmeric and then shallow fried with some sliced onions and green chili. Dinner that day consisted of bhaat (rice), daal (lentils) and alu bhaja without turmeric. To this day it remains my favorite dish, my ultimate comfort food and whenever I don't feel like cooking I always boil some rice and lentils and make some potato fries, though surprisingly I do add turmeric now. That craze about eating pale colored foods has left me, probably for good as turmeric is said to have many medicinal properties and known to treat digestive and liver problems.

One other source of my rebellion against the turmeric could be the fact that during fall every year, I was forced to eat an inch of raw turmeric root with some gur (a sort of molasses). The raw root has a very bitter taste and it leaves a strong aftertaste in the mouth. In India, fall is a fleeting season with a nip in the air, and a time when people are caught unawares by the change in season. Everywhere you look, you can see people coughing and sneezing and blowing their nose. The purpose of the turmeric was to make the immune system stronger, to help the body stay healthy and sound. The days when dad gave it (sometimes mom would give it with a generous helping of molasses) was bad because he was very stingy with the molasses. He practically preferred to give just the raw root. But when he saw that it was impossible to make me eat without the molasses he would just brush it lightly with the molasses. And the worst part was I had to sit in front of him and chew and swallow the entire thing right before his eyes. So there was no way of escaping. And all the time I chewed, I would grumble about how my teeth would look yellow and how my friends would tease me, and my dad would go on about how this was good for health because it was a blood purifier, and how it has been used since ancient times and so on. Much as I hated it at that time I do miss the routine now, though I don't miss the bitter taste. And it did help in preventing sickness during the change of seasons.

Though my parents always talked about the medicinal aspects of turmeric I didn't quite believe in it until I sprained my leg. I was in high school then and I slipped down the stairs and sprained my right ankle. Within seconds I saw my ankle swell up to the size of a soft ball. "Great!" I thought. "Now I can miss my Shakespeare test tomorrow." But that happy feeling didn't last long as turmeric played spoilsport. My mom heated up some turmeric paste, combined it with some quicklime, applied the mixture to the swollen area and tightly wrapped it up with a piece of cloth. Within a few hours the swelling had decreased considerably and I had to concentrate on Shakespeare once again. The next day I limped to school and took the test.

Turmeric also plays a major role in the cultural life of Bengalis. Any auspicious occasion like a puja (worshipping God) or a wedding can never take place without turmeric. In a wedding the use of turmeric starts right away at the invitations being sent out. When invitations are sent, a corner of the envelope is first smeared with turmeric. This signifies good luck. Mostly the younger people in the family do this job and I remember doing it, along with a bunch of other cousins, for my uncle's and my cousin's wedding. Both the weddings took place when I was in school. It was fun as well as tedious. Fun because we could skip studies and tedious because there would be two to three hundred cards per wedding, sometimes even more. I did the same during my marriage too. Usually we would take a card, smear it with turmeric on the top left hand corner and then move it aside. Then one of my cousins devised a method. He laid out 15-20 cards, each overlapping the other in a way that their top left hand corners were exposed. Then he took the turmeric and just smeared it through in a straight line thus covering twenty cards at one go. And it was more fun to do it this way. After it was smeared with turmeric we had to write the address, attach stamps and seal the envelopes. In other words, make it ready to be posted. And for all this we were treated to something. For my uncle's wedding I negotiated a quarter for every invitation that we processed, to which my dad, who was the organizer, agreed. And for my cousin's wedding I got treated to loads of ice cream.

The beginning of a Bengali wedding is marked by the drawing of the Hindu symbol of swastika on a wall with a paste of turmeric and vermilion. It is supposed to bring good luck to the new bride and groom. And then there is an entire ceremony which consists solely of turmeric. It is called gaye holud (applying turmeric to the body). This is a fun and elaborate ceremony. In this ritual, turmeric roots are ground to a paste, mixed with mustard oil, applied to the groom's body and then the same paste is sent over to the bride's house to be applied on the bride's body. I had lots of fun at numerous weddings of friends and cousins smearing them with turmeric paste. All the turmeric I had smeared on numerous cousins, relatives and friends' at their weddings came to haunt me as my friends and family made it their mission to turn me into a yellow ghost with success. And after they were finished with me they suddenly turned upon each other, each attacking the other with turmeric paste until suddenly the place was filled with shouts and squeals and laughter, and everyone looked yellowish and like creatures from a different planet and then there was no mistaking the fact that there was a wedding in the house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was almost ten thirty at night when there was a loud knock on the door. Mrs. Das was alone at home that night; her husband had gone on an official tour. With her heart beat increasing, she proceeded softly to the entrance and shouted from inside "Who is it?"

"Didi, it's me, Aarati."

Arati? At this hour? "Wait a minute. Let me get the keys."

As Mrs. Das opened the wooden door which led to the verandah with the iron grill she asked "What's the matter? Didn't you go home today?"

All she could hear in response was the sound of Arati's sobs.

Arati was Mrs. Das' maid of ten years. In addition to Mrs. Das she worked in twelve other houses where she washed dishes twice a day and swept and mopped floors. This has been her job for the last eighteen years. Her day started at three in the morning. Before cleaning up other people's houses she had to clean up her home first. She'd sweep and mop the floor, boil some rice and vegetables, pack some of it for herself and leave most of it for her son and then rush to catch the four o' clock train which would bring her to the city. Just in time to reach the first house at 5.30 a.m., after a thirty minute walk from the railway station.

Things were not like this from the beginning though. She was the third child born into a lower middle class family of two brothers, two sisters, a hardworking father and a caring mother. At the age of nineteen her parents married her off to Bablu, a garment factory worker who turned out to be the creator of her present condition. She got to find out Bablu's true colors a few months after their marriage. He turned out to be a regular drinker bordering on the verge of alcoholism. She tried to stop him but whenever he faced opposition he became ferocious and signs of domestic violence began to appear on the scene. Seeing Bablu squander away his money she started working at a tailor shop, stitching blouses and dresses where she got paid by the number of pieces she could stitch. She brought a bagful of cut out pieces and then stitched them at home. A year and a half into her marriage, her son, Raja was born. With the arrival of Raja, Arati thought things would improve. But Bablu continued with his drinking and now he stopped coming home at times. Every other day he would disappear and come home early in the morning or later in the day. When Arati questioned him, he remained silent. The frequency of his disappearances started increasing as the days went by till one day he just vanished. There was no sign of him. None of his friends, the people he used to hang out with, drink and gamble, knew about his whereabouts. Arati went to file a complaint at the police station but the officer on duty dismissed her saying that such things happened, and that he would appear on his own when he was done fooling around. This made Arati furious and having no further knowledge of what to do she resigned herself to the task at hand.

Arati continued stitching the blouses but soon she realized that she could not survive on that alone. It was then that she took up the job of a nanny. She used to take Raja with her, who was two and half years old by this time. There Raja would play with the kid while Arati would do all the work and then return home in the evening where she would then become busy with her sewing. The hardships took a toll on her and the strains started showing in the form of her deteriorating health and her irritable mood.

One day as she was sewing the blouses she heard a few loud thumps on the door in quick succession. Her heart started racing. Must be one of those drunkards! Can't even locate their own house, they are so drunk. She looked at her son, who was sound asleep on the bed. She sat there tightly, not budging an inch. And then she heard someone call out her name.

"Open the door…it's me."

Still she kept quiet and sat still.

"Open the door". This time Arati thought she recognized the voice. It seemed like her husband's. She asked "Who is it? Raja's father?"

"Open up you …" the expletives confirmed that it was indeed her husband. She opened the door and there stood her husband, bloodshot eyes staring at her wildly.

"What took you so long you bitch"

Arati's feelings of happiness soon gave way to disgust as she realized her husband was drunk as ever. The way he spoke to her was as if he had never been away. It was just like before.

"Or do you have a man in the house, eh?" he took hold of her cheeks and squeezed them vigorously.

"Lower your voice. Raja is sleeping."

"This is my house. I'll do whatever I want. Do you understand?" Arati gritted her teeth and kept quiet. With that he took one look at his son and then dropped onto the bed beside him.

During his stay Bablu remained comparatively sober. He still drank with his friends but he was nice to his wife and son. Arati thought that he had changed. He persuaded her to give up the work of a nanny because he had found work as a rickshaw puller. He still didn't like the fact that his wife went outside to work, not realizing that it was that work which had kept them going.

"What guarantee is there that you will not take off again?" she asked.

"Trust me, I won't go anywhere. That is why I got the rickshaw," he said.

Arati wanted to ask him where he had been but fear stopped her.

"What use will the rickshaw be…you will drink away whatever you will earn," she said.

"Now don't worry about that. I'll stop drinking. You don't have to work anymore at that house. Go and tell them tomorrow, ok?"

Arati wanted to believe him but she couldn't. In spite of that she left her job as a nanny but she continued to do the sewing. Life continued as before for Arati. The money her husband earned was spent mostly in drinking. Sometimes he came home in a good mood, sometimes he was enraged. She couldn't figure out what made him happy or angry but she always dreaded when it was time for him to come home.

And then one day Bablu vanished again taking with him Arati's gold jewelry that she kept in a suitcase and a thousand rupees that she had saved from her earnings. Arati's loss left her distracted. The jewelry was the ones given to her by parents during her marriage and the thousand rupees she had managed to save by working as a nanny. She was at sea now. She needed a job. She went to her former employer but they had already hired someone else. Why did she listen to that cheat, that son of a bitch? What was she thinking? She asked people about jobs but all she found were the jobs of maids. The idea of washing and cleaning other people's mess did not appeal to her. But she had no other choice. Raja was growing up and now she had to think of his schooling and education. If she worked as a maid she'd be able to work in multiple houses and earn more money. She needed all the money she could get. Her neighbor helped her get a job as a maid and slowly she built a network through which she got more work. Initially she felt nauseated cleaning other people's dishes and utensils, and all the mess and dirt but with time she got accustomed.

What kept her going through all these years was her son Raja. She slogged on untiringly day after day, year after year with the single hope that her son will grow up to be a successful man one day and relieve her of her misery. With her husband gone, her son was her only hope now. There was only one motive in her life and that was to take care of her son to the utmost, to provide him with all the luxuries of life, so that he didn't feel left out amongst his peers. She admitted her son to a government aided school, fed him properly complete with health drink and all and even provided private tutors. All this expense stretched her income to the limit. In order to make some extra income she stopped taking sarees from her employers' during the time of Durga Puja. (Durga Puja is the most important festival of the Bengalis.) Instead she asked for cash and she even argued with her employers over the amount of cash she wanted and in the process lost jobs a few times. But she found others fairly soon.

As her son grew up his demands started increasing. Previously one new shirt or a new pair of trousers was enough but now he was becoming aware of himself and the fashion of the day.

"Ma, I want a new jeans and new shoes this puja," Raja said one day.

"Raja, I can't provide both. Which one do you want more? You know I don't have the money to buy both," Arati said.

"I don't know…I need both. Money is your problem," he said.

"Well you can't have both. I don't have so much money," she said.

"You'll get a lot of cash during the pujas. What will you do with so much money?"

"What will I do with so much money? Don't you know? Who pays your tuition fees, your books, your private tutors? I have to pay for all these year round. Where will the money come from? Don't you have any shame? I am spending so much money but look at your report card…" she said.

"Ok ok. Now don't start lecturing again."

"What do you mean ok? I take the cash in place of sarees. Have you ever asked if I have a new saree for the pujas? Have you ever taken any note of me? Aren't you old enough? Why bother? All you need me for is the money. You will understand when I am not there…" Arati's voice became louder with each word.

"Oh come on. Don't start whining again. All I wanted was a jeans and a pair of shoes…and she starts off…"

He started walking towards the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Arati.

"Do I have to tell you everything?"

"Raja, don't forget I am your mother. Because of me you are standing here today and making your demands…" she raised her finger at him as she walked toward him.

"Will you stop nagging?" with that he shoved her away and she lost her balance and fell.

'I am your mother'…can't buy a jeans and shoes at the same time…'I am your mother,' he muttered as he left the house.

Arati sat there weeping, comforting herself in her own sorrow. After a few hours things were back to normal again. Arati forgave her son for his rude behavior with the excuse that he was still young and he was justified in making demands. She didn't buy any new saree that year, saved money and somehow managed to buy both the jeans and the shoes. After all it was Durga Puja. Everybody would be wearing new clothes and enjoying themselves and as a mother it was her duty to see that her son didn't feel left out. 'After all, he's a young boy', she thought. 'A few more years and Raja will be eligible for a job. Then I will quit working for the Ghosh's and the Roy's…stingy people.' With that she justified everything and resumed to her life of slogging.

Grade ten was the magical key to all the problems in Arati's life. Once you crossed that hurdle there were thousands of jobs with decent salaries and Arati looked forward to the day when her son would pass out and land a job and lend her support. But that was not to be. Her son had decided to drop out in the middle of grade eight. Arati could see all those years of struggle and slavery go down the drain right in front of her eyes. All her employers told her not to waste any more money on her son's education. Instead they told her to get him involved in some work. But how could she listen to them? She had ignored her entire life for her son and his upbringing.

"Didi will you talk to Raja? Will you persuade him not to drop out now?" she asked Mrs. Das. Mrs. Das was the one to whom she went for advice. She was a nice lady who had helped Arati time and again through her struggles. It was she who had opened a bank account for her so that she could accumulate her savings and it was with that savings that Arati had built the house.

"Have you asked him why he wants to drop out?" asked Mrs. Das.

"He doesn't talk to me properly these days. If I ask anything he doesn't give any clear answer and starts showing his temper…" Arati said.

"Can't you give him one tight slap? You should have slapped him earlier when he was young. Now it's too late," Mrs. Das said.

"What shall I do Didi? I worked so hard for him; I spent so much money…now he wants to drop out. I don't know what to do…Will you please talk to him?"

"See Arati…I'll talk to him since you are asking me. But let me tell you something honestly. Since he's not interested don't force him. You'll only waste your money and he'll be fooling around the whole time. Instead make him do some work. Ask him to find a job. What happened to his soccer?"

"He plays at the club. They said that if he can complete grade ten they will put him in the state team if he performs well," Arati said.

"Then why don't you go and talk to the manager of the club? See if he can persuade your son," Mrs. Das said.

Arati kept quiet.

"And if that doesn't work then ask him to do some work…" Mrs. Das said.

"But can he work now? He's still so young,"

"Arati, your son is growing up. Start giving him some responsibilities. If you think he won't be able to work, then let him enjoy his life while you slog like an ox."

Mrs. Das saw the expression on Arati's face change from concern to anger as she completed her sentence. She continued, "Look, I want him to study but I don't want you to waste your money. I know how much you have to struggle to earn that money."

Raja came to Mrs. Das but from his attitude she knew that she was wasting her time. Still she tried her best to make the boy understand out of concern for Arati.

Raja promised to work and he did work after his mother pestered him day after day, but they were sporadic. He found work in a store but didn't stay there more than a week because the store hours of 9:00 – 8:00 were too much for him. He didn't get to meet his friends or play soccer. So he left after a week. He worked at times but most of the time he remained idle while Arati continued with her struggles. He took to smoking and drinking and gambling. Everyone started seeing traits of his father in him including Arati. She was worried that her son would end up walking in his father's footsteps in spite of her best efforts. Raja whiled away his time doing nothing and constantly pestered his mother with demands. The demands were endless starting from a shirt to a watch to eating meat and other delicacies to a few hundred rupees. Seeing Raja's behavior and mannerisms everyone warned Arati to be tough and strong and not to give in to all his whims and wishes. Even she wanted to, but her emotions got the better of her and that proved to be her doom.

Life for Arati continued in its own way. She had accepted the fact that her son wouldn't be a secondary school graduate. All she hoped now was for him to do some proper work so that he could support her. In the meantime she had built a house with the savings she made each month from her meager salary. Her house was a tiny one roomed building with cemented floors and an asbestos roof with no electricity. Small as it may be this was something she could call her own. Now there would be no trouble with the landlord or the tension of increased rent. One problem though was that it was quite a distance away from her work place. She had built the house twenty kilometers away in a suburban ghetto outside the city. Land was cheap there and it was inhabited mostly by working class people like her. Things had been going on in this fashion for a few years till one day Raja landed up with a wife in tow. He had met this girl at a friend's place and after meeting her for a few days they went to a nearby temple and got married. With an extra mouth to feed Arati was furious at her son. He worked on and off but none of it went in supporting his mother.

After the arrival of his wife Raja started pestering his mother to transfer the house in his name. This was one thing Arati had decided from the very beginning that she won't do. Altercations and quarrels between the three of them would occur every other day regarding the ownership of the house. Her daughter-in-law never participated directly in the arguments but she didn't prevent her husband either. She didn't really care much for either the house or her mother-in-law. As long matters didn't affect her directly she didn't bother. Things took an ugly turn one day when her son in a drunken rage charged at her with a knife in hand. That'd have put an end to all her miseries but for the intervention of her daughter-in-law. She pushed Arati out of the way and grabbed the knife from her husband. Still under the influence, her son pushed her out of the house while his wife stood and watched. A few moments later he opened the door again and threw her bag at her. The bag landed with a thud a few feet away from her.

"Remember, you will have to pay for this. I will come back to this house. This is my house, I made it with my flesh and blood…Don't forget there is a God above. He is watching everything."

She stood there hoping that the door would open, but when there was no response after a long time from inside the house, she picked up her bag and started walking. She walked on unmindfully not making any effort to wipe away the tears when at one point she realized that she had reached the station. She was so accustomed to her daily routine that without any effort she took the path. That was the only way she knew. Home to work. Work to home. Slaving at an endless round of cleaning and washing for others, denying herself everything so that her son may benefit.

When Mrs. Das heard what had happened she wasn't surprised. She had seen the possibilities of such a scenario but had hoped against it. Along with others she had warned Arati time and again. But her love for her son had brought her to this stage. Mrs. Das let her stay at her place. Arati waited for her son to call but with each passing day the flicker of hope diminished. Time and again she thought of going back to her house but in the end her mind won the battle over her emotions and she gave up what was rightfully hers. If only the mind had won earlier.

 

 

 

Ding dong. The calling bell struck.

It's eight in the morning and Arun's mother wondered who it could be at this early hour.

'Maybe it's the maid,' she says to herself and walks to the door. On opening the door she is startled by a tall and hefty man in a green turban.

"Is this Mr. Ashok Roy's house?" the man asked.

"Yes?" she said with a questioning look.

"I am from the CBI٭. My name is Jaswinder Singh". He showed his badge to Mrs. Roy.

Hearing the word CBI she thought it best to hand over matters to her husband.

"Wait a minute," she said and called her husband.

"Can you please come down? Someone from the CBI is here." she shouted.

Mr. Roy rushed down in his pajamas and a vest.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Are you Mr. Ashok Roy?" Jaswinder asked.

"Yes I am."

"I am Jaswinder Singh from the cyber crime department of the CBI. Can I come in?" He showed his identification.

"Uhh…yeah…sure." Behind him his wife whispered not to let the man inside the house. Who knows if he is a fake? Anyone can forge an ID now. But Mr. Roy ignored his wife. The CBI is not to be messed around with.

"What's the matter Mr. Singh?" he asked as the detective entered the house.

"The State Bank's security system has been hacked and our detectives have traced it to a system in your name."

"What?" Mr. Roy cried out at first and then he burst into laughter, "how is that possible Mr. Singh? Look Mr. Singh," Mr. Roy said, "there surely must have been some mistake. I do have a computer, in my name but I am not at all tech savvy. I can't even attach files in the e-mail without a hit and trial method. How can I possibly break into some network system Mr. Singh? Aren't they super protected?"

"Can I…" Jaswinder pointed to the sofa.

"Surely…yes…please…"

"What do you do Mr. Roy?" Jaswinder asked as he sat down. He pulled out a tiny little notebook and a blue pen from his shirt pocket.

"I retired a few months back as an accountant of SBI٭٭."

"Which branch?"

"Salt Lake branch."

"That's the branch which has been affected Mr. Roy."

"What!"

"When did you retire?"

"Three months back, in July."

"Who else lives with you?"

"My wife Mita and my son Arun."

"Are you his wife?"

"Yes,"

"Your name please,"

"Mita Roy,"

"What do you do Mrs. Roy?"

"I am a housewife,"

"So you must also be using the computer for email and chat?"

"No, not at all. I don't know all these things and frankly speaking I don't have any interest in them. The phone is here. I can talk to anyone I want over the phone. Why do I need all that email and other things?"

"That's true. That's right,"

Jaswinder focused his attention on Mr. Roy again. "So Mr. Roy, how's retired life? You must be having plenty of time now. How do you utilize it?"

"It's difficult you know, staying at home, after all these years…I have taken to writing now, you can

call me a writer,"

"Really? That's good. What do you write?" Jaswinder marked Mr. Roy's present occupation in his notepad.

"Short stories…have written quite a few now,"

"Published anything yet?"

"Yes, one in The Sunday Statesman and two others in the ABP magazine."

"That's great! So what are your stories about?"

"Nothing in particular…crises of modern life, you know. Currently I am working on a thriller."

"What kind of thriller?"

"A murder mystery."

"Sounds very interesting."

"Let's see how it turns out."

"I'm sure it'll be great. Where's your son? You said he lived with you."

"He's in Kanpur."

"In Kanpur? What does he do there?"

"He's a Computer Science student at IIT٭٭٭ Kanpur."

This piece of information caught Jaswinder's attention.

"What's his name?"

"Arun Kumar Roy."

"Which year?"

"Final year."

"So does he come home often?"

"Only during his semester breaks."

"When did he come home last?"

"A month ago."

"Give me his phone number and address. I'd like to talk to him."

Jaswinder took Arun's phone number and address and stood up. As he was leaving Mr. Roy asked Jaswinder, "Mr. Singh, when did this incident happen?"

"About fifteen days ago." And with that he walked away leaving the Roys with their own queries.

Immediately they rushed to the phone and dialed Arun's number.

 

---------------

 

He googled hacker and the bright computer screen stared back at Arun with eight definitions of the word. Numbers five and six appealed to him.

Definition number five read, "A person who enjoys the intellectual challenge of creatively overcoming or exceeding limitations."

Definition number six read, "A malicious intruder who tries to detect sensitive information by poking around. Therefore 'password hacker' and 'network hacker'. The correct term for this sense is 'crack'." He finished reading and muttered 'I am feeling lucky'.

 

------------------

 

"Upen Biswas from the CBI,"

"Nice to meet you. How can I help you?" the dean of the Computer Science Department at IIT, Kanpur said.

"We have reasons to believe that one of your students may be involved in meddling with the SBI security network,"

"And what makes you think that it is one of our students Mr. Biswas?"

"Is Arun Kumar Roy a student here?" Mr. Biswas continued ignoring the dean.

"Yes,"

"Well, Dr. Das, the system to which the crime has been traced is in Kolkata, in Arun's father's name. Now Arun's father did not seem to be very technologically competent, at least not enough to cause any major damage like this…so that leaves us with Arun as the major suspect…"

"But it is also possible that someone else might have done the crime remotely using that particular system. So how do you know for sure that Arun is to blame?"

"Dr. Das, I didn't say that we were sure. I just said that he is under suspicion. Mark my words carefully. Now let's not complicate matters and waste time. I'd like to talk to Arun Roy."

"Do you have a warrant for interrogating him?"

"Here you go," Mr. Biswas handed over a sheet of paper to Dr. Das.

"Then there's nothing to stop you I presume. I'll send for Arun,"

"Thank you Dr. Das."

A few minutes later a tall lanky guy with a day old stubble walked into the dean's office. He had longish hair which could be tied into a ponytail with some difficulty. Behind the latest fashion glasses were a pair of light brown eyes, alert and roving. He looked first at Mr. Biswas and then at his dean.

"Arun, this here is Mr. Upen Biswas, investigating officer of CBI. He'd like to talk to you regarding a hacking case," Dr. Das said.

"Hacking?" Arun said nervously.

"Actually you are their prime suspect now,"

"But I am trying to come up with anti-hacking systems…"

"That's what I told him, but…"

"Dr. Das, let me take it from here. Now where can I talk to him in private, without any disturbance?"

"You can use the conference room down the hall. Arun you can take him there, and don't worry. Everything will be just fine."

"Thank you Sir," Arun said and readied himself to face the CBI investigator.

Inside the conference room Arun sat at one end of the huge table. The detective pulled out a chair and sat opposite to him, facing him directly but from a distance. Arun looked at the man, he was completely bald and the arched bushy eyebrows gave his face a menacing look. Not sure what to do, Arun smiled at him nervously and without realizing started drumming his fingers on the table. He looked towards his right where the blinds on the windows were drawn. He wanted to go and pull up the blinds, let in some light in the room. The conference room had never felt so claustrophobic before.

"So…your name please, young man," Mr. Biswas' voice boomed.

"Arun Kumar Roy."

"Occupation."

"Final year Computer Science student."

"And final year would be…fourth, fifth?"

"Fourth year."

"Ok. So do you have any idea why you are here?"

"Not exactly…other than the fact that I am a suspect in a hacking case."

"Your parents must have told you something regarding this,"

Arun swallowed before replying, "Yes, the CBI had been to our home and interrogated my parents regarding a security breach in the SBI networks."

"So you do know why you are here," Mr. Biswas leaned forward.

"Wait a minute. Are you hinting that I am the culprit? You can't do that. You have no proof whatsoever," Arun shouted, little realizing that his reaction was not helping him in any way.

The investigator sat quietly and observed Arun's every move. He waited for him to cool down.

"Tell me Arun how much knowledge your parents have about computers."

"My mom has zero knowledge. I've tried so many times to teach her how to e-mail, but she's just not interested. It's so hard to even make her sit in front of the computer for some time."

"And your father?"

"My dad is learning. At least he's interested. Even a few months back he didn't know much. But now he can do all the e-mailing and chatting. I used to chat with him almost every day so that he had the practice. Previously anytime he had to send an attachment he used to call me up for instructions. Now he's ok."

"But didn't his work at the bank involve computers?"

"It did. But that was only work stuff. When the banking system was being computerized all the employees had to take training. So that took care of the office work. And you can't really use the office system for your personal work, right? A year ago he bought a computer at home, that's when he started learning."

"I heard he's a writer now. Does he write the old fashioned way, you know pen and paper or use computers?"

"He started with pen and paper, but I switched him to MS Word. He's now quite comfortable with it," Arun said with a smile.

"How often do you go home Arun?"

"About twice a year, during my semester breaks."

"When was the last time you went home?"

"Last month."

"That would be September. Can you give me the exact dates you were home?"

"Umm…I came back here September 23^rd. it was a Sunday I remember."

"You must be using the home computer when you are there"

"Actually I have a laptop. I pretty much use that. I generally don't use the system at home."

"Why?"

"Because it's easier for me to access things from my laptop. I am always signed into my mail account and all my coursework and related stuff is in my laptop. So it makes things easier for me. A different system means I have to log in again, and then sign out…"

"Where's your laptop?"

"In my room."

"Let's go to your room. I want to have a look at it."

"Visitors are not allowed in the hostel rooms."

"Look kid, don't try to act smart. I have a search warrant. And it's in your best interest that you co-operate with the law or else I can have you arrested under Indian Penal Code 732 for obstruction of justice."

Immediately Arun stood up and started walking towards the door. The investigator smiled to himself. This threat always worked.

The boy's room was a total mess. On one side of his bed books and clothes were piled up. His laptop was open on the table. The investigator sat down at the desk and checked all the tabs which were open. The first tab he saw was about Chinese restaurants in the area, the next few were about IP addresses and networking but the one which caught his attention was related to hacking trails. He shut the laptop and took it in his custody.

"But…that…" Aun couldn't complete.

"Remember what I said earlier."

"Yes Sir," Arun said.

"Tell me one thing Arun, why do people hack?"

"I don't know."

"Suppose you were a hacker. I am not telling that you are one. Just assume. What would your motive be for breaking into a restricted system? Why commit this kind of crime?"

"You know what Mr. Biswas, people who hack don't always have a criminal bent of mind. Many people do it for the sheer challenges it provides. Hackers are very sharp people, they love what they do. It's like a game you know, how far can you take it, how far can you make yourself go, how far can you push yourself? It's all about trying new things and not ruling out possibilities Mr. Biswas."

"If hacking is such a challenging job why are you specializing in anti-hacking?"

"Good point. First of all, hacking is something which can't be taught. You just learn if you are interested. Secondly, hacking is challenging, but containing hackers is even more challenging."

"So in a way, your anti-hacking skills also allow you to sharpen your hacking abilities."

"How is that?"

"If you don't hack, how will you know how to stop it?"

"Hahaha…if I were to follow your logic Mr. Biswas, then I have to assume that a fireman sets fire to a house, before he learns how to douse it, or a policeman commits the same crime as his criminal in order to arrest the criminal! It doesn't work that way Mr. Biswas. You need to think like a criminal, in order to catch him, not commit the crime yourself."

"In that case, tell me how is hacking done?"

"How am I supposed to know how hacking is done. I am not a hacker."

"What happened to your logic…what about thinking like a hacker, try thinking. Someone as intelligent as you can definitely do this. Don't rule out your possibilities, push yourself Arun."

Arun started sweating profusely. He had gone too far. Somewhere down the line he had forgotten that the man in front of him was from the CBI. He had said too much. Every time, every time he got carried away.

 

While leaving the campus Mr. Biswas thought about the case. "The boy was very smart and he didn't come all clean. He was hiding something definitely. But what? But the boy's father…he didn't sound all that technologically challenged from his son…maybe Singh should check on him again. Need to talk to Singh."

 

Three days after the CBI interrogated him and intercepted his laptop, Arun received a call from his mother. She sounded very tense. "Arun, the CBI came again today. They searched the house and took away the computer. They also took your father with them for additional questioning but let him go afterwards. They told him not to leave the state."

"Ma, don't worry. I'll leave for home today evening. I'll talk to my dean. Don't worry Ma, I'm coming home tomorrow."

Arun went to notify his dean that he was going home in the middle of the semester.

"But you are not supposed to leave town," the dean said.

"I know Sir. My parents are alone at home, and the CBI is harassing them. I just have to be with them now. In any case if the CBI wants me again they can always find me at Kolkata."

"Arun if you are involved in any of this…"

"I am not involved in anything Sir. Believe me."

"I do believe that you are innocent but if your involvement is found we will have to rusticate you."

"Yes Sir," Arun said softly.

At home Arun could see the strain the situation had created, on his parents' face. His father's health had broken down, he looked so much older. His mother's face was tense. Usually when her son came home she'd cook all his favorite dishes but today she just made rice, daal (lentils) and a curry. No fish, no meat, no dessert. The three of them ate in silence. After dinner Arun's mother asked him if he was involved, "Tell me Arun, if you have done anything. I'll tell the CBI officer to forgive you. I am your mother, they will listen to me."

"Ma I didn't do anything. What makes you think that I am behind all this?"

"If you didn't do this, then your father must have done it because I don't even touch that computer. Now tell me, does your father know so much about computers? No. but you do Arun, you do…"

"But Ma, you just can't blame me like this. Is this why you wanted me to come home, so that you could blame me?"

"I don't know what to do Arun. Look at your father, his health has deteriorated so much in the past few days. He doesn't talk much now. Do something Arun, do something," Mrs. Roy broke down.

"Don't worry Ma, everything will be ok, everything will be ok. Try to sleep now."

After the talk with his mother Arun went upstairs to his room. He opened his laptop and tried to access the home computer. Access denied. Just what he had thought. The CBI had already sealed off any remote access possible. He sat there thinking when his father came into his room. "Won't you go to sleep?"

"Yes dad. Tell me one thing. When did this happen?"

Mr. Roy sat down on his son's bed, "The CBI said it happened fifteen days ago, but that was the first time they came here. It's been almost a week since then, so that would be almost three weeks ago."

"Hmmm. That was like a few days after I left for Kanpur. Wish I could see the system before they took it away."

"Didn't they take your laptop too?"

"Yeah, they did but returned it again. Couldn't find anything. All clean."

Arun started muttering again, "Why would any hacker leave a trail like that? That's against the hacker mentality, unless he's trying to leave a trail deliberately for some reason. But what can the reason be? Or maybe he was a rookie."

"He was a rookie. He didn't know how to cover up the trails," Mr. Roy said slowly.

"But how can you be so sure dad?" Arun said and then looked at his father, sitting on the bed, staring at the floor.

"Oh my God! Dad! But why, dad?" It hit him like a bolt from the blue.

"I am sorry Arun. I never thought…"

"What do you mean I am sorry? Do you have any idea what you have done? Why did you do this?"

"I had always dreamt of becoming an engineer. But your grandpa wouldn't give a single penny for our education. He wanted all of us to look after his farmland. I had to struggle a lot to complete my masters. After I got the job at the bank, I supported your two uncles with that meager salary. All my life I have struggled, I have always lived for others. For once I have lived the life I wanted to…I am tired of this middle-class life, this life of anonymity. I wanted to be famous, to do something…"

"But look what living for yourself has done…you were better off living for others."

"I am sorry son. This was never my intention…"

"It's so easy to say you are sorry. Think about me, think about mom. Here I am, specializing in anti-hacking while my father is figuring out ways to hack right under my nose. Why did you do this dad? You wanted to be famous? Your stories could have done that," Arun said, "Wanted to be famous!" he muttered to himself.

Mr. Roy sat there silently. He had nothing to say. He was tired and exhausted. He stood up to leave.

"But how did you do this? Where did you learn all the stuff?"

"I always had interest in computer science. In our days it was in a nascent stage but nowadays everywhere you look you find the application of computers. More than a year ago I read an article on Robert Morris and his Internet worm and it triggered my interest. My job at the bank was very tedious, so I decided to satisfy my interest. I got books from the library, plus I had your books. They helped me a lot in understanding the basics."

"How come you never told us? Does mom know about all this? How did you manage to keep it a secret for so long?"

"Your mother doesn't know anything about this. She'd never have approved. It's wastage of time to her."

"You could've at least told me dad. I would've understood and I could've helped you in your learning."

As Arun listened to his father revealing a completely different part of his life, how he wished for the circumstances to change. If only the times were different he would have reveled in his father's determination and his success. Was he supposed to be happy? He wanted to be happy; maybe he was happy in some corner of his being. His reverie was broken by a touch on the shoulder.

"Arun, it's quite late now. Go to sleep," his father said.

"You didn't tell me how you managed to do this,"

"After reading the Morris article I looked up many websites related to hacking. From there I got ideas. The networks security person in my office also helped me understand a few things. Talking to him I learnt about the weaknesses and the loopholes of security systems. I was writing a story at the time related to it and I decided to try out my ideas. I wanted my story to have an authentic feel."

"But why your own bank? There are thousands of other sites."

"Because I was a bit familiar with the systems and their IP addresses. I accessed a public web site and then bypassed additional secured databases stored on the same server."

"What kind of data did you get access to?"

"I had access to customers' account numbers, their account balance, their entire banking history. But I didn't tamper any of them. I only added an extra zero to my savings account balance."

In spite of their situation both of them smiled at this bit of information.

"Why didn't you use onion routing dad? It is a technique for anonymous communication over a network. It doesn't disclose the origin, destination and contents of a message."

"I didn't know about it. Now I understand totally why they say 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing'."

"You could've at least told me dad. I could've tried to cover up your trail. "

"Arun, you are my son. How could I have told you that your father was a criminal?"

"I don't know…I don't know…you are not a criminal dad. If only I had known earlier…"

Mr. Roy stood up and started walking towards the door. And for the first time in a long long time Arun went up to his father and hugged him tightly. "Everything will be ok dad, everything will be fine," he whispered. Mr. Roy struggled hard to control the tears as he left his son's room.

The next day the CBI came with an arrest warrant for Mr. Ashok Roy. But there was no Ashok Roy anymore.

Early that morning Arun was awakened by a sharp scream. It sounded like his mother. Somewhere in the middle of the night he had dozed off. He jumped out of bed looking for his glasses. 'Where did I keep those damn glasses,' he thought and then realized that he was wearing them. He ran downstairs to his parents' bedroom. There in the attached bathroom he found his father lying on the floor, froth and blood had oozed out of his mouth. He found an empty bottle of rat-kill lying beside him. He bent down and touched his father's forehead. It was cold as ice.

His mother was sobbing hysterically; in her hand was a piece of paper. He took the paper from her hands. In his father's crisp handwriting he saw the words:

I am responsible for my own death.

Arun and Mita, forgive me, if possible.