Life moves!

In August this year, Usha, Aakash and I placed a checkmark on the immigrant’s list and moved into our own home in Chicagoland. This check mark despite other punctuation marks littering a far from perfect script – “?” about long term plans, “;” near-miss change of plans, “()” with the what-ifs and “,” adding to the list of other people in the same boat and doing likewise.

Not a romantic enough description of the home move so far? A lot of wonderful and precious moments already accumulated with friends and extended family in the new home! And please read on.

As we start to put our feet up in the new home, we’ve begun to reminisce and laugh about the year of on-and-off home search.

This search was not all serious beat-the-lease-date and stick-to-your-budget legendary stuff. We made time for flights of fancy too. We thrilled over dream kitchens with quartz countertops, basement sizes that could host a game of cricket, sun rooms as mecca for books and reading, backyards that opened into a golf course. Not to mention HGTV shows where folks in Indiana and Iowa were getting all that and more for far less (dammit!). We knew only too well what our budget compounded by a much sought after school district would allow. Flights of fancy, while avoiding leap of faith. The journey is as important as the destination you see.

Purchase of a home is not a rosy affair. It would seem “buyer” and “seller” are in an adversarial relationship. Even a simple greeting and query has to go through the respective agent. The seller always has this allure: “No, no, she’s not a flipper. She’s a sweet old 70 year old grandma who rehabbed this home to gift it to her son, who decided to take a job in DC instead.”

That our 9 year old, Aakash, was part of the process throughout made it a lot of fun. Not that the dude, fed on a diet of HGTV shows, would have it any other way. Come back from every home viewing and making a list of top 3 what we liked/ what we did not like was spearheaded by him and Usha. “Was this open concept enough? How did you like the curb appeal? Do we have enough space for soccer?”

We saw both the good side and the “shark” side of a listing agent. Since there were no great comps for one of the homes we were considering, we had to go back-and-forth several times on the offer. You could see the listing agent was getting frustrated - she decided to show up unannounced to an ‘extra’ viewing we had arranged to get a friend’s opinion: “I hear you saying ‘it’s looking good’ but that’s because offer, closing date, etc – we have agreed to everything you asked for. My husband is waiting outside for me and we need to leave in 2 mins. Need you to sign this offer right now.” On another occasion when we were trying to negotiate closing costs, our realtor was slapped with an email advertising that the home was being taken off the market and would now be put on rent. Sneaky tactics? You decide!

Along the way, there was embittered advice online and from others: “He didn’t tell you explicitly to negotiate closing costs? Seriously? You should just tell him you will post a Yelp review online about him – and ask him to cough up your portion of the closing from his commission. Anyway, he did not have to do much legwork (show too many homes) since you guys found yours pretty quick. Have the b$% earn his commission.” My, my, my.

When it comes to choosing home Inspectors, the more morose looking, the better. Usha and I finalized from our short-list by looking at the inspector’s mugshot:) on his website, I kid you not. He had the most “he even helped us walk away from the deal” kind of feedback on yelp, not to mention a few terrorized comments from sellers too. Little did we know then that once you select a home and initial offer is accepted, it becomes a self-fulfilling process: you love the home and need to make it happen.

Talking about the wall between buyer-seller, being a first-time buyer here in the US lets you get away with some naïve (or I like to call it ballsy:) stuff. Case in point: in the nerve wracking period after home inspection, when both sides are wondering who will blink first, I pick up the phone and call up the seller’s agent (you heard it right, the seller’s:). We were trying to get access for inspecting the attic and for the weirdest reason that was becoming a showstopper. I did get an earful from her about violating protocol (not working through my own realtor) and while this home finally did not work out, certainly enjoyed rocking the boat in hindsight.

Our realtor had provided Attorney references to choose from when it comes to closing. Its mostly a list of emails, an Attorney being a mythical being till it gets to the closing table. One of the Attorney emails was (I kid you not) Lawgoddess*@gmail.com. Unfortunately, her phone was not in service anymore because I remember thinking, “Wow! This is really the kind of Attorney that would spice up the world of Homebuyer Attorneys.” Any of you trying to email her, please do so at your own risk:) (but do share if you hear anything back, okay:)?

I started writing this blog when we started the process. I suffer from FOMO – Fear of Missing out, anxious that no priceless moment or detail slip through the memory cracks. Even as I was doing that, it was tempting to look ahead and write the perfect script: kind of like that movie where a newspaper group faced with dwindling sales orchestrates a political murder even as their lead reported is writing it up so as to have first mover advantage. So glad that we ended up not jinxing ourselves and it was a happy ending after all!

One thing I’m going to miss though is the crackling conversations with the 70-year landlord of the rental home we moved out of. Brash and humorous, as Italian as they come. Hard-hitting language without the polish or grammar, know what I mean?

“This tenant he used to smoke pot. I think both he and his wife used to smoke pot. His head would always be (showing a head bobbing expression) whenever I talked to him. In one of those states, he painted this door with the same ‘blister’ paint as this wall.”
Pushing back on our request to remedy the mushrooms that were growing wild in the backyard and are considered dangerous: “You just pick them up like this and put them in your mouth; don’t even have to cook them – very tasty.”
Talking about a previous tenant: “She was quite the woman! Used to run this dance school near the gas station nearby and most nights she would have her girls (students) over. They would be up dancing and partying and God knows what else because one night, the waterbed in the bedroom broke and there was water all over the house. The floors have never been the same since.”

And now what? Any major purchase – nay, even any major decision – will always be prefaced with: “Don’t forget, we have a home loan.” Another monthly mortgage will have Usha saying: “Not to get too excited, we just own a total of 2 kitchen tiles in all of the home so far:)”. And you know we’re amateurs when we talk manual drill and drill bits and get our homeowner high from putting up some picture frames on the wall and fixing a leaking pipe with some magic tape!

With parents visiting from India and family in the US visiting to celebrate Aakash' 10th, the last month has been an extended party with friends and family. Action-packed and enjoyable and could not have asked for a better way of housewarming.   

In conclusion (to borrow from this post: A life in moves)  - however painful (or joyful as this post would led you to believe:) moving may be, not moving is considered cowardice. Choosing not to move is not such a moving story.

Human nature has a bias for the bright side, a penchant for the promised land. We feel the sense of dislocation only during the act of moving: as soon as we’re moved, we have the urge to unpack and to feel settled and organized. All, so we can start thinking again in peace about the next move.

Some weeks ago, we made what I believed was the biggest move of our life so far?

Mad about Mumbai (part 2)

Back in Bombay, and not a moment to lose.

Take #353 bus from Chembur Amarmahal - fold ticket 4 times and insert between watch strap & wrist, so it sticks out. Get off at Matunga King Circle and begin the slow walk.

Walk by Classic restaurant, Don Bosco, Khalsa (on Lohri day, too!) and UDCT (now called ICT). Remembering that mom considered taking a librarian's job at UDCT to get me in on staff reservation (after all, how was one expected to get > 100% to make it on merit 'quota').

With food choices in Matunga, what was regrettably skipped was going to be as prominent as what was had. Koolar & co, the Irani restaurant with bun maska and the wrestlers omlette (made with 12 eggs). Snow point and DPs flanking Ruia. Manis, home away from home, while at Ruia.

Rama Nayak's Udupi and Rasam vada was the chosen one for today. Do a quick check that 7-11 softy ice-cream place is open late, and continue the slow walk. Happy to see the sidewalk (book) stalls alive and well; but upset at not seeing any PG Wodehouse (how else is "God in his heaven and all is right with the world").

Passed by the venerable jeweller PP Krishnan Kutty and imagined mom hurrying out excitedly, diamond ear stud secured for the new bride-to-be.

Cross the building where paternal grandparents lived (opp BAT quarters) and remember many a desultory afternoon (played truant from Ruia) snoozing on the easy chair in the tiny balcony, having gobbled up dosa and filter coffee. Then, the maternal's place and spooked to see some 'veshthi' and 'mundoos' hung out to dry. Resist the urge to walk up and ring the doorbell and find the Singer sewing machine and Godrej steel Almira somehow frozen in time.

Remembering 'thatha' (granpa) saying that mom played basketball at a school park nearby and wondering if she may have been a good shot, but somehow convinced that she made a very dependable point guard.

Matunga is the only place on earth where drop me blindfolded and put on headphones, the smell of coffee powder and (mogra) flowers would be enough to confirm I had come home to roost. I dare say it would be accompanied by a slight shudder too - at the weight of memory of those massive wedding garlands. Seeing it now, one is inclined to think: "Please join me in a silent prayer for the bride and groom to be."

Continue the walk by Matunga station and a sharp intake of breath on sighting the 'khatta' opp Ruia and Podar. (The sharp intake of breath was also for the fish market outside Matunga station. Reminded of several episodes from back in the day involving train travel to work, kolis carrying fish baskets, some tilting, and then lot of stinking rest of the day. It was quite the dodging to avoid the dripping!)

Walk by Manis and DPs and turn around again to sit on the khatta and start writing this post, watching evening nets in Matunga maidan. Convinced that Ruia was the place where mama's boy grew up (or became a boy, at any rate).

Tempted in my NRI shorts to bully my way and see the inside of the royal Matunga gymkhana but then deciding against.

Time for round2, to tickle the taste buds. The quintessential Mumbai streetside ("we take party orders too":)) veg cheese grilled s/w with ketchup and chutney on top. Joined by a crowd of college boys (I'm going to say from Ruia) chatting about girls and Chemistry lab work.

Bumping into a fellow SouthIndian (but, of course) from eons ago and making promises to meet in another Southie hub, Cheddha Nagar. Walking up & down (and down & up) favored stretches and even recording snatches of Matunga sounds on the phone, till people are starting to notice.

Ambling on, the mind wanders to movies watched with friends, the more exciting when it was after 'bunking' classes during college hours. Considering if one should watch Thalaiva, Rajani's movie Lingaa in this Tamil bastion in one of the original single screen theaters, Aurora. But having missed his 70-ft cutout being worshiped and bathed in milk during the opening movie week, wouldn't the experience fall woefully short.
      
Walk further and feet take control to drag you into the Asthika Samaj Guruvayoor temple. One gets nonplussed in the sea of ardent devotees. Sound of Nadaswaram and drums instantly transport me to the days of snot-nosed cousins, runny plantain leaves, 51 Re gift envelopes, and easy and loud camaraderie.

Winding up the night with strawberry melba softy and almost happy to note the same store owner, who still looked like he wanted to knock your teeth out:)


More happy traipsing in Matunga to shake off that ice-cream and surely tonight's dream would be an improbable plot involving mom, Ruia, basketball, College Rose day and chemistry lab.

Mad about Mumbai (part 1)

It's been 4 yrs and so, if needlessly nostalgic, please cut me some slack.

To retrace our old stomping grounds, Usha and I set off on foot today from Bombay VT. Before long, we stop at Kandils sidewalk stall for Ganga-Jamuna juice ("Bisleri nahi lagega boss" - only fresh squeeze, no water used).

On the Fort sidewalk, the eyes wander to see if pirated movies (and 'those' titles) are still being hawked.
("Good that you're with me, Appa always said avoid this stretch of sidewalk").

Continue walking and get into Rhythm House music store (just browsing, seldom buying). Further on, lost our way to that pen store in the Fountain area. Usha has a thing for ball point pens and I have bought her several from here in the past. Today, for old times' sake, it was an original Pilot pen (you know, off-white with a speck of blue on top).

More stomping towards Regal, and made a mental note to have the egg frankie another day. Then hop into a cab, already salivating about the special (its always the 'special') Pav Bhaji at Shiv Sagar in Churchgate. Occupied a 4-seater table and sitting, giggling, both on one side. ("Avoid the "soumf" (supaari) at the end - people tip coins into that steel tray and one can never tell how many times and where those coins have changed hands").

Lamenting the loss of pavement book stalls before cooling off with Roasted walnut icecream for Usha (at Naturals) and Icecream sandwich for me at K Rustoms ("I can count 15 restaurant code violations just sitting here":)).

Just like before, buying a single red rose (at single-digit Re/- no more) for Usha and the pavement florist touching the note against herself & her framed Goddess, it being a "bonee" (her first sale of the day). Then marveling at her little daughter sitting cross-legged on the ground, neatly but furiously solving math sums in her ruled notebook.

Ambling on, hearing and soaking in snatches of Mumbai conversation. "Your dad gave you 20000 to buy an iPad mini, no?" Instead of who/ what/ why, stylishly adding a 'No' and ? at the end of sentences ... is that a hep South Bombay thing, college crowd thing or a Convent thing? Wouldn't our beautiful language be poorer for lack of such variations?

Walk by Marine Drive but then walk away all too soon, head pounded by the overbearing heat. Its then cold coffee with a dollop of vanilla ice-cream, like you can only find here! Awash in memories with every sip and spoon.

More sidewalk walking and clearly, that's not where the rest of Mumbai walks. We love to walk on the road just off the footpath, in the opposite direction of traffic. With hawkers and other encroachment, that's understandable. But what a world of experience we miss! Walking elsewhere in the city, saw a 'bhajiya' vendor teaching his young apprentice how to chop onion and cauliflower. Food Network style right on the pavements of my big and brash city!

Almost run into by a careless 2-wheeler and how instinctively I use my Bombayya gaali ("diktha nahi kya Kajhurr":)). Shocked at my brazenness, Usha & I then dissolved into peals of laughter. (In the meantime, soaking in Mumbai his own way, Aakash had been poring over an email of Bombayya Hindi slang sent by a relative. Hearing 'Ded shaana', 'Jhakaas' from an NRI kid's lips - does language get any more exotic?

Move to Oval Maidan to catch some maidan cricket (Mumbai has, and always will, evoke cricket first and foremost). Then lingering to see if the batsman will make a lofted shot or do the perfect pull.

Meeting friends who live here (among the birds in fairytale places - big towers - high above the city) and as I use the new freeways, it occurs to me that the Mumbai of old has moved on. Perhaps beyond measure.

But for today, for just this one day, Usha and I may have quietly and secretly willed it back in time.

Is resilient a metaphor for something to screw?
You may say what a strange ode to brew
For a city that's given love, friends, and wings to fly,
But where events ever-so-often can make you cry;
Be safe, flawed paradise, a giant kala tikka in my mind I just drew.

"Enthu cutlet" about nicknames and slang

I love to use Bombayya Hindi slang and miss trading it with friends back home. Meanwhile, Usha is the guru of entertaining Tamil proverbs and wordplay. Poor Aakash, this multi-lingual noise boomerangs around his sanitized, mostly Anglicized world.

This silly Saturday morning, it was a new family game: we each get a 'pet name' formed out of Hindi / Tamil slangs, sayings, and other illicit wordplay.

For this weekend, Usha is "enthu cutlet" (Hindi slang, meaning over-enthusiastic. 'Cutlet'?? Forget etymology, just meaningless but memorable street talk).

I am "Sondhum kariyam zindabad" (Tamil, meaning self-centered plus Hindi, zindabad meaning long live. Imagine my luck, a multi-lingual novelty as my first nickname:).

Aakash is "vengayam bhajjee" (Tamil, think "Flat Stanley").

Rules of the game? The idea is to use these privately, our own little family secret. (Facebook is not real-world, does not count:) With long nicknames, its quite possible they get shortened, and thats fine. For e.g. "Sondhum kariyam" might become just Sondhum. All power to the user.

Pet names convey affection. Those who know us well also know that Sondhum, enthu cutlet, and vengayam carry more than a grain of truth about us three:)

Nicknames were an important part of growing up. Remembering a specific name that your parent or a favored relative used for you is the kind of pinprick on memory that few other recollections can beat. The tradition of giving nicknames was especially strong when horsing around with boyhood friends. You could be a slightly obese kid and the kind of names some friends might give you? - now, those would be the real pinpricks on memory.

Some family nicknames meant to poke fun become legendary, and I cannot resist sharing just one, political correctness be damned. "Ombhadu kalluh" (Tamil; nine tiles for a relative who was so big that when she sat on the floor, her girth would occupy all of 9 tiles). Tee hee.

And what's next with this weekend game? I'm trying to convince family that besides donning the names, we should also prove worthy of it. I'm also hoping, selfishly, to have several reruns of this particular nickname for myself. After all, how can it get better than "sondhum" kariyam" for myself when it is "enthu cutlet" for Usha?

Road trip to remember - Yellowstone & Grand Teton

Having experienced it now, I can say it’s both deeply unsettling and deeply comforting to drive in the mountains. It’s as if dearly departed ancestors were watching over us from all directions.

There are the majestic mountains, like grandpa with regal bearing who always liked to show the way. Then there are the pale and beautiful mountains - that would be mom, omnipresent. Some mountains have a dark shadow fall over them such as the uncle who's likely berating me for going 10 over speed limit to make time. Shadowy mountain behind a mountain such as the relative you hero worshiped and then found him to be a closet smoker. All of them though giving guidance, especially in the crazy 60 mi stretch through the mountain pass from Wyoming to Idaho that had 10 grade inclines. Due to tad bad planning and some route compulsions, we had to drive that way not once, not twice, but thrice.

We just completed a 1900 mi road trip starting from Salt Lake and covering the length and breadth of Yellowstone and Grand Teton national parks. In doing so, we traversed the states of Wyoming, Montana, Utah, and Idaho. It was a trip that left us alternately shaking our heads in disbelief and bowled over by the dazzling show nature rolled out for us. Seeing rugged mountains, rolling meadows and falls, and sighting wildlife, geysers & springs all over the space of a week felt unreal and dreamlike. No, felt too unreal even for a dream. Add to that, we saw some stunning architecture such as the Salt Lake City library and the Grand Teton visitor center.

For someone who never longed to or enjoyed driving in Mumbai (I would hail a cab even for some doctor visits for mom, that's how wretched), this new found love of driving and road trips feels both a curse and a blessing. 

If I had seen a mud pot or caldera or geyser eruption when I was say 9, that event would have been life changing. And instilled a life-long love for the sciences, instead of the semi struggle that was engineering. And I wonder why my favorite TV show characters are from the geek comedy show Big Bang theory.

The irony of a nature road-trip though is this: vast stretches of rugged wilderness throw us off, even frighten us a bit; give us our expressway oasis and fast food joints and we're in our comfort zone.

There’s a lot of idle chatter on road trips of course - from cooking styles of family members (everything on slow simmer for max flavor vs boiling the heck out of everything for the last filter coffee/ chai before guests leave) to how third grade class will be like. But road trip conversations also take on the syntax of places being seen. The biggest geyser in Yellowstone is called Old Faithful. After seeing that, Usha started calling the never ending big bag of Costco veggie straws as the "old faithful".

There were other sparkling moments too. 

Aakash picking up a stuffed owl from the visitor center at Jackson Hole MT because it reminded him of Hedwig from Harry Potter.

Meeting a lady (who incidentally had 20 grandkids, 4 of Aakash' age) who was writing a novel with her story climaxing at the bottom of the Canyon Falls. I learned later that there is an entire genre of novels for children that are set in and around National parks.

Usha has recently started using a wearable exercise and sleep tracker called Fitbit. Some mornings in the rush to hit the road, she will forget to change it from sleep to regular mode. And Fitbit will continue to track her day trekking as if its sleep mode. Does that make her a Superwoman sleep walking around the canyons and springs in Yellowstone?

I don’t know what it is about vacation destinations, the more of the wilderness variety, the more it attracts the preening and posing tourist. I do not envy the poor boyfriends who are constantly clicking their ladies in numerous Facebook worthy pics. Once, we saw a moose rubbing its antlers against a tree and when it was throwing its head back, my thought was: had it picked a tip or two over the years and was mocking the much photographed female Asian tourists?

Speaking of geysers, vaca is also a good time to blow steam - something the daily grind does not afford. Usha, Aakash and I are a small, tight family unit and that can sometimes be a tinderbox:) (As an aside, I am convinced the average # of kids in each YW vacationing family was 4 – way to show us up, you guys:). The grind of juggling important work meetings with piano and swimming schedules can leave unfinished conversations in its trail. A vacation, while all happiness and light, and a road trip at that should give the time and space to finish anything that flares up.

As a sign of what a vulnerable and volatile natural spot YW is, we saw carbon craters and geysers at numerous random places on the way and not just the designated tourist spots such as Old Faithful and Midway geyser. Ever so often there'll be another rumor of how YW is going down because of a massive geyser eruption, and the park service will have to put out another clarification that all is well. During our trip, we also saw blackened patches amidst the mountain greens, due to forest fires not uncommon in this area. Made us wonder if all this would still be around in a generation or two, and that lent urgency and seriousness to our trip.

These parks are quite popular and so clearly, a large number of picture-takers [oops, tourists:)] everywhere. However, I imagine you could hear the gasps [of being stunned by the sights] as frequently as the clicks of pictures being taken. I will confess that the SLR I tend to lug around on vacations did not see much action this trip. Most captures were from my handy Samsung S5 phone camera: started with a few pictures and was so happy with results, kept going that way. It was liberating to use the phone camera and not have to worry about the right lens and A & S specs in an SLR camera. That can sometimes bog you down, especially for amateur photographers such as me, and come in the way of enjoying the sights. 

Then there were the road trip rituals. For us, it means Costco was the first destination we sought out after landing in Salt lake. Plenty of juicy fruits to balance the fried snacks is how we roll. Bear sighting is the rare but big thing in these parts and everyone is advised to take precautions. We took care not to stock any Indian food in the car, who's to say that the American grizzly and black bears are not as enamored by curries and spices as many American people these days are:)?

Winding the road trip with a fabulous Indian dinner is starting to become another ritual. This time, it was at Bombay House in Salt lake city. The origin of their two main chefs - one from Patiala and one Afghani - meant the food was going to be an authentic delight. We were told they even grind their own spices, no wonder then - and no kidding - that the aroma wafted in even as we were just turning into the strip mall where it was located.

A memorable vacation is when you have dreams about what has happened even as the vacation is on, not just after. That said, a vacation does not change the course of life or make us better human beings. We are obliged to return to the same grind and one-upmanship: about one’s career, life and kids. But while it’s on, a vacation should be about better attention spans, to listen more and to rejoice often. It’s a chance to slow the pace and bottle memories for little whiffs later on.

In the process, maybe - just maybe, travel has broadened our minds and helped us appreciate more our fellow travelers.

Driving in the flat Chicagoland area after our return home, we keep thinking the mountains will loom up soon. Maybe at the next turn. Likely not.

Limericks

There was a crabby cynic called Maloney;
Who wrote limericks full of iron(e)y;
With not a bit of baloney;
He invited himself to a comedy club;
Certain that he would not flub;
But soon they put the mute on his microphone(y)


There was a not-so-young bloke wherefrom not sure anymore;
He liked to put pen to papore;
While with his spreadsheets there was langour;
He needs to break out of the shackles
But then he's also known for his stupor


There was a bashful bloke from Mumbai
fervent about vada-pav and cutting chai;
Now in Chicago, yearning for days old,
Goes back on vacation it is told;
Pancake and fondue with friends, taste like humble pie? 
 

Staying afloat and losing sleep

Aakash has a break from his team swim sessions. In the interim, he goes for classes at the Y pool to hone skills, such as side breathing. For this Sunday class at 1120AM, there are just 3 students. Coincidentally, its a white American girl, an African-American boy and (Aakash) an Asian boy.

This kind of integration is not unusual in the least and I imagine is the norm in swimming pools and soccer fields across the US this Sunday morning. Aakash has been swimming for several years now and is as much the expert, as I'm not. He will sometimes want to show off, and cause the conservative TamBram in me to cringe. That is, he will do tricks in the water (front flip and touching the bottom) that to a novice such as me, feels borderline dangerous. This is of course an example of what you would call a clear and present danger.

There are also the unseen dangers you cannot plan for. As parents, some of us may feel this when we send our kids to school Monday morning so we can get on with our wretched workday lives.

I wonder if any such thoughts were going on in the minds of parents in Columbine that weekend in April 1999 and in Newtown, that weekend in Dec 2012. The week prior to the shootings in Columbine High school and Sandy Hook elementary school that took away their precious kids.

As I see Aakash and his friends splashing and doing somersaults and generally playing the fool during a break between laps, I also think about signs of racial intolerance that are creeping up in America. While there are additional reasons now, racial segregation is back in the South, stifling progress of poor black and Latino kids in those parts. They’re calling it re-segregation, as if somehow that absolves our generation of the crime.

There is couple of news items from the last week or so in the mainstream press. But did not get nearly as much press as is essential, me thinks. Reading those, I found myself sputtering and had to let myself calm down a bit before I could write about it. Otherwise this post would have been just a bunch of random characters from angry keystrokes that would have made no sense.

As if to convince myself that I'm not a Nervous Nellie, I have been discussing with few close friends who are parents, and my fears don't seem to be unfounded.

I hope that with this post I am not making those friends lose sleep. Because that's not my intent. But who I really do hope is losing sleep, a lot of sleep, are those who perpetrate such crimes.

What is my personal solution for this? Cowardly flight away from this country is the easy (but it’s not easy either, right?) and soft option I can come up with. Countries of the third world (and I am convinced the term ‘third world’ was first coined to be partly pejorative) have problems of their own but there’s something deeply disturbing about these problems in the developed world (where drills to be prepared for a shoot-out are part of the school day, just as recess is). As if developed in developed world is supposed to convey only the state of the economy, and not a state of mind.

I do not see myself growing old here, too old at any rate. Because keep in mind also, that I'm just a skilled, bloody, non-immigrant Visa worker here. Someone who like many others sends his kid to school Monday morning with a hug and prayer on the lips, hoping that for kids across the country, life and progress is as normal as it ought to be.

Not-a-student in a student town: eulogy to Evanston

As on 15th April, I have been 8 years in this university town. Evanston, IL. Home of Northwestern. Not-a-student living in a student town. A family guy sharing sidewalk space with teens and twenty-something college students. Eight years is short of a full decade and so, short of a typical milestone. But there have been many surreal and funny moments and for that, a tribute to Evanston is already past due. 

{We actually moved to a suburb Wilmette close to a year back but still work in Evanston and still lean on its swimming and music programs. Not to mention for our favorite restaurants and oh, also, for our haircut with Fairuz:) Our address has changed but clearly, home and heart is still in Evanston.}

This was the town where we (Usha, Aakash and I) arrived as family to begin living our American dream. Where far, far away from the cocoon of parents/ grandparents/ uncles/ aunts/ friends/ domestic help/ cheap haircuts/ cheap car-service/ cheap root canal in Mumbai, Usha and I wrestled to forget and let go of those dependencies. Its also where, 8 years hence, we still remember and miss those same people and same things back home most acutely.

This is the place where new friendships were struck, old interests found an outlet, new passions were ignited.

Such as reading. Imagine a place where you can check out books (and latest titles at that) for absolutely free. Beats me why such a place would be called a library. It should be called heaven. EPL, or Evanston public library. The said heaven. We don't mind if we forget to return books on time; and sometimes  deliberately delay too when we find we've had too long of a punctual run. Feeling too guilty about enjoying such pleasures for free, we think of the fines as donation towards a wonderful establishment. EPL was the place where Usha hit her CPA books to re-start her career in the US. It is the place I hit books on days I feel jaded about corporate life.

Such as tennis. When I walk into the newly laid Northwestern tennis courts on Sheridan (purple floors no less), I feel like I’m about to play at the US open. If I listen really hard, I can even hear a grand slam buzz. In between play, I will sometimes catch the Northwestern tennis team blokes practising and such is the rapture of their play that you'd think you were witnessing a young Nadal or a young Djokovik killing the balls out there.

Evanston is where I've seen specialist mom-and-pop stores open and then close, sometimes more than two in the same location. One of which shut down because the co-owner was dying of cancer. Its also where I cringed on first seeing books sold “by the pound”. I know this is just the smaller bookstores trying to make a go of it against the larger chains but: is there no value to intellectual or literary merit? Is a large tome such as "Shantaram" any way better or more valuable than the small gem "451 Farenheit" by Ray Bradbury?

There have also been moments we will take to our grave.

There is this rehab center called Greenwood care on Chicago Ave, right next to the first apartment building we lived in. Its website says "we provide specialized care for the chronically mentally ill". Raymond park, the hub of summer activity when Aakash was younger, was also close by. During one of those numerous walks from home to Raymond park, Usha (with little Aakash in her arms) got stalked by one of the patients at the rehabilitation center: "I am (Mother) Mary and he (Aakash) is Jesus".  Hilarious to now think about it but not so funny back then. Truth be told, I was in splits when Usha, horrified, recounted the story to me. I may have suggested this stalker was channeling the spirit of someone from Mumbai but don't think that went down very well!

On Sheridan Ave, by the Northwestern campus, is one of widest sidewalks I've seen. Not to mention the Baptist church with stained glass windows as a stunning backdrop. I will sometimes take a post-lunch walk to clear my head and let young Evanston recharge me. On a balmy April afternoon, at the start of the academic year, a guide is conducting a tour for new students and parents. "This is the arch, a campus landmark ..." My feet take control and I inadvertently, and illicitly, join the tour. I feel like a bit of a charlatan but someone who's bluffed age for some paces and a few minutes. Coming close to the Tech building, the knowing glances and friendly overtures from fellow tour takers is starting to make me uncomfortable and I decide to fall off the tour. Remember the family guy sharing sidewalk space bit? Shame. But oh, so refreshing.

Speaking of weekday walks, glory be to those fine Evanston establishments that have pandered to my sweet tooth and afternoon cravings. Yes, the jackfruit with tapioca smoothie at Joy Yee’s, Salted caramel milkshake at Edzo’s, Oreo milkshake at Potbelly. (Sorry Usha, you don’t know the half of it!) And glory be to lovely Lake Michigan where we have spent entire summer days hanging out: early morning walk by the lake, lunch by the lake, Frisbee and baddy by the lake, nap by the lake – you get the picture.   

Then there is the Chinese student I got acquainted with and purchased a bedroom dresser from. He was illegally well-off for a student, drove a beamer and was convinced that parking tickets were the biggest source of revenue for the city of Evanston. He himself had been issued 19 tickets in his 3 years of which he had contested a dozen and even won a few. By the way, that dresser was a fabulous piece of furniture (perfect combination of form and function) and Usha speaks fondly of it even now. Brownie points earned cheap in Evanston.    

Usha and I are certified foodies and no story has inspired us more than Grant Achatz, the owner of Alinea and award-winning chef; regular guy in all respects except he had tongue cancer. A chef with tongue cancer. Chew on that. But point is: we were tickled pink to find that Achatz honed his craft in a small restaurant on a leafy avenue in Evanston (Trio on Hinman). Just a few blocks from our apartment building and a stone's throw away from my workplace. And then, what about Tina Fey who - before her SNL and 30 Rock fame - used to fold towels and worked the front desk at McGaw Y in Evanston. 

This is the place where Aakash is nearing the first decade of his life, this is the place where I have lived the prime decade (the 30s) of my working life. This is the place where the young and old worlds collide: rich retirees in their lakeside properties (or retirement homes) and youngsters starting out life on campus.

I've never really studied at Northwestern but I've always yearned to wear the university purple colors. Too chicken to do an exec Kellogg MBA and take on a student loan at this age, I may yet do a one-off elective course on campus; something silly like Excel modeling or Finance for Engineer MBAs. As if, when I wear the university colors after that, I can do so with a bit more pride and bit less guilt.

In my most dreamy moments, I imagine myself writing a book. Not even something that gets published or sold, just streams of consciousness recording my thoughts. And in those deluded moments when I think of a subject/ theme to expand into a book, Bombay is what comes first to mind. My Bombay could maybe cover a book and a half easy I figure. Measured in those terms, a place dear to you is something you could fill a book with, right? By that token, Evanston is getting really close. If nothing else, I could have my work sold at the book by pound store, eh?

There are times when a post will come out of you like a spasm. Not this one. It was as if I was deliberately slowing down the writing process. That it was more fun to rewind all the wonderful memories and lovingly sift and pick through them. That writing was not the means but just the end and so, could, very well wait. 

Food, family and tradition

There's no food like home-cooked food. And the only thing better? Home-cooked dessert!

This weekend was homage to Usha, with dad and son taking over the kitchen [I'd have said taken over 'completely' since she logs in rarely, but her friends here would likely call my bluff:)].

So that the homage was really true to her, we took on some made-from-scratch exotica. Banana bread, guacamole, Mexican rice, and mango pie. Whew. Also, Mmmmmm.

Our lady loves to cook as if from a blank canvas, puts out a great spread on the table, and enjoys having friends and family around that table. How she does this, while juggling work and school schedule, is anybody's guess. I have a theory though.

When you have woken up to the 530AM grind and aroma of fresh coffee beans every single morning growing up; heard stories from your dad about how he and Matunga chummery friends made 100s of 'koykatais' (Tamil 'modak') every month for temple devotees; when you have a grandmom of almost regal bearing and means who just loved to make 'murukkus' for wedding events; whether you realize it or not, those are the kind of things that can influence and even define you.

We are slave to our genes but sometimes those same genes and traditions can make us shine. Some years back, Usha happily put her life on hold for several months and traveled back home to be with my mom for what turned out to be the last days of her life. Those humble, traditional rasam and curry meals hand-cooked for my mom are memories that Usha may never be able to shake off. Or want to. She at least has the memory of those last shared meals to cherish. The last thing mom ever whispered to me was unrealized: I want to be able to see you again.

Growing up for me, it was always about the food and ghee treats. Even if it was as a festival or a pooja offering. Especially if it was as a festival or a pooja offering. More than the sanctity of the occasion, it was the treats that we hankered for. As if, not drooling for and not wolfing down the food was in fact the biggest rebuke to God. Other than shared moments enjoying the food, I wish I could report more shared moments making the food. Alas. But you buckle up, and move on --

Who knows, maybe this weekend will be the start of a new tradition?

Road trip from the back seat

Technically, I should not be taking credit for this. Till I set him up with his own blog (I’m not lazy, it’s just my Mr. Hyde persona:), I guess it can belong here! This is Aakash’ version of some of the travels during our road trip in November. Truth be told, as we grapple with a rough-weather start to the new year, I also just selfishly needed to remember and be reminded of that fun week. And now, I’m thinking fondly of the English (and Hindi, not so much Marathi:) essays we had to write in school. 

Kentucky Derby

When it was a windy, chilly Wednesday afternoon, I was going to travel to the Kentucky Derby.  Me and my family had a lot of luggage to carry so I had to help them.  After we all got settled, I started playing my favorite game called Jetpack Joyride.  Finally we had reached the Kentucky Derby.  We hurried out of the car because we were absolutely excited to go to the Kentucky Derby.  The tour guide took us as fast as she could because the race was starting in a few minutes.  There was a humongous TV screen so we could see the race even when the horses weren't near us.  The horses were running so fast that I thought they were running at a 100 miles per hour.  They had long, skinny legs which allowed them to run fast.  When they turned I could see the horses racing.  "Go Black!" I shouted.  The black horse soon got raced just when I had a feeling he would win.  Now the red horse was in the lead.  It pumped its legs so fast that it won.  It was still an exciting experience.  After the race ended the tour guide took us back inside the museum.  I saw a video game where you had to push the handle or press the green light to go fast.  "Can I play that game?"  I questioned my mom.  "Yes, you can", my mom answered.  I ran without stopping towards the game because I was so excited to begin playing.  I pushed the handlebar so hard that I won the game.  After that, I saw the Triple crown trophy.  The horse that wins the three major races in a year will get the triple crown trophy.  I also saw names of the winners that got the triple crown trophy written in golden lettering.

You should make time to go to the Kentucky Derby !

Mammoth Caves

"When are we going to Mammoth Caves ?" I asked my mom.  "As soon as you finish your breakfast" my mom answered.  After I completed my breakfast, me and my family hurried out the door of the hotel and into the car.  After the twenty minute drive we arrived at Mammoth Caves !  "We are at Mammoth Caves!" I yelled out loud.  We got out and locked the car.  We ran inside the building where you book tickets because we were feeling cold.  It was finally time to go to the 1st of the 2 tours.  The tour is called Frozen Niagara.  We went inside the freaky, eerie cave.  The ranger took us inside the cave and I stood still like a statue because I was extremely spooked out.  The cave was way smaller than I expected.  It was almost as wet as the ocean.  There were millions of stalactites growing from the top and millions of Stalagmites growing from the bottom of the cave.  By that time the cave was half the size bigger than my mom.  Stalactites was so big that it was almost from the top to the bottom of the cave.  Five minutes had passed by and the ranger turned off all the lights.  It was pitch dark so I got to see one of my loom brackets glow so well that I could almost see my parents faces in the darkness.  When the first tour was done, we were about to go home.  "Can I go to the 2 hour, 2 mile Historic tour?" I questioned my mother.  "We will" my mom replied.  We went in another part of the disconnected 400 mile cave.  There is something called fat man's misery and tall man's misery.  Fat man's misery is when a fat person has to squeeze into as much as a giraffe's neck.  Tall man's misery is when a tall man has to bend to his toes.  My mom and dad had to duck a lot and sometimes even squeeze.  I only had to duck because I'm way thinner than my parents.  Go to Mammoth Caves right now! 

Rock city and Ruby falls

One cool Friday afternoon in Chattanooga, Tennessee the places me and my family went we're called Rock City and Ruby Falls.  First we went to Rock City.  After we reached Rock City, I slammed the car door.  "Don't do that" said my mom.  "I won't" I said.  Off we went to Rock City to enjoy.  Before we went to Rock City, we had to book tickets.  We booked tickets and went inside.  The place had so many amazing things to see.  There were different rock pathways with decorated Christmas lighting.  There were no roads without at least one wreath.  There was a small river underneath the swinging bridge that me and my family were standing on.  The small river had hard ice under it because the days in Chattanooga were freezing.  The swinging bridge swayed and swayed but I reached the other end.  Mom and Dad were taking a lot of time because they were busy taking photographs.  There were also fairy tale stories which were in rainbow colors and the lighting in that area made my teeth, eyes and shirt look like a ghost's.  after that we reached Ruby Falls.  Ruby Falls is named after Lambert's wife Ruby.  We had to go in a cave just like Mammoth caves.  There was a long way till we reached Ruby Falls.  The cave was covered with stalactites and stalagmites also like the Mammoth Caves.  Soon we approached Ruby Falls.  At first I couldn't see the waterfall because it was dark but as soon as the lights were switched on, I could see Ruby Falls in the color sky blue. They changed the color to red.  The red was shining bright so I could see it as clear as possible.  Tennessee is the place to be!

Passing away, and living on

If I was doing this longhand, the hand may have shivered a bit and the words would be trembly. But this post had to come out. Like a spasm.

I think maybe my age is to blame, which makes my elders of a dying age. Or maybe the present age we all live in, no longer as simple and honest as old-timers are used to.

Either way, the pattern has become unnerving: every year now, there's a couple of those dreaded phone calls or emails telling us about another family elder who has passed away.

I think about my uncle who lovingly decked up a bedroom with balloons and roses, for a first wedding night. Someone with whose blessings Usha and I started our married life. He maybe thinks about his own wedding night too, and countless other wonderful moments since. I think about this uncle, who recently lost his wife.

I think of my granny when I am playing carrom with Aakash. She was an awful shot and Aakash plays better but in common was a thrill of 'thumbing' and illegally pocketing coins. I indulge Aakash like I used to indulge my granny - because she was indulgent too back then, sacrificing her afternoon nap to play carrom after school.

I think of my grandpa when I'm in the grip of reading something. I may have got my love for books from him - after he lost his eyesight in later years, my reading out the newspaper headlines was the highlight of his day.

I think of Usha's uncle who would sit with a pile of fruits, plating healthy dessert for family after every meal. I think of her grandma whose love she can still feel and whose cooking she can still taste, long after she's gone. 

It is Hindu belief that elders who pass on join the pantheon of Gods, who then watch over their families. When someone tells you there's a million and one Hindu Gods, they don't realize it but they are only half-joking.

There's usually a framed photograph of the deceased family member just outside the area where the idols are kept. We have one at home of Mom's.

It may be the angle it was taken, but I often get the feeling when I am close to the picture that the eyes are roving, and watching and following me. Its hard to appreciate being watched over when the person is alive, its very comforting after that. I think of her often and not just when I wake up some mornings with a shiver and a renewed sense of loss. I think of her when Aakash is being difficult and am at a loss on how to deal with it. She put up with a boy known to sit by the side of the road after the school bus was gone, refusing to come home till he got his 5-star chocolate bar. She of all people would know how to deal with any tantrum. I think of her when I feel weak from a stupid backache or fever, so small in front of the mountains of physical anguish she climbed. I think of her when Usha wears a saree or necklace, that she lovingly passed on.

I think of dreaded news and calls that are yet to come. I think of my diminutive, darling granny scurrying around at my uncle's home in Chennai; the sadness of outliving her beloved daughter weighing heavily on those little shoulders; but still the 'moru' magician and still doing other kitchen voodoo.

I think of the dead but should think more of the beautiful life that was lived.

I look forward to the new year, while learning not to forget.

An anniversary, and a helping hand

Two weeks ago, Usha and I [lifelong vegetarians] went to Costco and bought over 100 lbs. of canned chicken, chilli, and tuna products.

It all started a few weeks prior to that. On the eve of our 12th wedding anniversary, Usha made the surprise suggestion: how about, not buying any gifts this time?! Not knowing what she had in mind then, I was a bit dubious.

We live in me-first world, not helped by choosing to reside in unabashedly capitalistic America. Anniversary and special occasions mean showering each other with gifts. As if love, somehow, is not enough.

What Usha really had in mind was charity. After recovering from that initial surprise, there were some hours of research [painless really, thanks to google] to identify the organization to donate to. Usha was also clear that Aakash had to be part of this process. Look around you, the wonderful/ innocent/ gentle creatures that our kids are, they are also - shockingly - materialistic. Not knowing anything different and since we like to spoil them having ourselves been deprived in childhood, the kids are certainly not to blame. We were also clear that we did not want to just swipe a credit card to make an online donation and get instant karma.

And so we picked an organization called Lakeview Pantry on the west side of Chicago, that provides groceries and other essentials for needy families walking in to the pantry.

After a couple of calls to verify what would be most useful [protein!], we took Aakash along to Costco to buy cartons of chicken, chilli, mandarin oranges, and tuna. He had fun adding up the costs and pounds of purchase, not to mention the thrill of picking up new items never seen in our shopping cart before. Somewhere along the way there, the gravitas of what we were doing, slowly sunk in [Why are we buying meat? How much will each family get? What will the kids eat?].

Growing up, acts of generosity and selflessness always swirled around me. I have read somewhere that after a person dies, the voice of that person is next to die from your memory. And so, mom's selfless nature and her acts of generosity are all I am able to summon when I think of her. And those stories about her are what I especially like to share with Aakash [and I don’t do this nearly enough].

I am quite fortunate though. Sometimes, I have to rub my eyes to convince myself how lucky Aakash is to have the mom he has, as I was to have mine. Usha is such an uncanny replica of mom that I feel for her, more than I do for myself, that she lost someone so special so early.   

Carrying all the food to the pantry and entrusting it to the efficient and youthful staff at Lakeview felt really nice and the warm feeling lasted for days. There’s a promise made to ourselves to repeat the deed at least a few times a year and hopefully we are also building a young man’s character in the process. 

So many thoughts, but just a couple more in conclusion. I hope we can start a conversation on this page. 

What exactly are immigrants thinking, to donate in a country they can’t even call their own? For better or worse, this is where we live now and we’re fortunate to be privileged enough that we can do this.

Have I somehow diluted the deed by publishing it on social media? Again, there’s a nod to mom here. Besides being selfless, she was also extremely gregarious; that I'm using both those traits to describe the same person is borderline illegal, no? She did not have social media back then [not that she would have needed it], I don’t have her gregarious personality [and never will].

Domesticity divine

Domesticity divine so says a Taurean
Call me not antediluvian

For what’s crazier than stay at home with no plan
And more adventurous than books of many genre to scan

What’s more romantic than ironing her silk top
And hands brushing over dishwasher and countertop

More epic than who gets to 100 soccer goals in the yard
Layups and dunks and letting down your guard

What’s more exciting than planning the next move
And promises not to be stuck in a groove

Calling normal (as) exciting I know will cause some furore
And clearly I can sustain this verse no more

So let’s troll priceline and ding for the next vacation
Convinced the journey is better than the destination

To ban or to be

"Banned book week" was an intriguing event at Wilmette library this past week. And [surprise, surprise] the event was a big feature in the kids' section too. Books were wrapped in brown paper and sealed, it felt like you were smuggling out [rather than checking out] copies from the library. This triggered some random memories. 

I had imagined he gallantly saved it from a bonfire at India customs; but a good friend assures me there was no drama when he brought me a copy of "Satanic Verses" from the US many years ago, back when the book was banned in India. Another memory [of an exchange rate compelled "ban", even though the rupee had a bit more stature then] is of joyful discovery and haggling for foreign magazines [business genre, just to be clear!] from street side at Churchgate in Mumbai. The last memory is jarring and not really sure why I'm reminded of it. Its of a procession, through Chembur, led by a donkey - a famous cricketer's picture garlanded with chappals sitting on it - the fervent "hai! hai!"s that come only from the pain of being subjected to another 16 out of 70 balls.

All this to say: a world without censure, and with freedom of expression, is certainly a more aware and interesting world.

And what was Aakash' banned surprise? A light in the attic. Shel Silverstein, we adore you even more.