Curious memories in a new courtry p Bakul Banerjee C

Curious memories in a new courtry

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

Iwas twenty-five years old when I immigrated to the U.S. and was fascinated by everything in the new country, from the excessively creamy taste of milk to the wideopen highways. I was surprised that my new home accumulated little dust. Unlike most Bengalis in India who lived with large families, I grew up in a nuclear family that moved often because of my father’s government job. Also, before coming to the U.S., I had spent several years in graduate school dorms by myself while studying mathematics. I was accustomed to being alone and independent. However, when I arrived in Baltimore, Maryland, in the late seventies, new experiences of being around others were waiting for me. My husband Pranab’s sister, Lekha, her husband, Deep, and their little boy were visiting Baltimore on their way back to India. Deep, a professor at Kolkata University, had come to the U.S. as a visiting professor. He took me under his wing explaining simple things and teaching me the basics, like door-locks and appliance mechanisms. He also told me that Pranab had invited his colleagues, neighbors, and friends from the small local Bengali community to a reception party to celebrate our wedding that took place about a month ago in Kolkata. Pranab was an important personality in the

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community.

On the second day after my arrival, probably a Thursday, I woke up late in the secondfloor bedroom to a commotion downstairs. Lekha and Pranab were arguing, and the toddler nephew was screaming his head off. I looked at two piles of things on the floor that I had taken out from two suitcases the night before. The smaller pile was for my things. Five sarees, two cotton and three silk ones, two long petticoats, five blouses, few underwear, and a handful of toiletries. During the flight from India, I wore the rest of my possessions, the pink silk wedding saree, heavy with gold thread brocade weave, a sweater, a shawl, my father’s socks, and flat ballet shoes with thin soles. I borrowed my father’s socks since I did not wear socks in India. My possessions occupied only one-third of one of the two giant hard-shell suitcases that I brought with me. The larger pile consisted of an oversized sweater that somebody knitted for her brother, about eight silk sarees, two shawls, a large bath towel – who knows why, as people in India cherished soft American towels — and several clothing items for Pranab. Lekha collected her share of clothes, traditional wedding gifts to her family from my mother. Even today, I cannot figure out what was the rationale for making me bring Lekha’s gifts only to be carried back to Kolkata as they were scheduled to return in a week. There were packages of sweets and blocks of date palm jaggery, delicacies from Kolkata. I had planned to bring more of my stuff, but my mother-in-law made it clear to me that my passage to the U.S. might not be possible if I had tried to leave a single piece of item that Pranab left for me to bring over for his friends and acquaintances in Baltimore. I remembered my mother’s sad face at the airport when I returned to her the rest of my new bridal outfits and a few books that I intended to bring with me.

Around mid-morning, Pranab left with his sister’s family to run errands. I was alone.

“I have started to prepare the lentil soup on stove-top. Please keep an eye on it,” Lekha told me. It was a simple task, but my history of monitoring lentil soup was miserable at best. If needed, I could cook a decent Indian meal. However, at my mother’s place, I burned lentil soups three times straight. “Déjà vu,” I worried. I consoled myself thinking that I was distracted by books before. Since I had not seen any books anywhere in the house yet, I should be fine. I was vigilant about watching the simmering lentil soup on the stove for the first fifteen minutes. Then, I discovered department store sale papers on the dining table.

I could have tried reading the Bengali book written by Pranab’s spiritual teacher that was sitting on a side table. On its cover, there was a picture of the silhouette of a man sitting in the yogic lotus pose. On the wedding night of my arranged marriage in Kolkata, Pranab had shoved another copy of the same book at me.

“From now on, this book must guide your spirituality. Throw away your beliefs in all Hindu gods and goddesses. You must read it every morning and evening,” he said. I was astounded and became mute at the audacity of his attempt at controlling me. That was the first-ever conversation I had with my new husband. Didn’t my parents choose a decent Hindu Brahmin for my husband? Usually, in arranged marriages, the boy and the girl meet privately before setting the final marriage date. However, Pranab made no attempts to contact me. It had made me uncomfortable, but it did not bother my old-school parents. I had never heard about this teacher before, not much later either, except for what Pranab

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told me about him. The book, steeped in dream stories, did not make any sense to me, although my curiosity compelled me to read it twice.

Pranab left for Baltimore soon after the wedding, while I stayed with my in-laws for about a month waiting for the visa to come through. The paperwork accelerated since I already had the passport as I was planning to go to Kyoto on a Japanese government scholarship. After getting married, coming to the U.S. became a better option. I did not have to deal with the Japanese language.

It became clear to me that everybody in my in-laws’ family held a dim view of the longdeceased teacher and his cult followers. Pranab had tried to bully them into reading the BOOK. The family insisted that I should try my best to get him out of the clutches of the cult. I decided that I would not interfere with Pranab’s beliefs. Why should I? Would I like if somebody had interfered with my religious beliefs? He had been giving thousands of dollars of his earnings to that group. At least I did not have to read the book in Pranab’s absence. I decided to go with the flow.

Back in the empty kitchen, department store sale papers were far more interesting. Suddenly, I smelled burning lentils. Oh, no, not again. I turned off the burner and moved the pot to a cooler spot.

Within a minute or two, the front door opened. Before I could do something else, Deep came in holding paper bags of food.

“We got special treats for you,” he declared with a smile. His eyes twinkled mischievously behind his professorial thick glasses.

“But something is burning,” he sprang into action by throwing the burning mess into the trash, soaking the pot in the sink, and turning on the fans. In response to my profuse apologies, he simply answered, “Don’t worry.”

He took out the sandwich from the paper wrap for me and set a large paper cup of soda next to it. There were fried potatoes too.

“Now, do not wait. These sandwiches are no good when cold.” In the meantime, Pranab came and joined us at the table. Clueless about the ingredients, I devoured the tasty sandwich. All the while Deep kept smiling.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. It is delicious. So are the potato fries.”

“These are French Fries. You just ate something called hamburger from Arthur Treacher’s,” Pranab said. Oh, no! I knew what a hamburger was. It had beef.

I recalled my mother-in-law’s instructions before leaving Kolkata.

“You are a good Brahmin girl. As written in scriptures, do not eat beef. It is a sin. I know my son does not think so.” I was in a dilemma. Since I ate beef unknowingly, at the behest of my husband and older brother-inlaw, and the food tasted good and clean, did I sin? I did not feel any disgust. At the table, I kept quiet.

An hour or two later, Lekha returned with a woman known to all as Mrs. Leela Das, or Leeladi as I addressed her respectfully. She hugged me and only smiled at my mishap with the lentil soup.

“So, you made her eat beef already,” Lekha asked. They took one look at the paper bags strewn on the table and figured out the conspiracy of making me eat beef unknowingly. Like other good Hindus, I had never eaten beef before that day. Since I am not a fan of eating meat, I did not know what I would do in the future.

Soon, the kitchen was filled with gallon jugs of milk and bags of chicken. The two n 127

women and I became busy roasting chickens and curdling milk to make fresh cheese. I could not believe that the reception party for about one hundred and fifty guests would be catered by Bengali women around Baltimore. This kitchen, supposed to be mine now, would be one of the main hubs of cooking for the party. Under Leeladi’s supervision, my first job was to separate the meat from umpteen roasted chickens, mash them with spices and herbs, and form chicken patties. Once breaded and fried, patties would become wonderful appetizers. I made a lot of cheese that day too.

The dinner party was set for Saturday at a community center. An army of men and women cooked and transported the food. Following the usual tradition for the new bride, I entered the wonderfully decorated hall dressed in my pink and gold brocade silk saree and most of my gold jewelry amid the sound of blowing conch shells and loud cheering. There were many young and middle-aged women with whom I bonded during the brief period I stayed in Baltimore. I took in everything that was happening around me. The affection lavished on me washed away part of the gloom that was deepening inside.

The community gave me a beautiful porcelain dinner set, crystal and silver bowls, and appliances that I used for years and still use the gold-rimmed dinner set. On that winter evening, I promised myself that I would help others during celebrations and festivals.

I could not predict what kind of life was waiting for me, but I could feel my father’s socks inside my thin, flat ballet shoes. My thought returned to the stack of my credential certificates from the best schools in India still tucked away inside the pocket of the gray American Tourister suitcase.

After the party, I managed to arrange an interview with a professor at Johns Hopkins University. I wanted to do research in Computational Geophysics and had submitted the graduate school application from Kolkata along with my credentials from various schools in India. Pranab had agreed to take me to the campus about ten miles away. Admission interviews were nothing new to me. I braced myself thinking about my earliest academic interview. When I was eleven years old, my mother escorted me to the office of the formidable school principal and left the room. I had to convince her that I would be able to pick up Sanskrit, the ancient language for scriptures, a required subject for that grade. I had never learned Sanskrit before, and I would be joining the class after midyear. I was successful that day.

At the university interview, Pranab stayed in the room and hovered over my shoulder. I could not understand why. He graduated from a foreign university. I thought he would know the protocol of leaving me alone. After politely nudging him a couple of times, I looked straight at him and asked him in Bengali to wait outside. The professor was visibly relieved after Pranab left. Even now, when adults talk in any foreign language to hide a conversation from children, I think of that incident.

Next weekend, we had a string of visitors who came to pick up the stuff from the large pile on the bedroom floor. A stylish woman, with short, bobbed hair, came with her husband to get the large sweater.

“You have a cute home, and the location is nice,” she observed, “When did you buy it?”

“Three years ago — from the builder,” Pranab answered.

She went upstairs with me because she wanted to see my new wedding clothes.

“That’s all you could bring for yourself,”

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she said when I pointed out my tiny pile on the floor. Then, she noticed the large pile.

“You brought all that stuff for others, did you? What did you do with your stuff?”

“At the airport, I left a suitcase full of clothes and few books with my mother. My mother-in-law made me bring Pranab’s stuff,” I stammered.

Downstairs, she insisted that her husband should try on the sweater while at our home. He came out of the washroom wearing it, lovingly hand-knitted by his sister. The sleeves were six inches longer than his arms. I could not help but imagine that on a cold night the wife could join him to snuggle inside that sweater. I had a tough time resisting laughing out loud.

“Who in her right mind would make such a hideous thing? It must have taken up a large space in your suitcase. I am so sorry. As a new bride, you could have packed your new precious things in that space,” she said. By then, I knew that no apologies would ever come from Pranab.

“You better buy her some new clothes tomorrow,” she told Pranab.

The next day, Pranab took me to a flea market for used or damaged clothes. He picked up a pair of jeans and a top and held them against my back.

“They seem to be about the right size for you.” We came home with two pairs of jeans and two tops. I did notice that he picked the clothes from the cheapest piles. I could have brought my old pants and tops that I wore at the university. Later, I realized that the clothes were a little too big for me, but I did not care.

By the end of the month, I received a phone call from the university that my admission, along with the tuition waiver, was confirmed. The Research Assistantship was forthcoming. I would be working on a NASA project.

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