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ANANDALIPI

2016

A Publication by Ananda Mandir, New Jersey xyl¨!¡!þ›

ANANDALIPI An Annual Magazine Published by

ANANDA MANDIR

A Tax-Exempt, Non-Profit Organization 269 Cedar Grove Lane; Somerset, NJ 08872 Tel: 732.873.9821 Website: www.anandamandir.org

PUBLICATIONS Chairperson: Pronoy Chatterjee, pkc_usa@yahoo.com Assistant Chairperson: Subrata Bhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com Editor-in-Chief: Debajyoti Chatterji, debsmee572@gmail.com Managing Editor, Anandalipi: Amitabha Bagchi, amitabhanj@gmail.com Managing Editor, Ananda Sangbad: Guru Chakravarty, guruchakravarty@yahoo.com Editors: SubrataBhaumik, bhaumik.subrata@gmail.com Subhodev Das, subhodev.das@gmail.com Sushmita Dutta, sushmitadutt@novel-ebiz.com Amrita Kangle, amritakangle@hotmail.com NupurLahiri, nupurlahiri@aol.com Associate Editors: Ruby Banerjea, r_banerjea@yahoo.com Members-at-large: Bhaswati Bhadra Ashok Rakhit Cover Illustration by: Sushmita Dutta Illustrations by: Sudipta Mondal Composition and Layout by: Arup Ghatak

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Ananda Mandir’s Board of Trustees and Committees (2016-2018) Board of Trustees President: Ashok Rakhit Vice Presidents: Suprasad Baidyaroy, Arun Bhowmik and Jaiprakash Biswas General Secretary: Sajal Mukherjee Treasurer: Chanu Das Other Members: Chhanda Aditya, Dhriti Bagchi, Prabir Biswas, Sikha Chatterji, Pronoy Chatterjee, Sanchoy Das, Indrani Dhar, Krishna Dutta Roy, Phalguni Ghosh, Saurav Ghosh, Pradip Majumdar, Biswajyoti Nayak, Mitra Purkayastha, Anup Rakhit, Uma Roychowdhury, Anupom Saha, Dipak Sarkar, Rik Sen, Utpal Sengupta Priest: Biswajyoti Nayak

Other Committees and Subcommittees (2014-2016) Award & Recognition Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair) Subrata Bhaumik Debajyoti Chatterji Surya Dutta Guru Chakravarty Amitabha Bagchi Ashok Rakhit Dilip Guha Dipak Sarkar Jerry GaMarsh (Adjunct) Building Maintenance Prabir Biswas (Chair) Pradip Majumdar Chanu Das Arun Bhowmik Communication Saurav Ghosh (Chair) Sanchoy Das (Co-Chair) Pradip Majumdar Constitution Modification Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair) Dipak Sarkar Kamalesh Sirkar Debajyoti Chatterji Construction Ashok Rakhit (Chair) Prabir Biswas (Co-Chair) Surya Dutta Arun Bhowmik Jaiprakash Biswas Dipak Sarkar Cultural Arun Bhowmik (Chair) Suranjan Choudhury Sajal Mukherjee Mitra Purokayastha Rental Coordination Utpal Sengupta (Chair) Biswajyoti Nayak (Co-Chair) Festivals (major)Coordinator Surya Dutta (Chair)

Dipak Sarkar (Co-Chair) Food Arrangement Suprasad Baidyaroy (Chair) Uma Roychowdhury (Co-Chair) Jaiprakash Biswas Arup Dutta Phalguni Ghosh Pradip Majumdar Arun Paul Soumen Roy Anupom Saha Ujjal Sanyal Fund-raising Dipak Sarkar (Chair) Krishna Bhattacharya (Co-Chair) Suprasad Baidyaroy Debajyoti Chatterji Ashok Rakhit Uma Roychowdhury Humanitarian Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair) Internship Pronoy Chatterjee (Chair) Dipak Sarkar Temple Administration Biswajyoti Nayak (Chair) Puja Collection Table Bandana Rakhit (Chair) Krishna Dutta Roy (Co-Chair) Rita Baidyaroy Suparna Biswas Indrani Dhar Pranab Duttaroy Santosh Mukherjee Mitra Purokayastha Anup Rakhit Supriyo Sen Membership Drive Krishna Bhattacharya (Chair) Saurav Ghosh Member Update Anup Rakhit (Chair)

Saurav Ghosh Chanu Das Literary Discussion Subrata Bhaumik (Chair) Amitabha Bagchi Pronoy Chatterjee Roma Das Puja Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair) Bandana Rakhit (Asst. Chair) Rik Sen (Asst. Chair) Chhanda Aditya Rita Bhowmik Susmita Biswas Lopa Das Soma Dutta Rina Ganguli Ambalika Mukherjee Sarbani Mukherjee Soma Rakhit Ranjana Sanyal Mita Sinha Publication Prony Chatterjee (Chair) Subrata Bhaumik (Asst Chair) Amitabha Bagchi Debajyoti Chatterji Subhodev Das Guru Chakravarty Sushmita Dutta Nupur Lahiri Bhaswati Bhadra Ashok Rakhit Amrita Kangle Ruby Banerjea Youth Activity Dipak Sarkar (Chair) Office Administration Utpal Sengupta (Chair) Prabir Biswas (Co-Chair) Accounting/Auditing Arun Sarkar Dilip Chatterjee

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Editorial

he year 2016 marks a year of remarkable achievement for Ananda Mandir – a religious-cum-cultural organization of the Bengalis of New Jersey. This is the year when Ananda Mandir has finally reached its much-sought-after goal of completing the expansion and beautification of the temple along with the construction of a standalone community center. Our expectation is that both facilities will be used for the upcoming sharadiya festivities, so dear to all Bengalis – the pujas in the renovated temple on the correct dates as per the religious calendar, and cultural programs in the spanking new community center. Ananda Mandir will thus be redeeming its pledge to the immigrant Bengali community, which has provided us with unstinting support over all these years. This year will also mark the 12th instance of the unbroken annual publication of Anandalipi, the literary magazine sponsored by Ananda Mandir. The magazine is a true testament to Ananda Mandir’s broad cultural vision in the sense that it seeks to foster literary creativity as well as appreciation within the Bengali diaspora that it purports to serve. The goal of Anandalipi is really two-fold: (a) to provide a vehicle for showcasing the literary talent of the diaspora members with their original writing in the language of their choice, either Bengali or English; and (b) to promote the enjoyment and appreciation of good literature, especially in Bengali, from authors in India and elsewhere. To that end, we publish stories, vignettes, essays and poems from an eclectic group of contributors, both in the US and abroad. Of special interest are contributions from the second generation of immigrants in the Youth Section of the magazine. We fondly hope and expect that the youth literary contributors and their cohorts today will grow up to be the standard bearers of Ananda Mandir tomorrow. Now that the construction and expansion phase of Ananda Mandir is coming to a close, we do anticipate a few challenging years of financial management and budgetary anxiety. We appeal to the Anandalipi readership to be generous in spirit and assist us with both financial help (donations, private religious services, personal facility rentals) and volunteer labor during this period of the organization’s greatest need. With commitment and support from our members, Ananda Mandir should be able to meet its central objectives of providing spiritual succor in the temple, cultural enjoyment in the community center, and (in a modest way) intellectual excitement through Anandalipi – for years to come.

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President’s Message Dear Members of Ananda Mandir It is truly a privilege to write to you as President of this esteemed organization that is unique in setting so many exemplary evidence of community participation for Bengalis in North America (and probably in any part of the world outside our homeland). Building a Bengali Heritage Center was the dream of this immigrant community in New Jersey since the ‘80s. It took us more than three decades to be where we are today. Unfortunately, we lost some of our founding seniors during this period of hard work but I know they would be proud to see what their beloved organization has become. My sincere salute and heartfelt gratitude to them as we carry this torch forward for generations to come. We are close to the end of a roughly six-year period of planning and building a complex that would fit the needs of our community. This has been a stressful journey for our Trustees and members alike. . Making the final decision to take a $3.5 million construction loan and then raising almost $1.5 million over the last four years from the community were not easy tasks . For almost two years the Board of Trustees heard many arguments for and against such a huge scale of financial investment . The expansion proposal had many enthusiasts as well as skeptics who fought tooth and nail for good reasons on both sides. Finally, we all came together to support this project for the good of our community and with the belief that if we all worked together, we would succeed and be able to cross all hurdles. My sincere ‘Thank you’ to all for living up to that belief Today, as we get close to the end of the first phase of our challenge to successfully complete the construction activities, the next phase of our challenge begins. We now have to start making large mortgage payments every month towards our loan payment obligation. The core financial team of the BOT has developed both immediate and long-term financial plans to meet this challenge. Of course, all plans have their assumptions and associated risks of the unknown. We hope that we will be able to meet the challenge with your help and Ma’s blessings. For those with faith, we could not have come this far without her help! As we prepare for the opening of the expanded temple and the new community center, we need to grow our membership as well as volunteer workforce. It is now your turn as a member of the community to invite your friends and relatives to join Ananda Mandir as Life Members. We need to start new cultural and religious activities as well as various classes and workshops for adults and children. To that end, Evergreen Club has started regular meetings of Seniors under the leadership of Shikha and Debajyoti Chatterji. Monthly Sahitya O Alochana sessions led by Subrata Bhaumik have attracted a lot of attention. Our past President, Dipak Sarkar, has championed engaging school children in various youth activities, including the publication of a wall magazine named ‘Kisholoy’. Another popular regular event has been ‘Ananda Sandhya’ where our Cultural Committee Chair, Arun Bhowmik, presents musical evenings by the best talents of the local Indian Community These sessions have been held for the last ten years on the second Friday of every month. These are only a few of Ananda Mandir activities in addition to the community newsletter (Ananda Sangbad) and the annual literary magazine (Anandalipi) being published for several years by a dedicated and able team of editors led by Pronoy Chatterjee. While we are proud of our accomplishments to date at Ananda Mandir, this is the beginning of a long journey that our founders envisioned for our community in our new homeland. With your help and continued support, I am confident that Ananda Mandir will be the community home for all Bengalis in the tristate area and, more importantly, will be Tomorrow’s Center of Learning of our rich heritage in this western world. Thank you.

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A True Gentleman Benoy R. Samanta 83 A Very Short Ghost Story Tilottama Bose 87 Saving Spinoza Bakul Banerjee 89 Changing the Unchangeable Sreya Sarkar 93 The City of the Dead Mandira Chattopadhyay 99 Deep Dark Thirty Subhodev Das 102 Why Are Dreams Important? Manisha Roy 107 Driving Miss Daisy Debashis Roy Chowdhury 110 Kedarnath–A Prayer Answered Guru Chakravarty 114 Meghdoot (The Cloud Messenger) Sanghamitra Chowdhury 118 My Beloved Automobile Rahul Ray 123 Priya Basab Dasgupta 127 Rakhal-da in Cherrapunji Debu Majumdar 132 Scarlet tanager Tathagata Ghosh 137 Brink of Basanto Indrani Mondal 145 At Home In The World Fariza Hasan 146 Dreams Fariza Hasan 146 Euphoria of Living Fariza Hasan 147 In the darkness of the night- Chitra Mondal 147 To a Small Body Karna Ray 148 Bracing Memory Rahul Banerjee 148 Nirbhaya Tinty Bose 149 About the Late Madhuri Ray 149 Waves that whisper with sofr Moonlight Arjun Ray 150 YOUTH CORNER Perseverance Rishi Roy 153 Things I Learned Throughout High School Parama Das 154 Heritage: A Different Perspective Priya Mukherjee 156 Gravitational Waves Aniketh Sarkar 157 Case 201: The Man vs. Everyone Else Pramila Baisya 158 Solve This Riddle Pramila Baisya 158 Small Hearts but Big Dreams Debaleena Bagchi 159

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A True Gentleman

Benoy R. Samanta

ver 25 years ago, I accepted an offer of an engineering assignment in Saudi Arabia. When I made that announcement to a group

California of colleagues I was working with at the time, a fellow loudly remarked, “Now we will have one more person who will return home hating everything

about that country.”I didn’t ask him then what he meant exactly, but neither did I forget what he said that day. After living in Saudi Arabia for nearly eighteen

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years, it became easier for me to understand why that colleague of mine said what he said and also why my experiences were completely different. Saudi Arabia is very different from all other countries, including the other Islamic countries in the Middle East. Saudi Arabia is the Custodiam to two Holy Mosques, which are located in Mecca and Medina, and the Sharia law is especially enforced. There is no separation between religion and state. It is illegal to practice any other religion except Islam, even in the privacy of one’s home. If ever found out that someone was privately practicing religions other than Islam, such as Christianity or Hinduism, that person could face serious consequences, including immediate deportation from the country. Public entertainments, such as, movie theatres, musical performances are prohibited here. Both sale and consumption of alcohol are strictly prohibited by the religion, and in this case, by the law. Gender segregation is the norm, as men are not to speak publicly with women they are not directly related to. Men and women are generally separated from any social encounters. Once I got into trouble for speaking to a friend’s wife in public and almost wound up in jail. Restaurants are segregated as well, with separate entrances for dining spaces; single men sat separately and away from married couples and families. Similarly, there were residential neighborhoods, commissaries and clinics specially reserved

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for single men. Public parks were accessed by families only. Photography is prohibited just about anywhere outside of the home, though cameras are sold widely across the country and there are studios everywhere to process films. My camera was once confiscated because I made the mistake of taking a picture of my wife at the sea side with only the open Red Sea behind her. All foreign workers, including family members, are required to surrender their passports to the Saudi Government when they enter the country; ‘exit/ re-entry’visas are required to go on vacation and ‘exit only’ visas are required to leave the country for good. While in the country, a travel authorization or a permit is required to travel anywhere outside the seventy five miles radius from the work area. Women aren’t allowed to drive, travel by themselves, or even check into a hotel on their own without a written permission from their husbands or male guardians. Women have to adhere to a very strict dress code, as do men to a certain extent. The list goes on and on. And there were various securities and religious police, called mutta was, everywhere to enforce all these social customs and laws. In summary, it can be said that the rights to life and liberty which are granted and guaranteed in other free societies are severely restricted in Saudi Arabia. So, it was easy for me to understand how one could feel the way my former colleague did when he made that

remark. However, in the larger scheme of things, and after adjusting to life in Saudi Arabia, these restrictions felt like minor inconveniences. These were the laws and the customs of the land and really not that difficult to get accustomed to. What people across the world don’t know (due to media biases and inaccurate information) is that the Saudis are decent people and welcomed foreigners as honoured guests. Saudi Arabia is a large oil rich country with a relatively small population and they relied heavily on foreign workers of all levels of expertise from all over the world to develop their infrastructure, industries and their economy as a whole. Saudi hospitality made life for foreign workers, in general, both comfortable and enjoyable. However, the real reason why I, and many others like me, had such memorable experiences during our time in Saudi Arabia, can directly be attributed to a few men who made all the difference, and notable among them was a man named Eric Wayland Corgill. He went by his middle name and was popularly known as Wayland Corgill. He was like a father figure and with his simple disposition and generosity, made life enjoyable and meaningful for all who came in contact with him. He organized many parties, events and activities away from the local population and the watchful eyes of the religious police where men, women, children, single or married,

could socialize and have some fun. He arranged camping trips, picnics, cookouts, dining out and various other outings to places of interest all over the country and the region. He was gentle, kind, caring and humble, within himself and to everyone he encountered. He treated everyone with respect. I travelled with him to many remote corners of Saudi Arabia, where I wouldn’t have ventured on my own. He drove hundreds of kilometers through the barren deserts. As we made these trips, we encountered frequent security checkpoints, where security officers would check our travel documents. I noticed that every time he approached a check point, he would tip his cowboy hat as a gesture of respect. The Arab security men perhaps never understood this gesture, but Wayland never failed to tip his hat in thanks. He stood tall and slender, and with his demeanor and personality, earned the respect of everyone, including the locals. He was a hardworking man and enjoyed his time outdoors. Wayland sometimes spent his weekend (when most people stayed at home to avoid the stifling temperatures often rising well above 40 degrees Celsius) driving to construction dump sites in the middle of the desert, collecting pieces of plywood and other materials that had been tossed out by the construction contractors, and with them he built beautiful pieces of furniture in his yard. He made everything from kitchen tables to cabinets

to bookcases and others, and shared those homemade pieces with his friends. He even made portable toilets, which came in very handy during camping trips and other large gatherings in the desert and the beaches along the Red Sea. Wayland is an electrical engineer with enormous common sense and held the position of Manager, Engineering. He instilled the belief among all those who worked with him that the work we did was, in fact, interesting and fun. This was enough to motivate people, which in turn, led to successful completion of many large, complex industrial projects with only a handful of engineers. Simply put, our job involved defining the scope of the work for contractors, who often came from nonEnglish speaking countries. Contractors were responsible for engineering, procurement and construction of those large industrial plants. A clear definition of those large projects were enormously important for a successful outcome and it involved writing of literally hundreds or sometimes even thousands of pages of contract documents. Wayland’s instructions in this regard were clear, simple and direct. Contracts were to be written clearly and completely, without any ambiguity, in simple language so that the contractor, regardless of where he came from, could clearly understand the scope of his responsibility, bid the project, and then proceed to implement the contract. This

simple concept resulted in success every time. Beyond managing engineers at the work place, Wayland Corgill was a leader and it seems the quality of leadership was inherent in his nature. As I write this article, Americans are getting ready to elect the next President of the United States. As the campaigning continues, many, myself included, have found the conduct of the front-runner of one major political party to be downright appalling. In the view of many, such aggressive behavior has not been seen in the recent history of the United States. The man has no coherent political principles, has excessive interest in selfimportance, he stirs up emotion by appealing to man’s worst prejudices, and he doesn’t hesitate to inflict the worst indignities to anyone who stands in his way. His behavior was so aggressive that it sparked a debate in the British Parliament whether or not to bar him from entering the United Kingdom. And yet, the man is one of the wealthiest man in America, professionally successful and has an MBA degree from one of the prestigious institutions in America. Watching him, led me to believe that perhaps the true measure of a man’s qualification is not his academic achievements, not his professional success or accomplishments, not his accumulated wealth, but his character, integrity, or simply, his conduct, or more preciously, the right conduct.

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The principle or doctrine of “right conduct” isn’t new and in fact, has a deep rooted tradition in India, dating as far back as to the time of King Ashoka when he ruled India from 269 to 232 BC. It was only after a victorious war (the war of Kalinga) in which the King killed over one hundred thousand people that he became convinced that war was wrong. Then he said that from now on, I will try to rule and conquer by “right conduct” alone. Then all across India, columns were set up as pillars of morality signifying what the “right conduct” actually meant. It was not based on any religion, but on secular ideals of dignity of human beings and humanistic possibilities. In the clauses of the inscriptions on

these columns, there were words like, compassion, tolerance, gentleness, truthfulness and so on. However imperfectly the King tried to implement these, his ideals of “right conduct” are considered one of the great ideals in human history. In India, these ideals of non-violence and ‘right conduct” echoed through ages down to Mahatma Gandhi and other Indian leaders at the time of independence to establish a secular state. Our conduct says all about us. Wayland Corgill is a man with impeccable conduct, as I saw him. I knew him well for eighteen years while we worked together and can easily define him as botha gentleman and a leader. All gentlemen aren’t leaders, but I believe a true

leader is a true gentleman. He is indeed a true gentleman. Decades ago in America, a man with the last name Wayland provided the most profound definition of a true gentleman. For many years the name of the author of “The True Gentleman” was not known. In 1930s his elegant words were used in Leadership Schools and caught on quickly all across the land. Later, it turned out that many years ago, Baltimore Sun newspaper conducted a competition for the best definition of true gentleman and John Walter Wayland’s submission was a winner. Thus it was first printed in the Baltimore newspaper and repeated in many publications thereafter. It reads as follows.

The True Gentleman The true gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds from goodwill and an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies; who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity; who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another; who does not falter wealth, cringe before power, or boast his own possessions or achievements; who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy; whose deeds follows his words; who thinks of the rights and feeling of others rather than his own; and who appears well in any company; a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.” -John Walter Wayland. John Walter Wayland was born in 1872 in Shenandoah County, Virginia. He graduated from Bridgewater College and received his PhD from University of Virginia in 1907. He was a teacher of history and ethics and he authored several books. He died in 1962. It appears Wayland Corgill lives his life in the words of what John Walter Wayland wrote almost a century ago. He is retired now and lives with his wife Carole in Gatesville,Texas.

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A Very Short Ghost Story Tilottama Bose, New Jersy

he tin roof glistened, as if coated with glitter. Her memory was surprisingly focussed on that detail, while the rest vaguely meandered through the rest of the day. She must’ve been less than 6 years old for they had moved to another neighborhood after her grandfather passed - she was 6 then. The memory of her mother lamenting his death was etched in her mind. She also remembers

she did not know what to make of it. She had not cried, she heard. Death, she concluded, was beyond her grasp at that tender age. It was a young family - they had temporarily rented an annex of a big house on Fern Road. The kitchen and a bathroom were haphazardly placed downstairs and a flight of steep stairs led to the single bedroom upstairs. All the rooms were either truly

large or she was too small. A tin roof, though out of place in that brick and mortar arrangement, was securely lodged between the main house and the annex. The tin roof played music when it rained. From stories retold by eager relatives, she was quite a handful - with her incessant chatter and her inability to sit still. Most of these stories were laced with love and affection so she never

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got tired of hearing them, less for the content and more for the sheer delight it gave them to relive days gone by. So, on that sweltering afternoon, she must have been particularly eager to explore the roof or jump down that steep concrete stairs. And that is why, perhaps, her mother accepted the invitation by the landlord’s son to keep an eye on her, while the mother got busy with her household chores. The conversation may have gone something like this. “Boudi, why are you yelling at her?”. “She is trying to walk on the hot tin roof - she will hurt herself!!!” “I have some free time. Why don’t I take her off your hands for a bit?” “Don’t you have to study for

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your exams? Ask your mother”. “She is not home. Don’t worry - I studied the whole morning.” “ Ok. Then…” “ Usha, come with me. I will tell you a story” She remembers a dark room, a bed of some sorts, a wooden study table and desk. It was a room, tucked away in a corner on the second floor. That’s where her mind shuts down and however hard she tries, she really can’t recall his face or the rest of the afternoon. She remembers something scary, and she had yelled out for her mother. It must have been quite a ghost story in a dimly lit room that had so terrified her!!! Then someone must’ve come and taken her away from that room. For some reason, her mother

never sent her to him or to the room, again. As she grew older, she dwelled on it occasionally. But she had no concrete memory to support her intense discomfort when, several years later, she ran into the young man and his wife. He was happy to see her, eagerly introduced her to his family and moved on with a cheery wave. Many years later, on yet another sweltering day, when she shared bits and pieces of her memory with her friends, they shared theirs too. Slowly the shreds of days past, came together to form an unpleasant collage - of things not to be dwelled on because such things happen, and boys will be boys. And sometimes the ghosts in the stories they share with little girls, cast long and dark shadows.

Saving Spinoza Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

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o matter how thin you slice it, there will always be two sides.” ― Baruch Spinoza The tail of the reptilian tram car was disappearing inside the semi-circular depot making its belabored, jarring progress to the other end of the structure. Jumping off the bus, I ran after the tail, but the bottom edge of my sari caught the sharp angle of an oblong metal sheet haphazardly covering a giant pothole. The heavy maroon border tore away from the seagreen body of cotton cloth as beaches rip away from the ocean during earthquakes – or so I imagined. The border dangled in front of me – certainly a tripping hazard. Grabbing the torn part in my left hand, I made a dash and climbed into the womb of the slowly moving beast still inside the depot. There were only a handful of passengers inside the car. The morning rush of office passengers was over. Settling down in an empty seat, I investigated the damage to the sari. No fear – I was always prepared for emergencies of my daily one and half hour-long commute to college. In a matter of minutes, I mended the rip with five safety pins. Although I still had about two hours to go before I would be allowed to enter the examination room, I was nervous. If I had missed that tram, the probability of being

late for the test-taking would have increased significantly. In other words, paranoia was kicking in. Although I had done well in almost all tests in the seventeen years of my life, I was the most horrible test taker. Normally, I would do well in tests if there were routine instructions in classes and life at home was calm. Over the last year, neither was the case. My stomach felt queasy. As the tram rambled through the north Kolkata suburbs, past old buildings, congested produce markets, and school children in rickshaws, the weariness of the past academic year engulfed me. Throughout that period, there were no scheduled classes. For several months leading up to the final test, I traveled from my home in the northern suburb of Kolkata to the prestigious Presidency College, only to find the front gate, embellished with intricate ironworks, was closed and locked down with heavy chains. A bunch of people, some legitimate students and others, mostly troublemakers, picketed in front of the gate. The leader of the pack, “Kaka” or “Uncle”, with a crooked face, screamed through a megaphone his catch phrases of “long live have-nots” or “death to the bourgeois class”. I would lurk around the gate for a while and ask folks with gentle faces if anybody knew when the classes would resume. Most of

those picketers would look at me as if I were an alien. I could not tell them that my parents taught me to share everything with others and that I have no problems with their ideals, but that I have one life to live. I do not have the luxury of private tutors who would help me to pass the examination. I had to depend on those professors to understand mathematics. I also knew that some of these students already had blood on their hands. Once in a rare while, I would catch a glimpse of my next door neighbor’s son Asish among that crowd. I would feel goose bumps whenever I saw him against the classical lines of the Presidency College building. He looked grand there, but strangely not so when he would sit around on the porch of his house making obligatory catcalls to passing girls. I knew that he stared at me when I was not looking. What was he doing with those picketers? I did not think he had any firm beliefs. He was not a devotee of Che Guevara; at least I knew what Che stood for. He did not attend Presidency College, and I was not even sure if he attended college at all. He was a few years older than I. Shouldn’t he be looking for a job? Many of those who yelled at the tops of their voices in front of the college were from very wealthy

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families. Perhaps he was socializing with them so that he could manage to catch one of their pretty sisters. Everybody had some reasons. Yet I felt a little jealous. He stirred up some strange emotions inside me. I tried to keep up a stoic face for my parents who were constantly worried about my safety near the college. Fortunately, they did not believe in complaining. My father, an engineer who was orphaned at a young age, grew up under the care of Jesuit priests at a north Indian University and rose to a decent government position by sheer intelligence and hard work. As a government officer, he had dangerous, close encounters with these agitators as well. My mother knew that she had to let me go to the best possible college to get a good education. She was ready to take risks. I was not prepared to take the test that day. Techniques of solving partial differential equations were leaking out of my brain. My mind was going blank. The tram trudged along on bumpy rails to its destination of the Kolkata city center. It was a rare, beautiful summer day. A brief but heavy early morning shower washed away the sooty face of the city without leaving a deluge on the streets. A tram ride is like practicing Zen – my father often said, but that day, anxieties were turning my gut into a solid mass. Only three more regular trips, then I will be done. My love for mathematics had soured by then. Over the next four days, I was supposed to sit for a series of eight final Baccalaureate examinations. I wished I knew

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the insiders like boys and girls from influential families who were helped by professors in off-campus sessions or some of those agitators who could bully the professors. After last year’s examination, I overheard that several test papers were leaked out before the examination. That day, I had to return the stack of mathematics textbooks to the library, pay a small fee for the examination and figure out test logistics. The tram suddenly jolted to a stop. I saw a giant jet-black bull with huge horns decorated with sandalwood paste and a garland of marigold flowers rushing by the tram. A substantial stack of banana leaves and a bunch of bananas were dangling from his mouth. He had just demolished a produce stall. An angry produce vendor was chasing after him with a big stick. I started laughing at the sight. I felt relaxed when I got down from the tram across the street from the college. I was surprised to see that picketers were absent from the ornate iron gate of the college. The gate was only partially secured by heavy chains so that only one person could get through at a time. If, instead of crossing the College Street, I made a left turn and walked one block, I would reach the Kolkata Coffee House. It must be full of students plotting revolutions and poets changing the history over cups of coffee under the cloud of cigarette smoke. Only a few years ago, Alan Ginsberg spent months there with Bengali poets. I never stepped inside the coffee house – maybe because I was always an outsider or because I

could never ask my mother for those extra rupees for coffee. Instead, I contemplated on my surreal state of mind. Last night, partial differential equations and complex infinite series churned together in my dreams – perhaps that’s how some of those coffee house poets felt after their nightly marijuana party. For a fleeting moment, I contemplated what it might be like to smoke marijuana, but I would not know how to get hold of some. Crossing the road, I lingered for a while at the used book stalls clinging to the wrought iron fence surrounding the college. Perhaps, I might find a book for my father. “Sister, why don’t you take these two volumes of Spinoza’s Ethics for your father?” The storekeeper was holding the two thick paperback volumes. Those store keepers had amazing memories. He remembered that occasionally I would look for books for my father, who was into philosophy those days. “How much?” I asked. “Just thirty rupees for two volumes. Look, they contain almost one thousand pages.” He said. I was certain that I could get them for twenty rupees, but I was distracted. “Maybe next week. Can you hold them for me?” “I have to sell if I get a customer, but I will try to get another set for you if these are sold.” He replied. An uncertain heaviness gripped me by the throat as I ducked under the chains to enter the college. I managed to muddle through the first hour of the test.

Proctors were hovering nearby to watch over my neighbor Rakhi, a very pretty woman majoring in English literature. It was rumored that she had been chosen to star in a Bengali film. During the second hour, all hell broke loose. An uncanny roar of voices from the street filled the high ceiling of the room. Proctors and security guards tried to close the doors – but the heavy doors were left open for years and could not be locked from inside. Soon, the room was full of agitators, some students and others of uncertain vocations. I stood up as the room and the invaders surrounded me. Test papers and screams were flying everywhere, but my mind did not register any particular movement or noise. Somebody twisted my papers away from my hand and tore them into thousand pieces. I viewed the scene in freeze frame. Before the

gang moved to the next room, I noticed Asish at the doorway. His peculiarly attractive face was twisted and ugly as he threw a crooked smirk toward me. I could not fathom why he had to taunt me. I did not even know him well. Did he come in just to make fun of me? I sat down again shaking like a young palm tree in a sandstorm. My eyes burned from the exploding tear gas in the street below. I tried to slip out of the campus from a backdoor to reach an alternate bus route, but buses were not running there either. I tried to reenter the campus again, but that door was also locked by then. I had to walk many blocks to return to my own tram stop. I started shaking again seeing the thousands of books strewn on the broad sidewalk. Agitators ripped apart several used book stores. “Sister, please buy the Spinozas now. Only a few

pages are damaged. I suffered a heavy loss today. I do not know what I will feed my children today. They came without any warnings I will give you the books for fifteen rupees only.” I was startled by the voice of the shop keeper holding the books. As I dug into my purse searching for my stash of emergency cash, the storekeeper pulled out a wooden stool for me. “God bless you.” He said. “You need not wrap them. I will look through them in the tram and the bus.” I was famished. Although it was not the best place to eat, I felt safe sitting on the stool among destroyed books. Taking out my lunchbox from the purse I started eating. After a while, buses and trams started moving again. I climbed into an approaching tram.

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here he was--- the living legend of Indian sociology. He stood talking to a group of students at the top of the Sociology Department stairs. All I had to do is climb the stairs and talk to him. But something held me back. Earlier in the day during the new graduate student orientation, when I introduced myself to the Department, my eyes had rested on him briefly. I

had expected a warm nod if not a smile acknowledging me, but all I had got was a flinty stare from him. His face had looked blank, devoid of emotions and my jetlagged mind had found it cold and mildly disappointing. Professor Rakesh Kumar was a name known to all Indian sociology students aspiring to do original research. His path breaking work had influenced a new wave of research marrying

anthropology to cultural studies opening up new directions for future social scientists. His analysis of identity in Indian context was the most detailed till date. His tenure at U Penn was one of the top reasons for me to apply to the university. But now as my eyes took in his smart corduroy jacket with patch elbows, rimless glasses and nealy slicked back hair, he seemed removed and unreal.

Changing the Unchangeable Sreya Sarkar, Illinois

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More like a snazzy corporate guy with an MBA than the introverted nerdy sociologist I had imagined. My unshaven disheveledness made me feel shy and I dodged the idea of talking to him. So, I was greatly surprised when he emailed me the very next day, inviting me to a dinner treat. It was unusually cold in September even by Philadelphia standards, I was told. Summer had made a brief stop and was being given a hasty farewell by an overenthusiastic Fall, the American term for autumn, I had learnt. Coming from India which predominantly has two seasons---sweltering summer and a mild winter, it was a revelation to feel the crisp separateness of four different seasons in Philadelphia. I walked to White Dog café from the rented apartment that I was sharing with two more Indian students. I wrapped the windcheater I had bought from Delhi’s Connaught Place tighter around my torso as the chilly evening breeze tousled my hair. “Welcome to U Penn, Ravi”, said Prof. Kumar with a toothy smile as we shook hands at the fancy restaurant he had invited me to. “I was in the selection committee you know” he confided. “I liked your cover letter and your research proposal was detailed and impressive. Too bad you won’t be able to use it in U Penn.” I raised my eyebrows without realizing. “Don’t get me wrong. JNU equips its students well. It’s a good proposal but not good enough for this University.”

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“JNU has very high standards as well, Sir”, I said. “Yes, but…it is not the same”, he said lowering his voice. He looked at me for a few seconds silently as if trying to measure me up. “I saw in your cover letter that you are interested in understanding the relevance of ascriptive identity like caste and tribe in the formation of regional political parties in India. I thought it was more of a political science approach than a sociological query” “Yes, it does have a strong political science tinge but I thought you are in support of fluidity among social sciences. Sociology and political science converge many a timex, don’t you think?” Prof. Kumar nodded his head and squinted his eyes in concentration. “You can’t do caste and tribe together, it’s just too much to take on” “I know. So I might choose caste to focus on” “It’s difficult to find data on caste. What you find mostly are anecdotes” “I don’t think so. Otherwise stalwarts like Andre Beteille, M.N. Srinivas, Rajni Kothari and later Dipankar Gupta could not have done their analyses.” A stiff smile hovered on Prof. Kumar’s lips. He coughed uneasily. “The thing about caste is that, the more times change, the more everything remains the same.” I did not understand the statement and asked him to elucidate but he did not want to explain further. He deftly changed the topic after

mentioning that I would have plenty of time to decide what I really wanted to do and so there was no reason to discuss it further at the moment. He talked about the city of Philadelphia fondly. “Philly is steeped in history. You should visit the Liberty Bell and the Independence Hall. And yes...” he paused and smiled. “You have to run up the ‘Rocky’ stairs at the Art Museum here”. Rocky’s Gonna Fly Now theme music played in my mind. I remembered in a flash Stallone jogging through the rough underbelly of Philadelphia and bolting up the magnificent Museum stairs. I looked forward to visiting the Art Museum. He spent the entire evening praising American culture, its ability to embrace everyone with an open heart. I tried to toss in a few questions about his research and findings about Indian diaspora settling in U.S. in the 1970s but he did not seem interested in continuing in that direction. He was content talking about his cultural discoveries in U.S. He talked elaborately about new cuisines and made me taste what he said was an expensive red wine. I wanted to keep an open mind and appreciate the wine but my tired messed up senses found it bitter and dry. I found his attitude after a while condescending and rather annoying. Without saying out aloud he exuded a sense of disregard for all comments that did not come out of his mouth. Over the next few weeks as I came to know that Prof. Kumar had been assigned as my

first year guide, I had to spend some more time with him. And each time I met him, I found him high handed and conceited. My friends back home in India would ask me excitedly about ‘the Rakesh Kumar’ students raved about and I did not have the heart to burst their bubble and tell them that he was an unbearable show-off as a person. Without really asking about my interest in his present research on labor migration, he advised me to register for his course on South Asian migration to U.S. along with other core courses. I was not interested in the topic and had instead registered for his course offered to undergraduate students on Indian identity and politics. “Why are you taking that basic course? You know most of that stuff already!” But I had stuck to my decision and joined the course. As arrogant as I found him as a person outside the class, he was a delight to watch as a teacher inside the lecture hall. He was a magician casting spells on his students, mesmerizing them with his wit and knowledge. I had a great time interacting with him and the other students in his class. Amidst getting acclimatized to the new assignment system and adjusting to my new apartment mates, I had hardly had a chance to follow up with Prof. Kumar apart from the usual communication about my grades. An exciting year had whizzed past. New course materials and readings had filled my mind with stimulating ideas and I felt hopeful about putting my spin on the topic that was

close to my heart. All along I was convinced about what I wanted to do. Soon came the time when I was supposed to have a more serious discussion about my choice of dissertation topic with Prof. Kumar. I had had a few futile meetings with him about my intention to pursue caste and party politics. He would argue that there was nothing new left to be understood about caste in our country and I would passionately argue against it. He would keep telling me to do something else and I would insist that caste politics is where my interest lay. Caste to me was an interesting phenomenon. In the present era I thought that it gave power to underdogs through the formation of regional parties. “Caste is not always evil. It empowers those who have never had the opportunity to feel in control” I told him. “Caste is a regressive institution and nothing regressive can ever be used to bring about progress, to move forward”, he said nodding his head forcefully. “Try looking at the Indian diaspora who have come and settled here. They have their own share of problems too. Not all are affluent and well paid. Many live in dingy basement apartments and earn minimal wages” I was not interested in this group of people.“It’s a great topic but not my thing”, I said politely but firmly. It was frustrating to try to convince him about what I really wanted to do. After facing this insufferable stalemate for a couple of times I

decided to ask him directly why he was trying to influence me so heavy handedly. “I understand that you don’t feel strongly about caste and its influence but that is what I want to study.” Prof. Kumar narrowed his eyes and said slowly, “Fine. It is your decision. You can work on anything you like.” I could have left it at that but my hot headedness got the better of me. “I don’t know where you are coming from. Perhaps you are not fully aware of the dimension of change India has gone through over the last two decades. People have started thinking differently, especially the younger generation. They are willing to see the two sides of the caste argument casting aside the orthodoxy and the rage. They are hungry to get an insight into the real caste issue and why it has such a stranglehold on politics. So, if we researchers don’t give them unbiased analysis, who will?” “I think it is not possible to analyze an element like caste”, said Prof. Kumar quietly with a kind of dejected expression in his eyes that I had never noticed before. I pushed on. “It is because researchers have not looked into the subject accurately that it still seems a riddle and a source of superstition and division among Indians. Until and unless there is more research on it, Indians would not get over it.” Prof. kumar’s expression changed from sullen to stormy rapidly. He started breathing hard and stood up slowly. “Pandit Nehru had said the

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same thing when India became free of British rule. That caste as an institute will wither and die but it did not. If anything it continued to thrive over the last five decades. What more is there to find out?” “That was because enough research had not been done then. Now there are a variety of papers and analyses…” I defended my point. “No one reads research papers. No one takes them seriously. If you think you will be able to change a nation’s attitude about something as entrenched as caste system by writing white papers, you are wrong! It is a futile effort”, he said clenching his fist. “You can do all you want to, but it would not be enough to change a country’s mindset. Don’t waste your youth chasing after an idealism no one cares about.” I should have backed off but my tongue was beyond my control by now. “Is that what social reform movement is about? A few young people wasting their life for idealism? Since when have sociologists moved away from reality and become so cynical and closed? Universities have become hotbeds of discussion in our country now. Students have been asking difficult questions and they are not afraid that they will be labeled as anti-establishment or anti-nationalists…” “All that is showmanshipism. The youth need to rebel against something from time to time. I doubt they deeply believe in caste equality. How much do they know about the history of

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caste system in India?” Prof. Kumar’s lips pressed together in a thin grim line. I tried to keep my cool. “Everyone knows about the history of caste and reservation in our country. But now the angle has changed. There was a time when the anti-reservation movement had engulfed the country but now caste has emerged as a powerful source of self-identification. It has proved to be a useful tool of political mobilization in India’s electoral democracy. Now actually there is a race to join the Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe bandwagon. Gurjars in Rajasthan wanted inclusion in ST list. The Patel community in Gujarat claimed that they were ‘backward’ and should come under the reservation umbrella. And most recently the Jats in Haryana agitated and made sure they were put under ‘reservation’”, I said calmly, patting myself secretly for knowing the history and following the recent developments. “And where does all that take us? Back to square one, I guess. Reservation has lost its relevance and become completely watered down now”, he said dryly. My argumentative side took over. “You hardly went back and lived in India in the last twentyfive years, right? The last time you went to India was five years ago, you told me. Perhaps you have lost touch with the ground reality there. I know you are brilliant and well-read and have a big fan following but you still

don’t understand that the new generation researchers in India have every intention of cracking the caste code. It is not like what India was when you left it twenty-five years ago” “You can theorize as much as you want but caste is still going to remain a dangerous weapon and trying to use it in any way will only cause harm”, he said coming toward me and looking into my eyes with an unspoken plea. I was a good three inches taller than his average five-eight yet he looked indomitable and dangerous as a menacing look creeped into his eyes. He looked feral, almost threatening, like he could do anything to me. Beads of perspiration oozed out of his forehead. A storm seemed to wreck his insides, like there was an implosion that he was trying to contain by keeping his mouth shut. I took a step back understanding that the conversation was taking on a more personal edge. His bias against caste study was not just an academic opinion anymore. In a tremulous voice Prof. Kumar continued, “Caste is fundamental to India. It’s like pigmentation that decides our skin color, it is like the strands of DNA molecules that cling around each other forming our genes. People in India are not capable of thinking of caste in an objective fashion. They are just too close to it--too entangled in it.” He tapped his toe impatiently and wiggled his pointer with much vigor. “What is captured in research is all a lie. Do you want to know the reality,

Ravi? Do you have the courage to face the reality? Then come with me!” He tugged at my hand and led me to the Department bathroom. “I can’t close the door to my room in the Department. It’s against the policy but, I want to show you something.” He yanked open his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt. I stared at him speechless. He opened his shirt and showed me his naked upper body. Angry red scars wove a ghastly pattern on his chest and stomach. I gulped down my dismay trying not to look too shocked. The moment passed and he put his shirt back on, much to my relief. His wild recklessness was sheathed in civility once more as we walked back to his room. I could not talk for a long time. And then the obvious question rolled off my tongue. “What happened?” “I was in Delhi University in 1989. I lived in a hostel surrounded by bright and goodhumored students. We had such good camaraderie. No one asked anyone about each other’s family background. We were all the same. Till the day we all became each other’s enemy. Janata Dal decided to implement the Mandal Commission recommendations and what followed was pure mayhem. And do you know who participated in it widely? The intellectuals---the students, professionals, lawyers and of course the press. Everyone watched in horror as the city of Delhi exploded in violent antiMandal demonstrations.” “My hostel became divided

between lower and higher castes. All the Yadavs and Chauhans and Mondols were pushed together and treated like untouchables. There was some doubt about my lineage and it took the hostel folks a while to find out that I belonged to the scheduled caste category as well. And when they did I became isolated like the others. My roomie, my good friend Raghav, stopped talking to me. He became obsessed with the protest. He felt strongly about being a member of the upper caste Brahmin and joined a group that indulged and encouraged the sentiment of hatred and destruction. I tried to reach out to him but he shut himself down. Somehow I got to know what he was planning to do that day.” Prof. Kumar paused. His eyes had a far-away look. I stood still but my heart pounded away galloping like a hundred horses together, waiting for the rest of the story. “He made an expensive STD call to his parents in Lucknow that morning and then came back to the room and prayed in front of the small shrine he had set up on his side of the room for a long time. When I saw tears rolling down his eyes, I asked him why he was crying. I thought he would not reply but he surprised me and said How can one fight something fundamentally wrong? His bloodshot eyes looked terrifying. I asked him to sit with me for a while. I told him that there was a lot of madness around us. That he should calm down and think rationally but he was in a different head space. He

heard nothing I told him. Like an automaton he walked out of the room mumbling like a mad man who had lost his head.” “I remember hearing his screams as he set fire to his own self in front of our hostel. I ran out with a blanket and tried to douse the fire. The flames caught my shirt and the next thing I remember was someone trying to put out the flame with buckets of water. A scorching pain wrapped my chest and I fainted.” “Raghav did not survive. The press took up his selfimmolation case and slammed the then Prime Minister V.P. Singh’s decision to move forward with the plan to increase reservation for the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes.” “My life in the hostel became hell-like. A group of upper caste students started harassing me. They mocked me. We should not have saved you. You should have burned with Raghav they kept telling me. I kept seeing Raghav everywhere and somehow felt responsible for his death. It had become impossible for me to stay back in Delhi. I went back to Lucknow, my home town. I had never felt this threatened in my life. I…I witnessed how caste can make all forget their education and humanity and make them act worse than animals. Caste like religion is an opiate. It possesses people like the devil and brings out their ugliest sides.” “Fortunately, my Chicago application came through and I set off for U.S. after a few months. It is in this country that I

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could breathe freely again. This country gave me the anonymity I ached for. My merit, my hard work, my intelligence---these are the things that mattered here. That is what should matter anywhere in the World. But it does not matter what I think or say. So pardon me if I cannot fantasize about the good effects of caste system because… because I think there are none!” He looked tired, as if he had run a marathon. “You see— reservation is no silver bullet to the problem of the poor and backward not having access to opportunity. It is necessary perhaps but never sufficient on its own. The economy had to grow for creating accommodation for all castes. More universities had to be opened. More jobs had to be created to cater to the huge Indian population. That did not happen simultaneously, so ultimately it boiled down to a demand and supply question. When there is more demand than

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supply, there is a scramble for the available spots---whether in universities or in employment. Reservation became a token right just like the right to vote” “All the fuss and hatred attached to the term ‘reservation’ originates in the fact that it is treated like a generous handout to the ‘undeserving’ and ‘incapable’ which is so not the case in India. The truth is that the reserved seats are never filled and a big chunk of them lapse back to general or upper caste. The way ‘reservation’ is designed in India is too linear, too blunt and incapable of addressing the multiple nuanced forms of discrimination practiced in India. No one tries to understand the rationale behind reservation and all end up taking a for or against stand emotionally, without understanding the implication” My throat felt dry and scratchy. I asked as quietly as I could, “Could I get something

to drink for you? I…I need some coffee.” I wish I could tell him sorry for jumping to a hasty judgment about him but I could not bring myself to say the words. They felt too hollow at this point of time. Prof. Kumar turned his eyes towards me. Gradually but indisputably a smile-- a warm and sunny smile--- slipped out of his mouth. “Sit, I will make us some coffee right here” He started up his Keurig and in a few minutes we were sipping delicious Colombian coffee. The black clouds had cleared and we ended up talking for hours. As I was getting ready to leave he said, “You know what…you are right. Just because my experience made me think that it’s no use analyzing caste anymore does not mean that there is really no need to look at it. I think you should stick to your decision to pursue research in whatever you like, irrespective of what I tell you”.

aadi, a relatively prosperous, part of Cairo always attracted foreign residents like me. On my street, many buildings were in the art deco style with marble lobbies and beautifully patterned wrought iron grillwork along with balconies. Even this gorgeous neighborhood was strewn with garbage. The garbage collectors had no contract and the city did not oversee its collection. But it did not matter because Caireans were used to it. Most of Egyptians care a lot about Tahrir Square, a hub of Cairo where the shopkeepers are busy till the middle of the night. Even Tahrir Square cannot avoid the abundance of garbage. I used to stroll a lot in

Tahrir Square. In Egypt the rent control laws keep the price of renting an apartment to as low as a few dollars a month. The long, thin realm of Upper Egypt stretches the valley southwards to the furthest navigable reaches of the Nile at Aswan. I grew weary of exploring the city, though the successive visits to the mosques, bazaar, etc brought fresh evidence of further decay. Perhaps it was the possibility this city offered escape into the other splendors of its pharaonic and medieval past. One sunny afternoon I d e c i d e d to visit Mother

Teresa’s abode on the Mokattam Hills. To reach there you had to cross mounds of garbage. There I was touched by the innocent looks of the children. When I was there, the sisters told me I should see the City of the Dead. As I reached there with my friend Barbara, I was amazed to see how a civilization can grow in the midst of a graveyard. Barbara, an Englishwoman, married to an Egyptian, was the secretary of the American high school called Cairo American College, located in Maadi where I was a teacher. She became my close confidante and accompanied me to a number of tourist sites in Cairo.

The City of the Dead Mandira Chattopadhyay Georgia

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Sometimes she would be my interpreter to understand the conversation in Arabic. The City of the Dead is a unique place where the dead and living coexist, where babies are born and dead bodies buried. The necropolis outside of Cairo has been around for more than seven hundred years, in a city so crowded that today thousands and thousands live there among the tombs. Each tomb is a walled compound, some with buildings and fountains inside, others empty. All have two covered stairways--one for men, the other for women Within Cairo, a city of eighteen million, every inch of sidewalk is crowded. The cars run bumper to bumper. The idea of quiet seems alien. But in El Alafa, the City of the Dead, the streets are quiet, narrow, and chaotic. The older tombs are in stone, the newer ones are of fine pink brick with window grills and open doorways to the interior courts festooned with bright colored laundry. The City of the Dead has always been home for the shifting population. Some of the tomb dwellers, especially the paid guardians and their families, have lived there for generations. Others, pushed by poverty, have moved more recently to take advantage of the graveyard’s open sky and proximity to the modern city center. I saw children playing with dust and heaps of garbage. women are veiled, others uncovered and one can glimpse faces in the distorting heat. You can see women wearing galabaya: the white sleeves are

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rolled up and a scarf covering their hairs. Many of the first dwellers of the cemetery were caretakers of the property, who dug graves and guarded the mausoleums. Those who didn’t work at the cemetery worked in odd jobs in the surrounding neighborhood, or sold food or produce from street carts. Most residents lived in the large tombs or mausoleums that they have outfitted with the comforts of home, including a small kitchen, a garden, or a bedroom. But I saw mounds of garbage everywhere, often with children playing among them. In the city of the dead there was a cemetery guard, and neighborhood head man. The cemeteries stood up on a large piece of land, walled from the outside. The deceased were interred in the basement. When a person died, he was brought to the tomb. Then, if before he died, he wanted to be interred there, an opening in the ground was covered by a stone slab. When there was a funeral, the stone was removed, and the body placed on the shelf, which concluded the process. For centuries the houses in the Cairo desert only hosted the dead ones, built for life in the hereafter. Today the poorest of the poor are settling down to find a new home among the houses of the dead. Some moves to the neighborhood after they were pushed out from central Cairo in 1950. One young woman was thrown out of the house where her brothers took all the father’s property. The only thing she had was the key to her father’s

grave in the city of the dead, so she decided to settle there. The story goes when a girl was forced to marry that they took refuge in the graveyard. When the rape victims have no place to go, abandoned by all, they dwell in this place. Visitors often wonder why Cairo is so dirty. But I was quite pleased that I took a teaching job in Cairo. Egyptians are used to the culture of death for all the tombs and cobra queens, so they are not surprised to be with the dead. Women in the city of the dead sit circled around TV sets and Primus stoves, while bare bottom toddlers play hide-andseek around the cenotaphs. One could also see ramshackle flea markets open for trade. Sellers squat against the walls with their wares spread before them: used baby shoes, broken bathroom fittings, a yellow sheaf of movie posters, a few links of chain, a pram with one wheel. Goods from neighborhood workshops vie for a place in the dust too. TV aerials concocted from old tin cans, water pipes jerryrigged out of fly-spray canisters, shopping bags sewn from plastic fertilizer sacks. Walking in the late afternoon down a wide, dusty street in the City of the Dead, I was beckoned by an old man who sat outside the door of his tomb dwelling. He spoke in Arabic and Barbara translated his speech to me, ‘Come in, come in’ he beamed, ‘my house is yours.’ Amid the cenotaphs of his ancestors he bustled about, preparing tea on a Primus stove.

‘No, I have not lived here many years. All my life I lived in Alexandria; that is my quarter. But then my building collapsed. I had no choice but to move to the cemetery.’ He smiled, ‘But don’t think I am not happy. Here it is peaceful. I am not alone with my dead relatives. I share my house with my little friends, I will show you.’ From under a tall brass bed he pulled a little dovecote made of split palm stalks. A parade of sleek pigeons strutted out into the room in single file. They preened and cooed, tottered over to the bright doorway and flew off. He served tea to Barbara and me. Sitting

on his doorstep, sipping his strong sweet brew, we watched them swirl in widening hoops. Similar squadrons released from rooftops near and far made circles in silhouette against the sky. And then, as the sunset call to prayer was sounded, the old man’s flock of friends fluttered home, alighting one by one to have their throats chucked and waddled plumply back into their cage. The old man spoke into the silence, “Of course, I am happy. I live in the greatest city in the world. Here I feel peace. Death is inevitable, part of life. Sharing space with a corpse is not a simple proposition.

Some El Arafa residents claim to appreciate the proximity to ancestors. Life among tombs is quiet, totally different from Cairo, where smog and high buildings form the cityscape. Here’s the fresh air and green trees.” I looked around at all the garbage cluttering the city of the dead, and I understood how they could bear its smell. The old man’s words echoed in my ears: “Living with the dead is a good thing for an old man. They don’t talk, and they are still.” After a long day I was back in Maadi. So many difficult memories are stirred by my visit to Egypt. Surely this is one.

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Deep Dark Thirty Subhodev Das, New Jersey

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ransport is here,” thundered a service personnel decked in U.S. Army fatigues in the doorway of the makeshift waiting lounge. I glanced at my watch.The hour was deep dark thirty. About fifteen men were scattered around –a few were active-duty soldiers and the rest were Department of Defense contractors like me. Some were reading and some filling out papers, while the least concerned among us used Government-issued backpacks

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as their pillows. We had been in the lounge for quite some time and people had grown tired of waiting. In this part of the world, transportation was not guaranteed. This was a battlefield. A day earlier, I had taken a flight out of Kuwait City to arrive at Camp Victory. A part of Baghdad International Airport was carved up to house five U.S. military camps that were serving the Green Zone. From here, I would be flying north, to Tikrit – Saddam Hussain’s hometown. I had left my New Jersey home

soon after Labor Day to reach Baghdad. The night outside was warm in this early part of September. “Remember to keep yourself hydrated,” cautioned the security officer who checked my passport and the Government-issued CAC card, “it is hundred-and-ten degrees (°F) during daytime.” Needless to say, we drank water like fish. Water bottles were stacked up throughout the facility. “Those who want to go to Camp Speicher – the transport is here,” repeated the soldier.

Speicher, formerly known as Al Sahara Airfield, was an air installation that the U.S. Army had captured in the initial days of the Iraq War. It was serving as the headquarters of the United States Division-North and was my destination. I quickly grabbed the steel-plated protective vest and Kevlar helmet from underneath my seat. Without those armors, one would not be allowed on the transport. A race ensued to slap on the gears – one would easily be a good thirty-pound heavier with them – and falling in a line. The courtesy transport was on a firstcome-first-serve basis, and oh, the soldiers were bumped ahead of the contractors. I learnt it the hard way on the previous night. By the time I could ensure that my helmet was secured, there were a dozen people ahead of me. Each transport, a UH-60 Black Hawk, could ferry about eleven troops. No room inside the transport meant I had to look for an accommodation outside. Camp Victory did not roll out a welcoming mat for me. I was just a number for the records. Fortunately, I was traveling with two other team members from the same project, one of whom was a Government civilian. He had a better handle on the military lingo and found out the directions to our hotel. We hailed a courtesy taxi to ferry us. On our way, we passed one of Saddam Hussein’s several palaces. Our driver, who was doubling as a tour guide, told us that that opulent structure featured gold-trimmed

toilets! As fate would have it, the erstwhile owner of that place was resting six feet under, while the visitors swapped stories about his excesses. Our overnight accommodation turned out to be a tent city with rows of empty cots under each roof. “I can sleep anywhere,” I thought and so did my companions. Once again, we were not in control of our destiny. It turned out that cold air was being pumped through a maze of ducts in our sprawling tent. We soon realized that picking a cot, optimally positioned with respect to those ducts, was a challenge. Too close to the ducts, one would freeze to death; too far out, the sweltering heat would overpower. Eventually, we ended up huddling in a tight spot. I peeked at my watch; its hands had struck two o’clock. That would be nine o’clock in Baghdad time– I adjusted the mechanical arms accordingly. It had been a couple of hours since we landed with the setting sun on our back. In the rush to avail a transport to our final destination, we had overlooked the dinner. “Should we look for a place to eat,” I inquired of my fellow men. By that time, I was no longer certain of the outcome of such an effort. The Ugandan soldiers guarding the camp – the US military could not avoid outsourcing – informed us that DFAC was closed for the night (no surprise there!) There were a few take-out places that might be open, like Subway, Pizza Hut, etc. “I’m in a mood for

fried chicken,’ declared one of my companions. Lo and behold, we found a KFC place that was open, or so we thought. As we approached the kiosk, the sight and sound were familiar. There were three young men conversing in my mother tongue. I went straight to the point. “Are you from Dhaka,” I asked in Bengali. They were a bit surprised; clearly they were not used to seeing a person from their ethnic background among the visitors. I went on conversing in a language that I had least expected to use on this tour, to the bewilderment of my colleagues. The place had closed up for the night, but I resolved the situation in our favor. I did not want to be a loser for a second time that evening. I beckoned my party to follow me to a picnic table in the quadrangle. Very soon, the three lads arrived with a large bucket of fried chicken, a container of coleslaw and several biscuits. We continued chatting in Bengali for a little longer, after which they left without even collecting the money. I explained to my companions how those men took pity on us and gave away their share of the dinner. Perhaps, our common ethnicity had helped me to broker the conversation. Then that was not the first time I had seen humanity prevail over all other considerations and it would not be the last. “Please have your paperwork ready,” reminded the soldier as we filed past him into the open field adjacent to the waiting enclosure. There were ten

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people in front of me. Would I be fortunate enough to secure a ride on this night? I looked behind where my co-travelers were standing; each put his thumbs up. Nobody seemed as anxious to catch a ride as I was. My eyes were fixated on two bright dots in the distant horizon. As they grew bigger, the whirring of rotor blades became more distinct. The Black Hawks mostly flew in pairs, but never alone. Soon the beams illuminated the whole field and the Army’s lawn dirt pair gently landed, kicking up moon dust. We were wearing protective glasses for no small reason. I could feel sweat dripping from underneath the helmet and down my cheeks. The steel-plated vest appeared heavier with every breath. The doors of the Black Hawks opened to unload their human cargo. A group of soldiers and civilians, twenty by my count, streamed past us. I heaved a sigh of relief. We were ordered to file against the rear of the birds to avoid being sucked into the rotating blades. The men ahead of me got into one, while I waited for my turn. A soldier motioned me to climb into the front. Front? I was bewildered for a moment. He again pointed towards the cockpit.Carrying two backpacks and clutching the helmet and the glasses – boy, did I move fast – I stepped into a Black Hawk, a machinery made famous by Mark Bowden’s book Black Hawk Down, for the first time in my life! The dim cabin light had made the interior mystic. The two pilots were listening to

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radio communications, while the two gunners on either side adjusted their night goggles. Before I could overcome my bewilderment, the doors of front and rear cabins were slammed shut. I was still struggling to secure the seatbelt – the buckle on that contraption was very different from the familiar ones – when the helicopter took off, executing its typical gyrations. I glanced at the soldier sitting next to me. He was taking a nap with the M-16 carefully tucked between his legs, a sight reminiscent of the daily passengers on local trains in India. I held on to the seatbelt tightly as the pull of gravity became apparent. The helicopter continued to climb up and then pushed forward; piercing the envelope of darkness, it headed for a destination in an unknown land. The final leg of my journey had begun. A blast of warm air greeted us. The outside view, through the windows where the gunners stood, looked very familiar. It was as if I was looking at rural India with its dimly lit unpaved roads and scattered clusters of huts. The young gunners craned their necks to spot muzzle flash as the helicopter leveled off at a low altitude. A train of thoughts racked my mind. How predictable was a war zone? What were the odds of me reaching the destination that night? One of my colleagues from New Jersey was stranded in this place when he did his tour several years ago. He kept getting bumped off flights, which were ferrying wounded

soldiers, at the height of the Iraq War. Eventually, he could secure a ride after five days of wait in Balad! What would happen if the helicopter was attacked? Would the two young gunners be able to hold their firepower? I was reminded of the scene in Black Hawk Down in which Black Hawk Super Six-One was hit by an RPG and crashed inside Mogadishu. Before coming on this tour, I had spent an entire week in Ft. Benning, Georgia, undergoing basic training. We learnt how to apply tourniquet to stem the flow of blood when a solder got hurt. We had trained our sights to spot a suicide bomber or a buried IED amidst unfamiliar settings. We weren’t briefed, however, on our options if the helicopter had crashlanded. I couldn’t close my eyes; the worries kept me peering into the darkness. Suddenly, the vehicle jerked and started to descend. My heart leapt to my throat; I clutched the unbuckled seatbelt tightly as if a drowning person was holding onto a straw. Looking around I saw tranquility –my survival was assured. According to my watch, we were airborne for about forty-five minutes. Could we be in Speicher already, I pondered. That seemed impossible as we were told that the journey would last several hours. So, what else could be the reason of the descent? By then, I was certain that the helicopter was not hit by artillery fire. Once on the tarmac, we were asked to disembark without our belongings and walk towards a waiting area. We obliged and

moved away from the rotating blades quickly. I had become conversant with the etiquette of the battlefield. Not long after that we were summoned back to our vehicles. My travel companions were seated in the main compartment with a few soldiers and several civilians. They had found out that “essential” goods were being delivered to that post on the outskirts of Baghdad. After we were reseated, I asked my co-passenger: “Sir, if you won’t mind, can you kindly show me how to buckle up?” “This is how I do it,” demonstrated the soldier with his seatbelt. “Tango Mike,” I could not resist the temptation to show-off my newly-acquired military lingo skills to the Good Samaritan. All of a sudden, I felt immensely relieved. This time I was firmly buckled as the Black Hawks lifted off for Tikrit. The helicopters quickly ascended into the night sky. I learned from my soldier friend, James, the rotorcraft had to stay beyond IDF or the range of small arms and light weapons fire.We were in hostile territories north of Baghdad. He also informed me that the flight path would take us over Balad, but we would not land at that military base. Instead, we would fly close to Tigris River on our journey north, into Tikrit. James was on his second tour of Iraq and was from Modesto, California. His current assignment would last for another four months. He hoped to be home for Christmas, to enjoy his R&R with his two young daughters. Our short exchanges ended soon as James

racked out. He and his unit were returning to Camp Speicher after a week-long mission around Baghdad. The interior of the air vehicle had become eerily quiet. It was dark already; the dim lights were switched off as soon as we were airborne. The whirring of the rotor was the only lingering sound disrupting the otherwise still night. As I stared into the darkness, I suddenly faced that eternal question – who was I in this grand cosmos? What was I doing at that very moment in a place literally foreign to me? Yes, I was on this postmidnight mission to fulfill my contractual obligation towards the U.S. Government, to deliver new force protection technologies. However, my true contribution into the grand scheme of the universe extending all around me was utterly insignificant; and so were those of James, who by then was in deep sleep, and his comrades. In fact, no one in the whole wide world at that very moment could have claimed to impact, beyond personal confines, any event with far reaching consequences. Below me extended a dark carpet that was the land of Iraq, embroidered with scattered lights. The bright clusters signified military bases and outposts; the dim lights shone from the homes of ordinary citizens, mostly along Tigris River. Who would be burning midnight oil in those homes? Could it be a young student preparing for exams, a housewife winding up her day’s work or a family taking turns to guard the front door fearful of

it being knocked down in the middle of the night? A despot and a prolonged war must have had profound effects on the psyche of the population; but I, being where I was, would never encounter these inhabitants or find the right answer. There is perhaps no better display of self-interest than in a war. The Iraq War was in its eighth year by then and was on the way to joining the Afghan War as the longest U.S. engagements militarily. I could barely account for a handful of the great wars that were influential in changing the course of history. Wars are like waves in a vast ocean; they flow and ebb in the expanse of humanity without leaving any trace. As I sat motionless in my seat, I started to feel the weight of the vest. It was probably the longest time that I had worn the armor. According to the regulation, I was supposed to retain it as well as the helmet throughout my flight. I glanced at James; he seemed to be at ease in his gear. The two gunners were still at their stations, scanning the darkness with their night vision goggles. I loosened the straps of my helmet and unbuckled the vest; I inhaled the warm air circulating inside the cabin and closed my eyes. “The last sun of the century sets amidst the blood-red clouds of the West and the whirlwind of hatred. The naked passion of selflove of Nations, in its drunken delirium of greed, is dancing to the clash of steel and the howling verses of vengeance.”

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The words penned by Rabindranath Tagore broke my train of thoughts – Rabindranath, seriously? I could not shake off of this man – one who has become synonymous with most Bengalis’ existence– at that very moment, in the most unlikely of places – inside a Black Hawk flying over a battle-scarred land. I could hear the swoosh of the steel blades beating against the wind with vengeance to keep us afloat. Tagore’s premonition in the closing hours of the 19th century about the hubris of jingoistic pride, embodied in the model of the modern nation-state, reverberated in the darkened cabin of the Black Hawk. Each of us was representing our self-interest to preserve that model in one way or the other. “What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?” I recalled the words of Wilfred Owen, the famous trench poet of World War I. The smiling face of a young man decked in British Army lieutenant’s uniform loomed over me. Unlike much of the generation that had been conscripted in that Great War and had gone on to write about it, Owen desisted from glorifying the killing and destruction. He wrote in a gritty style, infused with the memory of the horrors he had witnessed in the trenches. I wondered if Owen felt the same way as I did, arriving on the battlefield for the first time. At some point during his tenure on the battlefield, Owen sought refuge from the crass materialism engulfing his world in Tagore’s poems – poems

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which encapsulated a simple faith in man and divinity. Owen perished while crossing the Sambre-Oise Canal, exactly one week prior to the signing of the Armistice. After the death of her son, Owen’s mother retrieved his personal possessions. In his pocketbook, she found Poem 96 of Tagore’s Gitanjali (“Song Offerings”) that Owen recited in his farewell address to his mother. “When I go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable,” read the opening line. Unlike Owen, I was not in a position to exchange farewell with anybody. My life’s journey was far from over. However, between the excitement of stepping onto a Black Hawk and the apprehension of surviving a nearly three-hour flight in a battlefield, I could say that my experience of that night had been “unsurpassable.” A cloak of silence was draped all around me, except for the sound of the rotors chopping away the stillness of the night. I gazed straight ahead, past the pilots, out through the cockpit window. As far as my eyes could see, darkness extended to the horizon. We should be following the course of the Tigris River as James had explained, but apparently we did not. I looked up – the canopy was decorated with twinkling stars. We must be above the smoke and dust layers that quite often obliterated the majestic view, I thought. Thousands of miles removed from my comfort zone and my familiar world, the crammed, dark, hot interior of the Black Hawk felt apocalyptic. At

the same time, it served as a protective enclosure from unknown forces. Did Owen also find his trenches, his fox holes, to be such dichotomies when bullets whizzed and shells exploded overhead? Did he gaze upon the star-filled sky from his vantage point and feel the infinitely bigger presence embracing him? If indeed he did, he probably had arrived at the same conclusion as I– humankind is not in control of its destiny. Our behavior is predicated on a limited knowledge about our world. We can go only so far, guided by our own actions before those of others force us to re-strategize. These snippets of activities when spliced create the trail of our journey through space and time. A successful completion of my journey that night rested on the actions of many – the pilots, the gunners and even James – who were busy ensuring that my chosen plan ran its course. Would I safely return to my comfort zone, would I ever encounter a night like this in another place – answers to those questions rested on our collective actions in the future. All I could feel at that very moment, thundering across the starry sky, was the sensation of an awestruck wanderer in the grand cosmos. My insignificant presence seemed appropriate for a change. Raising my voice above the hum of the rotors, I sang to myself: “In this Universe, space and eternity I, the mortal, alone I wander, wander in awe.”

Why Are Dreams Important? Manisha Roy Massachusetts

lthough it has been over a century since Sigmund Freud’s seminal book The Interpretation of Dreams (1899) was published, some kind of dream interpretation had been in vogue for millennia. If we look back in history and antiquity, in most aboriginal societies the medicine men or the shamans, in addition to

being healers, were and still are also dream interpreters. In early civilizations of Egypt, Mesopotamia, Babylon, China and India, there were specialists who interpreted the dreams of the kings and emperors which were considered important for the whole kingdom, as if the king was dreaming for his subjects not just for himself. There are

famous ancient dreams from various lands which are known for their predictive power. For instance, the famous dream of devastating flood by the Pharoah of Egypt was narrated in the Noah’s tale of the Bible after this dream. Another predictive dream comes from India that predicted the birth of the Buddha. His mother dreamed

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of a white elephant entering her womb, which was interpreted to be the announcement of an extraordinary birth. Unfortunately, we have no documentation of the theory and method of such interpretations. In ancient Greece Aesculapius, the god of medicine whose staff of intertwined serpents still remains the medical symbol of the West, apparently took help from the dream images of his patients to make diagnosis and prescribe treatments. Patients were encouraged to sleep in Aesculapius’ temple -- the ruins of which still exist -- and the next morning they told their dreams to the priests who were also the healers. Sometimes dramas and music were used to enact these dreams. A huge amphitheater endowed with excellent acoustics still stands next to the ruins of Aesculapius’ temple. So, the tradition of going to an expert to get help in understanding one’s dreams goes back thousands of years. However, the method of interpretation that is practiced by the psychoanalysts and psychotherapists today is fairly new, slightly over a century old beginning with Freud. Later his students like Carl Gustav Jung improved on the methods of interpretation, bringing in further knowledge of comparative mythology, religion, literature, art and history to amplify dream symbols. The tradition of interpretation is an effort to satisfy our curiosity to understand the strange dream images and a

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desire to make sense of them. Why do we need to understand dreams? Even before Freud came up with more accepted methods of interpretation, people had an intuitive feeling that dreams were important. They are important because they build a bridge between our conscious world and a vast unknown unconscious part of the psyche that is inaccessible to the conscious mind. For our physical and emotional well-being, we need to make this connection, whether we understand the meaning of the dream images or not. Several medical experiments were performed to determine how beneficial dreams are to our mental health. In one experiment done at the Zurich University Hospital in Switzerland in 1960s, the volunteers were awakened from sleep every time they began to dream, which could be detected by rapid eye movements. Within a few days, some of these volunteers began to show symptoms of serious mental distress. The doctors concluded that if they continued to interrupt the dreaming state of these volunteers, they night end up having serious mental problems, including psychotic symptoms. Similar principle works in successful psychotherapy where memory makes a connection to our past events just like our night dreams establish connections to our unconscious psyche leading to a healing effect. When we cannot do that we are lost even to ourselves. We lose all reference points to recollect, to rejoin and

to reflect. So remembering is one of the clues to such healing connections. Losing memory in dementia is therefore such a calamity. Dreams seem to bring up images from the distant past or unknown unconscious, which we may not understand with our rational minds alone but these images serve as connecting links. The language of the unconscious psyche is symbolic, which means that they may stand for something unknown. The interpreter tries to amplify the images with the help of the dreamer’s association, analogies and parallels from other creative fields like mythology, literature and art. After a century’s collective work with thousands of dreams, psychotherapists can more or less guess what some of the symbols may refer to. But no one knows for sure what dreams mean exactly. We can only guess. The interpretation is correct only when the dreamer also agrees that it feels right somehow. While interpreting a dream the therapist must pay attention to the situation in the dreamer’s life, the dreamer’s personality, philosophy, attitudes etc. Usually a dreamer is eager to make a dream mean something positive. However, there is no judgment in the unconscious. For example, if one dreams of seeing himself hitting someone, the tendency of the dreamer is often to deny that the person in the dream is himself. Of course, in the dream the person who looks like the dreamer is not totally the dreamer either; it is only one

aspect of the dreamer who wants to hit someone. So interpreting a dream does not necessarily mean the dreamer has to act accordingly. But what it does is expand one’s self-centered, often narcissistic, self-image to an identity that incorporates some contradictions and even darkness making the dreamer hopefully a bit humble. This shift of ego-identity enlarges the horizon of the personality and life becomes enriched and tolerant toward others and more importantly, toward oneself. This emotional realization in turn brings forth a healing experience. Let me give an example of this. Just before going to give

a lecture at a prestigious university, a well-known professor dreams : “I go to the podium of the lecture hall and realize I forgot my memory stick to use for the Power Point, which is my whole lecture. I try but cannot speak at all. The audience becomes agitated and begins to throw rotten eggs at me. I duck behind the podium. I wake up in a sweat.” This is a typical anxiety dream. The dreamer in this dream may have been overconfident about his capabilities. A man like that may not heed any feedback from his colleagues until he’s humiliated in front of an audience where it hurts the

most. This is a simple example chosen to show how a dream image may help a change in one’s attitude and correct one’s self-image. Not all dreams are as straightforward, however. In this brief essay, I tried to begin a conversation about dreams: (a) Why dreams have always created curiosity, (b) why dreams are important to remember even when not understood; (c) because they can activate a healing effect by changing the attitude of the dreamer, provided the dreamer tries to understand the dream using intuition, imagination, experience and ‘intelligence of the heart’ rather than didactic and logical thinking alone.

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Driving Miss Daisy

Debashis Roy Chowdhury California

he kitchen was buzzing with activity this morning. Mrs. Barrett was making her special omelet with spinach and roasted garlic. Benzel and Lou were playing cards on the dining table over cups of hot

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chocolate and cookies. The nurse was scribbling notes on the far corner of the kitchen counter. And Tolstoy was seated expectantly close to Lou’s feet, waiting for the cookie that eventually would come his way.

Mrs. Mehta was familiar with the surroundings; however her thoughts were somewhere else this morning. Outside the window, she could hear the gentle rush of water through the canal negotiating its way around

the pebbles. It had rained last night after a long, long time, as if it was a miracle. The redwood pines, the sturdy survivors through the past decade of severe drought, whispered to the winds caressing their branches. On any other day, Mrs. Mehta would have enjoyed the scene outside, but she had something more important to deal with today. Though she did not quite know exactly what it was.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea, Miss Mehta?”, the Director tried to suppress his annoyance. Manju was on the other side of the video link, on a longdistance line from London. She was determined to try. She put on her best reassuring smile and looked directly at the Director. “I fully understand and do appreciate your concern. However it’s a unique opportunity and I’m asking for an exception.” “Of course, it’s a unique opportunity for a screw-up!” thought the Director, though keeping into himself. If anything untoward would happen, the reputation of the Center was at stake. He had a grave responsibility on his shoulders. “Please consider the risks. Your mom may not even care about it. She is in advanced state of dementia, she forgets what she did or said even a few minutes before.” “I know that and that’s why I’m asking. This may be her very last chance to step out and meet this special person in her life. It’s true, she does not

recall what she had saidonly a few minutes back, but she often remembers minute details from her distant past. I think, she would enjoy and remember the music. It may even help her in her depression.” “Also, the logistics to arrange a ride on a Sunday evening on short notice is a challenge.” “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. I have talked to the limo service and they have assured me that they provide such service routinely to folks like my mom.” “Let me see what I can do, no promises yet. I’ll send you a release form to sign. And if this comes through, please treat this as an absolute exception. You should not consider this as a precedent for the future.” “Of course, not. Thank you for your consideration. It means a lot to me and more importantly, to my mom.” “Ok, please send back the form ASAP. Have a good day.”, the Director hung up. Manju felt relieved. The very fact the Director had not refused her request was a small victory in itself. She would have to try and persist, just as Guru-ji had suggested.

Tolstoy gave out a loud bark in gratitude to Lou after receiving his morning share of cookie. Mrs. Mehta’s thought got interrupted. She was thinking hard. She knew it was a special day. There was something waiting for her today. But what was it? Did anyone care to inform her properly? The

problem was folks around her were so careless; hardly anyone bothered to tell her anything anymore. But she knew it alright. She was not the one to be fooled so easily. Still what was it? It was something nebulous in her mind; as she tried to grasp it, it just evaporated! Then it slowly formed a shape again, vague yet familiar, with hints of something that was there, yet out of reach. It was frustrating; the only way out was to let it go and not try too hard. Tolstoy barked again. Mrs. Barrett approached and offered her a bite from the just-cooked omelet. Tolstoy came wagging his tail, possibly expecting a taste of it too. Mrs. Mehta was not herself today. Even the spinach omelet failed to trigger her interest. She patted Tolstoy absent-mindedly and thanked Mrs. Barrett perfunctorily. She needed her mental preparationthough she did not know for what.

As usual, the nurse chose the dress for the evening and started helping Mrs. Mehta get into it. Mrs. Mehta resented these moments acutely. She could dress herself jolly well, why was the nurse needed for that? She had done it perfectly well for God knew how many decades. No, she would not give in today, especially today. “Please, I don’t need your help. I’ll decide what I’ll wear today.” “Mrs. Mehta, we will get late, we do not have much time.”

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“Time for what exactly, may I know?” “For the concert, don’t you remember? We are going to an Indian music concert this evening.” “Oh, I see. Are you coming too? I did not know you care much for Indian music.” “Well, I would like to try sometime. And you will be there to explain to me.” “I will much rather prefer to go by myself. What is the program about? Who is performing?” “Someone you adore - Nari or some such Indian name.” “Nari… Narayan?” A momentary flash of lightning struck in the dark recess of her mind. As if a familiar landscape, long hidden from view, came to life at that instant. There she was, cooking in her kitchen. Narayan was playing in the guest bedroom. The melody from his sitar filled the entire apartment. There was nothing else, the aroma of food mixing freely with the notes that emanated from his sitar. And she was in oneness with it. The music continued to play inside her. Who was playing? What was his name? How did he look? She could only recall the music.

As Narayan Prasad entered the green room of the prestigious auditorium for a special concert this evening, his thoughts went back to nearly forty years in the past. Narayan had landed in this

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very city, San Francisco, for his first tour to the US. He had no idea what fate had in store for him. He was in his late twenties, an unknown musician with a humble background and hardly any pedigree. Only a few months back, he had worked hard to convince the organizers to give him a spot in the music festival, rather for a paltry fee. It took a lot of coercing to borrow money from an uncle and a few close family friends to pay the air-fare and spare a small amount for other expenses. When he went for his visa interview, the immigration officer at the US Embassy grilled him thoroughly to make sure he was indeed a musician and not a potential hazard to the US society. But he persisted. He had to try his luck in this foreign land; he had to take the risk. If he stayed back in India, he would simply languish in the shadows and never gain a footing as a musician. The organizers had arranged his stay with a host family, by the last name, ‘Mehta’. In the luggage claim area, he met a petite, middle-aged woman with a non-descript Indian look and a shy smile, holding a placard with his name. She introduced herself as Mrs. Mehta. Narayan was expecting to meet a successful Bay Area NRI, but he was too exhausted from the long flight to think any further. He rode with her to her modest two-bedroom condo in Sunnyvale and was grateful to find a good meal and a clean bed. That was all he needed that night. It was how he came to

know the Mehta family almost forty years back. It was a small family. Mrs. Mehta was a single mom with heronly daughter, Manju, going to middle school. Manju had vacated her bedroom temporarily to make way for the honored guest. The reason Mrs. Mehta agreed to host him was her keen desire to expose her young daughter to Indian classical music. Over the next few months, Narayan became a part of the family. The mother and the daughter went out of their way to take care of his every little need. Mrs. Mehta became like a local guardian to him. In return, he introduced Manju to the magical world of Hindustani music and its intricacies. He became her Guru-ji. The rest was history. After his first US tour, name and fame came his way and Narayan never looked back. Today Pandit Narayan Prasad was a recognized master of Indian classical music. For the past four decades, the sound from his sitar had enthralled millions of listeners around the world. He was a celebrity wherever he went. Yet he never forgot where he started his journey, what he owed to the Mehta family. Despite his fame and crazy schedules, he made it a point to keep in touch. He had visited them during his subsequent US tours and always felt a special bond with them. Even today, after reaching the pinnacle of success, Narayan knew the difference it made to his life and music by the support he had once received from Mrs.

Mehta and Manju, when he was a young, aspiring musician. Thus when the Governor of California reached out to felicitate him with a life-time achievement award and hold a special concert by him with invited guests and celebrities, he had called Manju in London. “Will auntie come to the concert as my special guest? “ “Thanks for thinking of it, Guru-ji. It will mean a lot to her. However, I am not sure she can come. The Center is quite strict in such things and her health is deteriorating rather fast.” “Something can be arranged, no? In today’s day and age, everything is possible! Just give it a try, Manju.” “I’ll do my best. If I succeed, can you play her favorite raag, Bageshri?” “Absolutely, that’s a deal.”

The Director came to see Mrs. Mehta off. He did not want to take a chance and made sure all the arrangements were in order. Mrs. Mehta would ride with the nurse to the concert hall. The black electric sedanslid into the driveway like a silent shadow. Manju had planned the service meticulously and had spared no expenses. The chauffer was an impressive, handsome, black man. “Good Evening, Mrs. Mehta. It is my privilege to be at your

service today. Welcome to a pleasant ride to San Francisco. Pls. get in.” His voice was unmistakable. Something stirred in her mind. “Who are you? Mr. Morgan Freeman?” Mrs. Mehta was not sure. Her eyesight was failing with the passing years, but the voice prompted an instinctive response. “Of

course, I am. Your daughter sent for me.” “Oh, really … you look very straight and young!” “Age is for mere mortals, Mrs. Mehta. I am immortal. Hop in please.” “Thank you, Mr. Freeman, what an honor!” “The pleasure is entirely mine, Ma’am”. This was a surprise, indeed! Nobody had told her that Morgan Freeman would drive her around! The nurse helped her in, though Mrs. Mehta did not think that she needed help in the simple act of getting into a car.

The nurse got in from the other side and helped to put on her seat-belt. Why could the nurse not mind her own business? Mrs. Mehta turned her head and looked outside the window. The real-life, holographic image of Morgan Freeman slid easily into the driver‘s seat. The engine purred. The Director waved them off with an anxious look, though Mrs. Mehta could hardly notice from a distance. The touch of the leather felt silky smooth. The inside smelt of fresh Jasmine, Mrs. Mehta’s favorite. “Are you comfortable back there? Is the temperature okay?” “Yes, quite alright”, said Mrs. Mehta. The car left as silently as it had arrived. The music turned on. Her favorite raag, Bageshri, was playing on sitar. Mrs. Mehta felt she was alive again and ready for the evening. The self-driven electric car was taking her to where there was life and music. Mrs. Mehta savored each and every moment - the bounce of the road, the divine music, the smell of jasmine caressing her old body. She ignored the nurse beside her. Instead Mrs. Mehtaonly wished that Mr. Morgan Freeman would drive her around endlessly through all eternity and the music would never stop!

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113

Kedarnath – A Prayer Answered

Guru Chakravarty, New Jersy

his is their second visit to Char Dham. The first time Amrit and Shukla came to this part of the world was almost thirty years ago, when they both were in their twenties. They do have a twenty two year old with them now, their son Aniket. The family was planning for this trip for several years since Aniket went to IIT to study Computer Science. He just completed his Bachelor’s and accepted a scholarship to pursue PhD in Stanford. This is going

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to be their quality time together, for a long while to come. Their journey started with a visit to Kedarnath, the home of Lord Shiva. It is a long steep journey from Soneprayag to the top of the mountain range at 11750 feet where the temple is situated. This is one of the two major stopovers of the “Char Dham” tour that is highly popular among the pilgrims and the tourists alike, the other stopover being Badrinath. Actually, both Kedarnath and

Badrinath temples are managed by one organization called the Kedarnath-Badrinath Temple Committee. The other two stops of the Char Dham are Gangotri and Yamunotri. The concept of “Char Dham” as commonly known today to the pilgrims is a recent phenomenon. The original Char Dhams, established by Adi Shankaracharya are: Puri, Rameswaram, Dwaraka and Badrinath. The pilgrimage season here lasts from approximately April 15 until

Diwali in November, according to the Uttarakhand Tourism Board. Last time they drove up to Gaurikund and then started the trek of 14 km to Kedarnath. After the 2013 floods, pilgrims now start from Soneprayag and the total trek is 22 kilometers. Rambara is the small town at half the distance where people stop for rest, food and drink. New roads have been built from Rambara, steeper and longer. Many helicopter tours are available from various sites, like Dehradun, Phata, Agastyamuni, and others in Uttarakhand. Aniket was dead set against using the helicopter, and was able to persuade his aged parents to discard the idea. Aniket intended to walk up while his parents would use mules to go to the top – that was the plan. Amrit and Shukla had to succumb to their only son’s wishes against their own thoughts of an easier ride. But that was not the only reason. Secretly, they both wanted to take the mule trip, to travel through the route they used thirty years ago, to reminisce about the romance that started their lives together. There was still another reason – to be explained later. Amrit was a star football player at Jamshedpur in his younger days, and even played for Bihar state in the Santosh Trophy. He grew up at Jamshedpur where his father worked as a mechanic in the Tata Iron and Steel Company, commonly called TISCO. They all lived in a two-room company quarter, alongside others in a

company-built colony, with two other brothers. By virtue of being a star athlete, he got a job at TISCO at a junior level, and even received a quarter in his own right. Before moving on to his own abode, he decided that this was the time to take a holiday trip. Along with two of his buddies, he wanted to get out somewhere far to enjoy a little vacation. Why the Himalayas? Because they wanted to do something physically challenging, not just sit on a beach or simply gawk at women. The three friends started their trekking at Gaurikund with backpacks strapped in the back. A lot more people made the trip earlier, than what he saw now, because of the devastation caused by that big flood. Most people hired mules, and some elderly people rode on palkis or similar carriers on the narrow stoney path made through the mountains, with a deep gorge on one side of the path. The climb was steep, but not for the three youths in full bloom of their lives. They merrily moved on in full strides, joking and gossiping, commenting on any good looking girl that came into view. Sure enough, they found an opportunity to get into some action. A family appeared to be in some trouble. A mule carrying a middle-aged lady on its back, slipped on a stone and stumbled, pretty close to the right side gorge. The mule handler also fell next to the mule. The lady gave a sharp shrill in panic as she was about to fall in the deep canyon.

The husband, shaking in disbelief, cried: Save, Save! A younger lady, apparently the daughter, cried out: “Ma, Ma.” Amrit was closest to the incident, and with the agility of an athlete, reached the edge of the path in one jump, and caught the lady by hand. He pulled her out and carried her to the other side of the road against the steep hill. He put her down gently to rest against a stone. The big crowd was all around them, saying “Sabash, Sabash”, and everyone wanted to hug him, to pat him. The husband and the daughter finally managed to pierce through the crowd to come to the mother. By now, the mother started to recover from the shock, and murmured a Amrit: “May Baba Kedarnath bless you”, and kept whispering it. The father looked bewildered, not knowing what to do next. The daughter clutched her mother’s body trying to reassure her. Slowly, the crowd dispersed, everyone went back to go on their way. The three friends stayed on as the mule handler kept begging for forgiveness. As things began to get back to normalcy, the father asked Amrit: “Baba, what is your name”? - I am Amrit and these are my friends, Sudhir and Dilip. - Are you Bengalis? - Yes we are. - We are also Bengalis, from Calcutta. I am Amitabha Chatterjee, my wife Urmila,

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and my daughter Shukla. Amrit saw a beautiful face in her twenties, white complexion, very attractive. - We live in Jamshedpur. - Baba, we will never forget your good deed for as long as we live. We will remain grateful to you forever. Please write down your name and address for me. Amrit wrote down the names of all three friends and gave his address. He asked: - Would you like us to accompany you on the top? Shukla was listening to all this. She intervened: - Yes, Please, Please come with us. - Sure, Sure, we definitely will. - We don’t know how to thank you all enough. You just saved my mother’s life. Shukla said in an obliged voice. - “Amrit did it all alone. We just looked, like all the others did”. Dilip said. Shukla looked at him with a sweet smile. Oh yeah, that was worth it all, Amrit thought. It was difficult for the mother to get on a mule again, so they caught a palki passing by. Soon, they all were on to their destination together. - Where are you staying? The father asked - We didn’t reserve any place. We can sleep at any place. - We are staying at Bharat Sevashram. You can stay with us. Please allow me to pay for your stay. The three jumped up: “Oh No, No, definitely not”. Upon reaching Kedarnath,

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they all went to Bharat Sevashram. The Swamiji in charge, granted accommodation for all of them. The father paid for all. - I don’t want to hold you back. Please go roam around, as you please, Mr. Chatterjee said to them. Shukla, why don’t you go with them? Let me stay here with your mom. We will see Baba Kedarnath tomorrow. The viewing line was long, as expected, so instead they went to see the marketplace. The friends of Amrit allowed him to keep Shukla by his side the whole time. Amrit happily described his athletic prowess in great detail. Shukla said she was finishing her Bachelor’s in Economics at Jadavpur, and expected to go on to do Master’s. The time whisked by quickly as they returned to eat the “Khichuri Meal” at Bharat Sevashram. On the next day, they got up early to get to the line and do “Darshan”. After that they all went back down to Gaurikund, this time without any incident. Mrs. Chatterjee used a palki, and the other two rode mules. The young men walked. Upon reaching Gaurikund, the Chatterjees decided to go back to Calcutta immediately to recover from the shock of the unfortunate incident, but not before asking the boys repeatedly to visit them. There was not much of a land phone system at the time. Amrit did write the first letter and duly received an answer back. Many times Amrit thought of going to the Chatterjee residence

at Kolkata, but gave up on it because it would not be possible for them to see each other regularly. Amrit was definitely not ready to get into marriage yet. Besides, Amrit was getting noticed by recruiters to join professional soccer which took away most of his attention. Slowly, the letter exchange came to a stop and everything just became a memory. Until they met again five years later.

Bistupur market is the place to shop at Jamshedpur for the affluent people. It is the place for the young people to shop for a good life partner too. Amrit was walking alone one evening when all on a sudden, he came face to face with Shukla, walking alongside a handsome young man. Shukla was the first to exclaim: “Is it really you, Amrit? How are you?” Amrit was highly excited too. However, seeing another man beside Shukla, he said in a somewhat suppressed mood: “Yes, Yes, How are you Shukla?” - This is my husband, Manish. We are now living in Kaiser Colony quarters at Kadma. Oh, I had hoped so much to meet you again. I have a phone, but I don’t know your phone number. - Sorry, I still don’t have a phone in my quarter. Nice to meet you, Manish. Manish was not excited nearly as much as his wife. In a somber voice he said: “Same here. How long have you known

each other?” Shukla was in high spirit: “About five years. We met at Kedarnath, Would you believe Amrit saved my mother’s life?” Manish said, somewhat dispiritedly: “I see, wow- how did that happen?” Shukla was not about to waste time on that detail: “I will tell you all about it later. Right now, let us invite Amrit to come to our house this Sunday”. - Yes, of course, would you please, Amrit. - Sure, I would be glad to. That was the start of another chapter in their lives. Manish had a job at TISCO, as a Mechanical Engineer. Manish and Shukla got married about a year ago in Calcutta. After marriage, she joined him at Jamshedpur. She did complete her Master’s in Economics. Currently, she was applying for a teaching job at Jamshedpur Women’s College. Pretty soon, it became a routine for Amrit to spend many of his Sundays with Manish and Shukla. On a game day, Amrit would give them passes to come to his games. Amrit took them around to all the good places in Jamshedpur- Jubilee Park, Dimna Lake, Natraj Club and Bar, and of course, the Bistupur market. Fun and enjoyment never stay forever. Things were about to change. One day, when Amrit came, Shukla said: “Manish was just called out to the factory for an emergency breakdown. But you stay here. After Manish returns from the factory, we will have dinner together.” As they chatted together

sitting on the verandah, sipping beer, Shukla appeared to be a little oblivious. - What is the matter with you, anything wrong? Amrit asked. - What do you mean? What can be wrong? - Shukla, I am a close friend. I can tell that something is wrong. With a deep sigh, Shukla said sheepishly: “Yes, something is wrong”. - What is it? -“Manish has a suspicious nature. He suspects a relationship between you and me. Shukla blurted out slowly. “Sometimes, he is very rough with me. I have even suggested for both of us to go see a psychologist in Calcutta. But he would not listen. Amrit, I am really starting to fear him”. Amrit was stunned. He did not know what to say. After a long time, he said - Well, I have to get out of your lives. That’s for sure. However, get in touch with me anytime you need help. They remained quiet for a while. Then Amrit left with a heavy heart. A few days later, Shukla showed up at Amrit’s quarters with a big smile on her face. She got the greatest news of her lifeshe was pregnant. - This Sunday, we are going to give puja at Sonari Kalibari. Please come there at 9 am. - Yes, definitely. Amrit was genuinely happy. That Sunday turned out to be a disastrous day. Police came in to Amrit’s house early

Sunday morning. Shukla was in the hospital. She had sent for him. When they arrived at the hospital, they took him to a room where Shukla was lying in bed, her face covered with bandage. Apparently, there was a violent argument at her house. The enraged husband hit her when she fell to the ground face down and got unconscious with blood trickling down. The house maid called for the ambulance right away. Police arrested Manish on assault charges. Shukla recovered but not without ugly scars on her face. Her parents came from Calcutta and took her back with them. She filed for divorce and received it promptly without any contest. She also managed to get a teaching job in a college in the outskirts of Delhi. Soon after that Amrit got this letter from Shukla. “Dear Amrit, from the day I met you, I wanted you as my soulmate. When I knelt down in front of Kedarnath, I prayed to get you as my husband. When circumstances did not permit us to get close to each other, I accepted my marriage with Manish as my fate. I know now that Kedarnath has answered my prayer. I am waiting for you”! They were married by court registration in Delhi. Aniket was born soon after that bearing the last name of Amrit. They had made up a fictitious wedding anniversary date for Aniket so far. No need for that anymore! They would soon arrive at Kedarnath. There, they would tell him the whole story.

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Meghdoot

(The Cloud Messenger) Sanghamitra Chowdhury, California

ma was finding it very hard to concentrate at work. She knew she had deadlines – however, she had found her thoughts drifting very often during the last few months. She gazed outside her office window at the dusty, barren brown hills and the arch of the highway turning away from her circle of vision. Her thoughts were dark and lonely

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as she relived this date three months back. The darkening sky was closing in and she could smell the coming rain in the wet wind that had begun to blow. The rain had finally come after a gap of five long years. The trees, waving in the wind, were in a tumult of passion. Despite the void that was always in her heart now, Uma

was immediately transported to her first presentation in her sophomore college year, almost a decade ago.

The podium was dark when Uma took her place behind the microphone. She got ready to play the movie clip that would accompany her recitation.

Sudip stifled a yawn and looked up as the dais on the platform was moved to one side and the overhead projector screen came down. The next participant walked onto the platform and waited quietly as the projection was started. It was when she started speaking in Sanskrit that he looked up. His father was a professor of Sanskrit and the first three words “Ashadha sya prathamadivase…” were ingrained in his memory. The lights dimmed and a scene from an Indian movie unfolded while Uma’s rich voice intoned Kaildasa’s poetry in perfect enunciation. The words came alive for him as her tone brought the imagery and the longing to life. He was mesmerized. Uma was majoring in Classical Literature. It had been a natural choice. Her father, an engineer by profession, was an avid reader and was deeply interested in world religions. When his daughter was born, he named her Uma after the goddess in Hindu mythology. In Hindu mythology, Uma was the daughter of Parvat, the lord of the mountains and personification of the Himalayas. Uma was also the Hindu goddess, who was the destroyer of evil, who was regarded as the embodiment of light, knowledge and power in different manifestations of the goddess. This goddess was Shiva’s consort, one who could match her husband’s asceticism and power. Uma Krolak had gone through school and college explaining to her teachers and classmates that her name did not rhyme with

puma. It was to be pronounced “Ooma”. She had a natural interest in literature and had gravitated towards the classical kind. It was in college that she had come upon a translation of a play “Meghdoot” by the Sanskrit poet Kalidasa. Reading that had been an epiphany and she quickly enrolled in a class on Sanskrit language. She had a good head for languages and having learned German from her German mother, the grammar and language patterns of Sanskrit fell into place very naturally. This was the first seminar on classical languages that Uma had participated in. The attendance was average, which for this discipline meant about twenty people. She was one of the participants who would recite the opening verses of “Meghdoot” in its original Sanskrit. Readings from Homer’s Iliad, Aristophanes’ “The Knights”, and Virgil’s Aenid started off the seminar. Sudip was in the audience web-surfing on his phone. His friend, Steve, had dragged him to this seminar as payback for all the times he had been the official non-drinking driver at the frat parties. Steve was dating a girl, who was going to read passages from Aenid. Although they tried their best to look interested in the proceedings, their gaze was drawn towards the large glass windows. Groups of students sat on the green on just another fine, sunny California day. After the seminar was over he walked up to Uma to introduce himself. Uma was of average

height and build. Her brown hair glinted with natural auburn highlights. He was immediately attracted to her warm eyes and her smile. Later, much as he prided himself on not being one to use clichéd compliments, he would say that her smile spread like sunlight from her mouth to her whole face, lighting up anyone who saw it. He complimented her and asked her what movie clip she had played. Deep in conversation, they noticed that the day had turned grey and it was starting to rain, only as they left the building. Her recitation seemed to have summoned the rain clouds and the unspoken thought passed between them in a shared smile.

Sudip and Uma soon became known as the couple with varied, esoteric interests. They attended lectures on neural networks, the Higgs Boson, roots of Flamenco music, etymological seminars – one of those rare couples who were genuinely interested in each other’s passions. Their first movie together was Mani Kaul’s “Asadh ka ek din”. When his friends saw the movie on his recommendation, it became a standing joke that he and Uma had probably not seen the movie at all because no-one else could take more than fifteen minutes of it. A film based on Kalidasa’s love story, delivered in Mani Kaul’s esoteric style, was hardly fare for college students anywhere in the world. The concept in Meghdoot of lovers physically far apart, while rain

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clouds conveyed their love, seemed the ultimate in romance to both of them. Soon they were in love and were committed to each other. Sudip met Uma’s parents and would go with her to spend an occasional weekend at her parents’ house. He was soon accepted and liked on account of his courteousness and charm and the fact that the couple were obviously in love. After graduation, they had worked in different cities meeting occasionally and renewing their relationship in true American weekend style. Sudip’s last job change had taken him to Boston. It was a startup and he loved his work– the company atmosphere and the fun of it all. The work didn’t seem like work at all and his weekends were filled. They would talk on Skype and Google Talk. Almost imperceptibly as Sudip got drawn in heart and soul into his work, the frequency of their chats dropped off. There was a three hour time difference and Sudip’s work became his passion. There was no time to fly back and forth and spend a weekend together. Uma resented that she seemed to be initiator of their calls. Sudip insisted that he had been meaning to call her. Even in their infrequent conversations it was obvious to Uma that his work had consumed him completely. Uma also got busier with her research – she missed their Google chats and consciously initiated these calls less and less. Uma’s mother had sometimes gently asked about Sudip – and sensing her

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daughter’s increasing reticence, stopped doing so. “What has happened to Sudip and me?” she sometimes wondered. “Was it distance, the time difference? Not meant to be?” She realized that many of the couples who had dated in college had drifted apart after graduation. Uma had started off her career in research. For a long time it had been her natural niche. She had a natural distrust for large corporations and their practices and had never considered a corporate career. Through a friend, she had been invited by Google to give a talk on the roots of language and words. Her presentation had been posted on the cloud for Google employees. Two years later she received a call from a Google project manager. Google was starting a new project on natural language processing, would she like to come in for a chat? This time she visited Google in a completely different role the following week. “Uma, can I get you something to drink? Would you like to try our new special Tofu chickpea cake?” asked Ryan as he and Uma settled into a corner table in the sprawling cafeteria. “No, thank you”. This was one occasion where Uma had no reason to correct his pronunciation of her name. It had rolled off his tongue perfectly. “I am heading a new project for natural language processing that will be applicable for all languages. We have made progress with the Germanic

languages. We need to move forward with the languages from other roots – Sanskrit, Cyrillic. I saw your presentation in our archives. Fascinating! Would you mind sharing more information about your research?” Uma explained her research in generic terms, not quite sure if she knew where this was going. She had always fought shy of big corporations, which were labelled in her mind in the same category as mills and factories in the nineteenth century. As she expanded on her research, she found Ryan an easy and attentive listener. Ryan understood her explanation of her research; he also sensed her reticence. He drew her out with questions and Uma started feeling at ease. After a long chat, Ryan seemed more like a fellow researcher, rather than a successful executive in Google. He asked. “Would you like to work as a consultant for the Lingua Pangea?” His eyes lit up as he mentioned the name of his new project. Uma had made up her mind to accept it even before she emerged from the cafeteria. Her days were filled with her work in Google and her research. She found to her surprise that the two went hand in hand. She found she was solving problems in both these areas interchangeably. Also, she admitted that her ideas of being a cog in a wheel when working in the corporate world were completely unfounded in this elite Google group. Life became work and occasional dating, even a few

casual dates with Ryan. There would be the casual chats with Sudip in social media, neither of them tried to renew their relationship. Time and distance had come in between. As her work and research became the mainstay of her life, she realized why her parents still extolled the joys of college life. Life after that was reality, not necessarily one that gave you that intoxicating shot of feeling alive when looking a tred and gold skeins of a sunset sky or the deep shadows in a redwood forest.

Uma came to with a start as her phone alarm rang. She had a half hour to wrap up her work for the day. Her thoughts about her first meeting with Sudip had brought her to the memory of the day three months before when her mother had relayed her dream to Uma on the morning of the day her mother died. Her mother had always had been susceptible to respiratory diseases and suffered severe bouts of asthma. The sniffling cold that Uma would bring back from school would turn into a long drawn out bout for her mother, which only antibiotics could cure. About four months ago, her mother was out of breath and seemed to be more tired than usual from her daily chores. She and her parents had attributed it to age and a particularly erratic and cold winter. She had to be admitted to the hospital so she could get better treatment. From there, it was a step closer to the

ICU when she didn’t respond to treatment. Uma moved in with her dad for a while. It was comforting for both of them to have each other’s company and to make the daily visits to the hospital, together, especially on the days when her dad seemed at a breaking point. She had to be the strong one, the one who didn’t break down. Every day in the hospital brought new challenges and the hope in her mother’s bright eyes was dimming. She remembered her visit to the hospital before starting her work day that fateful day. Dr. Dormier met her as she entered. “Uma, she had a good night. The last combination of antibiotics seems to have cleared up the infection. She really wanted to talk to you, so I have allowed her a short time now”. Her mother looked more rested. In a very soft voice she said, “I am better.” With a pause she continued, “I saw Sudip in my dream last night. He said he missed you and wanted to meet you. Second time over?” she said pleadingly. “Yes, ‘Mom’. “she comforted her mother mechanically.” Rest now. I’ll be back later with Dad”. “The two of you are very good together”, she whispered as she closed her eyes, exhausted but at peace. Uma walked out feeling more hopeful than she had in a long time. That evening as she and her dad went to the hospital, instantaneously the situation changed. Her mother suddenly

took a turn for the worse and it was over in minutes. A cloud of darkness and emptiness enveloped and spread through the ensuing days. The weight that descended on Uma as she replayed the what-ifs she could have done to save her mother and despondency stretched from days after her mother’s passing into months. She could not bring herself to be interested in anything and did everything mechanically. She did everything that needed to be done, carried on being the strong one, her dad’s support. Her dad seemed fragile and aged instantly. Her dad had decided that they needed to go through her mother’s things and today was that day. Her reverie was cut short as her 10 minute reminder alarm sounded again. She had better head out if she were to get to her parents’ house in time. As Uma got in her car, the clouds were closing in, gray tendrils reaching down to the hills. She didn’t want to get caught driving in a rain storm. After years of drought, drivers in California had forgotten how to drive in the rain – even when it rained lightly, cars either slowed down to a and the highways became a never ending runway of red brake lights. It didn’t help that some drivers insisted on switching lanes continuously to beat the traffic. By the time she reached her parents’ home, the clouds had crowded closer and were swooping down to obliterate the horizon in a tight embrace. The rain started coming down

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fast and furious as she watched from the window with her dad in his favorite rocking chair. The lashing rain, the trees delirious in the wind made for a sight long forgotten in parched California. The rain gradually petered off, leaving behind shiny blue skies with scattered clouds. The hills surrounding the Silicon Valley had gone from a dusty brown to a verdant blue. She stepped out to take in the fresh scent of the wet earth. Scattered, scudding clouds were all that was left of the passing storm. Spontaneously, she smiled as she remembered the walk up Myrtle Hill. The rain seemed to lighten her oppressive despondency. Sudip and she had climbed up Myrtle Hill, right outside the school campus. The hill was abundant with pink and white crepe myrtles; this had been part of an estate of a rich landowner in the past before it

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became public property. The day was warm and they had sat in the cool breeze, content in their silence. On the far horizon a few clouds had appeared and were moving towards them with a willful purpose. “Our Meghdoot” – they had said the words together and burst out laughing! It was then that she heard a whirring sound coming closer. In the distance she noticed a small yellow and black flying object. She watched it descending from the skies, a very alien looking object. And it was making a beeline for the driveway! She walked closer, registering it as an Amazon drone. As it neared, she saw the box attached to its undercarriage and cautiously moved back. It came down gently and placed a box on the driveway and lifted off. Mesmerized, she followed it as it disappeared towards the

clouds. The box was addressed to her. Who didn’t know her current address? Who could be sending packages to her at her long ago home address? She opened the box. On the top was a picture wrapped carefully, a picture that made her heart race. It was the picture that she and Sudip had taken on their first trip to Myrtle Hill. The first time that he had proclaimed his love for her and asked her to be with him “forever and ever”. Tucked inside was a leather bound copy of “Meghdoot” with golden engraving on its spine. The note inside said “I will be in California in a week. Can we meet? This is the only address I have for you. Yours, Sudip.” Her tears came in a warm catharsis, the dark clouds in her mind were opening up to let the light in. Her meghdoot had come!

My Beloved Automobile Rahul Ray, Massachussets

just backed my car out from the bank parking lot and straightened to hit the road when a van appeared next to me almost out of nowhere. In the late afternoon pale sun-light I could see that two men were sitting in the front, and the driver was trying to wave at me in an animated way. My first instinct

was – Oh, my gosh, I must have hit his car! My wife had a run in with the traffic cop last week. I prayed to myself – oh, no, not another so soon! But, quickly I realized that the guy in the front seat was trying to tell me something, instead of coming out of his car and demanding my insurance papers. I rolled down

my window and a voice in thick Italian accent and laced with a typical Boston twang boomed from the other vehicle. “I’ll fix yur ca for 200 dolla. It will be dun in no time.” What car, what fix! I was at my wit’s end till I realized from his hand gesture that he wants to fix the broken bumper of my old

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Toyota Corolla. For more than a decade this car had been a darling to me. Whenever I cranked the engine it started without hesitation, rain or shine, in summer sizzle or sub-zero temperature in the winter. It took me wherever I wanted to go. Gas-mileage was reasonable, but above all it had very little maintenance cost. I am one of those who consider a motor vehicle a dependable mode of transportation, and not an announcement of the economic status of the driver. This car fit my bill perfectly. However, my charming Toyota had borne the ravages of time and abuse. My wife used to drive this car for a while, and she banged it up in several places. The damages were not severe enough to go over the insurance deductible. Therefore, the dents and dings stayed wherever they were. I didn’t mind. But, soon rust started showing up. At that, the handyman in me became very worried at the possibility that rust may chew up the car. Somewhere I heard that if rust grows under the carriage unnoticed, the bottom may fall off while you are driving. The thought kept me awake at night. Soon I bought a few cans of spray paint. I sanded and painted the rusted areas. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get all the paint cans I needed from the same store, and ended up getting a mix of cans in glossy and matte finish. Soon the car had blotches of shiny white in the middle of matte finish. It was much like a shiny silver tooth in rows of whites in someone’s mouth, something so

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common in yesteryears. But, it’s a 10-year old car with nearly 200,000 miles in the odometer – who cares! I argued with myself. Last year my son took the car and came back with a torn front bumper. Again the same travesty repeated itself – cost of fixing the bumper was less than the deductible. In another flurry of my handyman-ness I repaired the torn pieces with epoxy and covered the mend with pieces of duct tape. I drilled small holes in the body and held up the bumper against the body with short pieces of electrical wire. It worked just fine, but my wife vehemently refused my offer to drive her to her workplace. She even conspired with my sons to get rid of my jalopy till I discovered the plot and foiled it. However, I always wanted to fix the bumper and give the whole car a nice paint job. My first instinct at the gesture of this stranger was to drive away. But the man was talking about something that I always wanted to do – fix the bumper of my car. I couldn’t move. By this time the man parked his car and walked to me - a middle-aged man with a rusty golden mane for hair, a chiseled face, and a burnt Mediterranean complexion. I have a habit of trying to determine the ethnicity of a person from his looks. He was certainly of Italian descent. In no time Michelangelo was trying to persuade me“Once I fix yur ca, and give a good paint job, you’re gonna fall in luv with this baby. Just gimme forty minutes.” He

winked lustily. I was hooked. “You mean you will fix the bumper and paint the car in 40 minutes, and for 200 dollars?” “Oh, come on, I’m gonna fix your bumper like nu in no time. You can paint it later. I’ll show yeah how to du it.” “OK, where is your garage?” Michelangelo grinned broadly – “What garage my friend, I’ll du it in the parking lot behind that grocery store.” He waved his finger at the direction of some store. “Me, and my buddy, Johnnie wull fix yur ca in no time.” I was apprehensive – “I need to go home soon. “ “Don’t worry my friend yu will be drivin a nu ca in no time.” Michelangelo assured me. “Oh, come on. But, seriously, I am curious to know how did you find out that my car needs fixing?” He smiled with relish – “Braatha, we look, we look to eat.” I relented - “Alright, 175, that’s all I can do, and you’ll have to do it quickly.” “OK my friend, 175. We will fix it while yu get a cup of coffee.” At this we hopped into our cars and drove together with his dark van in front. Soon we parked behind a convenience store and Michelangelo and his chum Johhnie came out of their van and started working on my car immediately. It was a surprisingly balmy afternoon at the end of January. Therefore, I decided to step outside and read the daily paper, instead of

sitting in a coffee shop. But in no time I got interested in what they were doing. Michelangelo and Johnnie opened the back of their van and pulled out tools of their trade – a small blow-torch, two power drills, a flat head screw-driver and a few screws. They will fix my car with these only! Besides why a blow torch- I wondered. Johhnie first removed the duct tape that I had put on to repair the bumper, and scraped off the sticky remnant as much as he could. Then he turned on the torch and started heating up the flat-head of the screw driver and rubbing it against the torn ends of the bumper. Within a few minutes the torn ends started mending. I spoke to John in amazement – “It’s this simple!” “Yes, it is. You see, this is made of synthetic polyester with fibers inside. You could never do it if it were made of plastic.” John spoke slowly and softly in a perfect Boston Brahmin accent. I was truly befuddled! John was a bit older than Michelangelo. From his small beady eyes and a short stubby nose, he looked very much like a South Boston Irishman. He spoke with an air of authority – like a professor teaching his class. He informed me that in earlier days, bumpers were made of steel. But the impact of a collision was so high that it often damaged the car beyond repair. These days, synthetic bumpers tear at the impact and divert the force of collision from the body of the car. He

explained. John went on narrating in great detail different aspects of collision on cars like a professor while working on the bumper with the torch and the screw driver. “How do you know all this? You are in a wrong profession, my friend.” I said. He laughed under his breath - “Well, long experience taught me.” Then he asked very politely – “May I ask, what do you do for living?” “You sure may, I teach at a local school.” “I knew.” “You knew?” “Yes, I did. This experience thing, you see. I have fixed cars for faculties of Harvard, MIT, BU, you name it. I know their lot quite well. What do you teach?” It was becoming surreal. A couple of street guys in a van chanced upon me to fix my car. Apparently this was how they make their living. You really don’t expect to find a Johnny know-it-all among such people! Yet, one of them appeared to be a highly polished gentleman speaking like a professor! John was done with soldering. He picked up the sander and changed the subject – “You must be from India, aren’t you?” He didn’t wait for my reply – “Again, that experience thing”. He continued “I have many Indian friends. Most of them are restaurateurs, truck drivers – very nice people.” Michelangelo was puttering

around with a screw driver. He stopped by at our conversation, and chimed in – “Yeah, nice folks. I fix ther trucks all the time.” My car was getting done. Michelangelo was mixing putty with a putty knife and Mr. Professor was taking a break – smoking a cigarette. He crushed the butt on the pavement and went back to the conversation. “Indians have done very well in this country. Not surprising, ‘cause only the cream of the crop came – like you. Isn’t that true?” I nodded in agreement. “But, how are you aware of all this? Do you have a daytime job that doesn’t involve grabbing people from the street, and fixing their cars?” Mr. Professor gave me an assured look - “No, I don’t. I am happy with what I am doing. But I keep my eyes open, you know.” My car was almost done. Michelangelo was sanding and smoothing the putty that was put on the torn part of the bumper. Mr. Professor looked on. Michelangelo brought a can of primer from the van and started spraying. Mr. Professor lit another cigarette. He was smoking silently. Suddenly a shrill ring in Michelangelo’s cell phone broke the quiet. He placed the paint-can on the ground and barked ‘Hello’ onto his phone. Suddenly the casual atmosphere changed. He listened intensely to the voice on the other side and then broke into profanity. “Yu mean yu need the fuckin muny right now!”

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There was a strange silence. Michelangelo was visibly pensive. He listened to his phone quietly, while Mr. Professor gave him a long gaze as if trying to read his mind, and resumed smoking. Soon the conversation was over and Michelangelo agitatedly shoved his phone into his trouser pocket. ‘Muthaa fucka’ he fumed under his breath and walked towards the truck. Mr. Professor followed suit, and they got into a hushed conversation. Soon both of them came back and started finishing up the job in silence. Shortly, my bumper looked, well not new without the paint job but significantly better than how it looked before. I was happy. “Can I write you a check?” “We prefer cash, my friend. Checks often get sticky.” Michelangelo winked – “You know whut I mean.” He had calmed down, and lit up a cigarette. Mr. Professor was having yet another smoke. He made a hard draw on his cigarette and blew a cloud through his nostrils. He looked pensive. Certainly he was not in his talkative self. “But I’m not carrying that much cash.” “No problem braatha, there is a ATM nearby. We’ll take yu ther.” –Michelangelo assured me. At this we drove to a nearby ATM booth in a somewhat desolate corner of the street. I pulled out the wallet from my back pocket, and fumbled a bit to take out the bank card. It was early evening, but gotten pretty

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dark already. I inserted the card into the slot and punched the code, when I felt a cold metal right above the sweater line on my neck. The cold touch sent a shiver through my body. I cringed, and then froze on my feet –Oh my god, it’s a stick-up! I have seen this so many times in movies and on the TV, and now it’s my turn! Soon Mr. Professor’s low voice came from behind. “Please do what I say withdraw to your maximum limit.” My hands were trembling. I did what I was instructed. Mr. Professor whispered again in a very polite, even almost apologetic voice “Please turn around, sir. We won’t hurt you.” Almost as a condition reflex I raised my hands above my head – with my right clutching the wad of dollar bills, and turned around. Mr. Professor was still pointing his pistol at me. He said very calmly – “I am really sorry about the inconvenience. But unfortunately you will have to part with your money. I apologize. I really do.” But Michelangelo hissed “Now, don’t play any monkeytricks. I don’t wanchew to call the cops. He gave a short smoker’s cough – “Hand me your cell phone also. We wud have taken yur ca also. But who wud take this fuckin shit and get into trouble.” I handed that over the money and my cell phone to Michelangelo, as instructed.

Mr. Professor had already put the pistol in his pocket. He stepped forward and stretched his hand for a shake and spoke gently. “Sir, a few minutes ago you wondered how I was speaking like a professor.” He chuckled. “Well, I must say that you are no less an observer than me. Some years ago I taught Junior college. But teachers aren’t paid much. You know that, don’t you?” I was speechless. “Good bye, my friend. Thank you for everything.” He wafted the compliment at me and got inside the van. Michelangelo got into the driver’s seat and they drove away. I was completely shaken up, but kept my composure to look at the number plate of their van. It was covered with something. They must have done it while they were having the conversation after the phone call, I pondered. I was sad to lose five hundred dollars and my cell phone. My wife gave it to me as our anniversary gift. I stood there in a forlorn mood when my gaze fell on my car in a short distance. It stood there - an old trusted friend, like that song by Kenny Rogers ‘She believes in me’. I stepped forward and circled it slowly. They have done a good job in fixing the bumper. Then why did Michelangelo have to be so rude to it! Nah, I will have to give it a good paint job very soon – emotion welled inside me. I leaned forward and gently kissed its cold, steely body.

t was not easy for Priya to grow up in this country as a young Bengali girl. On one hand there was a continuing pressure from her parents to excel in academic efforts so that she could plan a respectable as well as a high-paying professional career such as a medical doctor or a lawyer or a scientist at a Government laboratory; at the same time she saw almost all her American friends at college totally preoccupied with ideas of looking cool, attracting fellow male students and dating and many were engaged in premarital sexual activities.

Many of them also got involved in sports, cheer-leading, ballet and other extra-curricular activities, all of which seemed like fun things to do even if one did not win a medal. Priya’s one and only one priority was her studies. Priya was always torn between these two diametrically opposite cultures. The idea of having a boy-friend was absolutely out of the question by her parents’ edict. She had been repeatedly told by her parents as well as other relatives that the right path for a Bengali girl was to remain a

virgin until she got married to a suitable groom, arranged by her family. The family would make sure that the match of the bride and groom ensured compatibility in various aspects of life. Any other scenario was just the topic of movies and novels and an example of moral degradation in the American society. The result, even if the relationship led to marriage, would inevitably be a divorce or at least marital problems of all kinds, as opposed to long married lives that all her older relatives enjoyed. However, it was difficult for her to ignore the

Priya

Basab Dasgupta, California

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allure of romance, the thought of “love at first sight”, facing life together with a soul-mate, all being fueled by those raging hormones of teenage years and early youth. It was not just the class-mates; the movies, television shows, magazines – they all seemed to project, if not glorify, youthful intimate romance as a normal healthy phenomenon in this society. She also felt that, with the right boy-friend, she would be able to maintain her academic performance and in fact, such a relationship would provide her encouragement to do better and not be a distraction. Priya never understood the behavior pattern of married Bengali couples. It was so easy to spot Indian couples and especially Bengali couples in any social gathering or even in any public place like park, shopping mall or beach. The husbands and wives would never sit next to each other, the wives would walk a few feet behind the husbands and there would be absolutely no public display of affection (PDA) of any kind such as touching, kissing, massaging and not even any suggestive body language. They would not laugh at any joke which has any sexual connotation and amply criticize other couples who might get a little too cozy in front of others. They would not bring up any sexual topic themselves even when such topics were the “talk of the town”. Of course, Priya’s own parents were no exception. She did not remember ever seeing

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them in an affectionate embrace, not to mention a kiss. Although she loved her father dearly, she cringed at the thought of marrying someone like him. His body language spelled an awkwardness which was totally devoid of any passion or romance. She did not recall seeing him dance even though her mother took a the dance floor on a couple of occasions after a few drinks. She sometimes sympathized with her mother because she felt that her mother had some hidden romantic sparks which failed to ignite anything. It was apparent to Priya that the custom of arranged marriage had something to do with these characteristics of Bengali couples. Of course, it was predictable that if you put a young man and woman, who were legally married, together alone in a bedroom, sooner or later they would engage in physical intimacy, whether they knew each other before or not. It was also conceivable that, as time went by, this continuous intimate cohabitation between even strangers would result in strong mutual caring and an emotional bonding that many people would describe as “love”. However, it seemed to Priya that it did not allow the development of a “physical chemistry” whereby one just loved the body of one’s partner and craved for a touch, a kiss, a gentle rub, the smell, running finger through hair, an embrace. This chemistry is, in fact, the very basis of a relationship and eventual marriage in the

American society. It has nothing to do with what a person’s body actually looks like – whether it is fat or skinny, tall or short, old or young, dark or fair – it is an emotional urge which comes before intimacy and leads to intimacy. In an arranged marriage, intimacy comes first and then a feeling of caring, thus omitting this step of physical chemistry. Priya thought about her experience on senior prom night at high school. She was caught in this dilemma on that occasion. In American culture, if a girl does not get a date on her prom night, she might as well jump off a cliff. Priya’s parents were oblivious to the whole event and really did not care if Priya went to the prom or not. She was determined not to miss this once in a lifetime festive occasion. She managed to find a “date”. She smiled at the thought of the guy – a tall lanky dorky guy of Indian origin. He was very wellmannered though and Priya was able to convince her reluctant parents to have him accompany her to the dance. No, there was no physical chemistry between them, but Priya enjoyed the evening nonetheless. The guy gave Priya a quick peck on the cheek when he left her at her house. Priya was attending the University of California – San Diego (UCSD) where she was majoring in Biochemistry. She was still not quite sure about what she would do after graduation, but San Diego was a hotbed for all kinds of companies in pharmaceutical

and bio technologies. So she was optimistic that she would be able to get into one of those companies. Her dream job was to get a position at Salk Institute with its dramatic ocean-view location, not too far from the UCSD campus. Fortunately for her, there was an abundance of Asian female students in her department – Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese – you name it and most of them shared conservative family values, not too different from Priya’s. So, even though she did not have a boyfriend, she enjoyed her student life by hanging out with these mostly Asian students. However, she also had a couple of Caucasian friends who kept her abreast of the latest gossips in the dating world. During her senior year, Priya lucked out. She met Sanjay – a medical student, a few years older than her. He was not only Indian and Bengali, he belonged to the same caste as Priya and was the only child of wealthy parents. Just like Priya, he was born in this country and had largely stayed away from the dating scene at his parents’ urging. It was probably not quite “love at first sight”, but definitely an intense infatuation at third or fourth sight. Sanjay was tall by Indian standard, had sharp features and worked out regularly as evidenced by his well-built body. He was also very well organized and emotionally very balanced. He went on to the UCLA medical school for residency after graduation while Priya got into a small biotech start-up

company in La Jolla. Since the two places were only a couple of hours apart by car, they visited each other at least, twice a month. Priya was also wise enough to introduce him to her parents at the earliest opportunity. Much to her delight and surprise, her parents really liked Sanjay and gave her tacit approval to build up a relationship with him as long as it did not involve sex, and it was clear to Priya that the relationship was going to lead to marriage. In due course of time, Sanjay completed his residency at UCLA and started fellowship for specializing in epidemiology. Priya and Sanjay got married during this period with full blessings of their respective parents. The wedding ceremony was held in a Hindu temple in Malibu in greater Los Angeles area in a very Bengali tradition. The lavish reception was held in style in a five-star hotel in Thousand Oaks. Sanjay started his medical practice with a private group in Scripps Ranch area of San Diego. Priya’s company was not too far. Priya could not be happier. It seemed that all those years of self-control and abstinence as far as intimacy with boys were concerned finally paid off. She was madly in love with Sanjay and very proud to present him on all social and professional occasions. Her story-book life continued with the birth of two adorable children – first a boy and then a girl two years later. They also managed to buy a fairly sizable house in Carmel Valley, an upscale coastal

neighborhood of northern San Diego, which was quite an accomplishment considering the sky-high home prices in Southern California although Sanjay’s parents helped them with part of the down payment money. Priya wanted to be a perfect mother. She followed every advice of every expert of child behavior in planning the activities and training of her babies. She breast-fed both of them until they were a year old. Her parents lived in the University Town Center (UTC) area of San Diego, not very far from Priya; her mother gladly provided her assistance to Priya, whenever she needed it and frequently spent several nights in a row with her. In addition they had a live-in nanny. The house was full of toys, dolls and books of all kinds. The two children were Priya’s entire life. However, all her attention to the kids seemed to have created an unexpected problem. As time went on, she started to feel some distance from Sanjay. Even though he was helping Priya with all the chores associated with the kids, he seemed less affectionate, less interested in intimacy, less communicative. While she knew that this was not an unusual reaction from a new father, she was a little worried because she trusted Sanjay so much and usually they shared every feeling and thought in their communication. One night after the kids were put to bed, she decided to directly confront Sanjay “Is there anything wrong? You

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seem so aloof. It is almost like you are in a different world all the time”. Sanjay did not say anything for several seconds and just looked straight into Priya’s eyes with a mixture of sadness and apprehension. Finally he spoke: “I don’t quite know how to tell you this and so I am just going to say it directly and briefly. I am gay”. There was a long pin-drop silence. Priya felt as if the entire world around her just crashed. How could even this be possible, especially considering the fact that they had been married for six years with two children? Why she hadn’t ever suspected something like this? Why didn’t Sanjay tell her this much earlier? What was she going to tell everyone – her kids, her parents, her friends? What the heck was she supposed to do? “You must be joking”, Priya was in denial at first. Sanjay shook his head, “No”. Priya was getting angry and her voice was getting louder “So what is this? Is this some kind of one night experimentation to see how homosexual experience feels like? Or have you been a bisexual all along and a liar as well?” Sanjay sighed and started to tell his story. He was not bisexual; he was gay. The only reason he married Priya was pressure from his parents and relatives to get married, and Priya seemed to be a very liberal and open minded girl. Although he developed a genuine affection for Priya, he never enjoyed the intimate encounters. At first he thought that perhaps he could remain in the closet his entire life, perhaps

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with occasional encounters with his male friends, but it was becoming more and more clear every day, especially as the kids were growing up, that he simply could not carry on this charade. He started to weep at one point and profusely apologized to Priya. “Please believe me; I never wanted to hurt you. I will do everything to make sure that you and the kids have a normal and happy life. If you want a divorce, I will support all of you financially in every way. If you want to stay married in a make-belief marriage, I will play along. If you want an open arrangement where you would want to see other men while staying married to me, that is ok too,” he tried to reassure her. “I just don’t believe it. I felt so comfortable with you. Is it something I am lacking? Is there some act we should focus on?” Priya had hundreds of questions. Sanjay said, “You won’t understand. It is not a physical or sexual thing. It is an intensely emotional issue. It is not like I am turned on by every man. I feel wonderful only when some special ones enter my life. I recently met such a person, and I just now know that I want to be with him as much as I can”. It is needless to say that Priya went to sleep in a separate bedroom. She was indeed a very liberal and open-minded person. She had many gay friends. She even vigorously defended gay marriage in her frequent debates with her father, who really hated the concept of homosexuality. It was not so much the fact that

Sanjay came out of the closet; she just could not overcome the strong sense of betrayal. He could have confided in her long before they got married. Priya could not sleep. She replayed her entire married life in her head. Several aspects of her relationship with Sanjay suddenly started to make sense. He always enjoyed going out with the guy friends, not only to local bars or ballgames, but on weekend trips to Las Vegas and other out-of-town places. At the time she did not mind it because she wanted to give him his “space”; in fact, she herself went on “girls’ night out” adventures and visited out of town friends by herself. Sanjays’s attention to his immaculate outfits, organization of items wherever he worked, his interests in “feminine” activities like cooking and ice skating at the UTC rink, his total lack of interest in other women and his working out at the gym like a clock-work should have alerted her, Priya thought. She was obviously blindsided by their physical intimacy. She never thought that a gay man could be so affectionate and passionate towards a woman. She concluded that she probably never understood gays after all. Priya also never met or even heard of a Bengali gay guy! Only on one occasion there were some rumors about a Dr. Bibhas Das, who was a professor at USC, who was never married nor seen with any woman. There were occasional teasing of him, especially by the women, at Bengali parties urging him

to find a suitable wife, but of course, no one directly asked him about his lifestyle. Priya also remembered a guy named Parimal at one party who was strongly advocating that gay lifestyle should be not only condoned but promoted in India. She was shocked to learn that homosexuality was considered a crime in India, punishable by law. Parimal’s point was that there were probably millions of gay men in India, but all of them ended up marrying and having children simply because of family and social pressure. If gay lifestyle was accepted, as it was in this country, that would have a significant impact in slowing down the birth rate. Parimal was right; Priya would not have her babies if she had any clue about Sanjay. Sanjay decided to give Priya some time and space to think things through. So, as part of the “Doctors without Border” program he went to Haiti on a special assignment with another male doctor for three months. It was all very ironic. Haiti was having an outbreak of HIV infections, the chief culprit of which was sexual intercourse between gay men, and here was Sanjay going to help! Priya was all alone in trying to figure out an escape from this mess. Her two kids had become her entire life by now and so anything she did had to ensure that their future lives and happiness were not affected at all. That almost ruled out the idea of a divorce. At the same time she could not imagine spending even one additional night in

the same bed with Sanjay. Her physical needs were never very strong and the thought of finding another man was farthest from her mind. Thought of committing suicide entered her mind but it left almost as soon; she could not leave the children. She had heard about the groups who performed therapy on gay people and converted them back onto the heterosexual way of life. She wondered if such groups could turn Sanjay around. However, it was more than just a sexual preference. She could not overcome the feeling of betrayal. She would not be able to trust Sanjay in the same way ever again. The rest of her life’s story was a bitter-sweet one. After months of going through emotional roller-coaster and objective soulsearching and prioritizing, she decided to get a divorce without telling anyone! Her parents, friends, colleagues, neighbors, not to mention the children – no one ever found out that Sanjay was gay and they were divorced. Of course, Sanjay did not mind participating in this charade. He rented a small one bedroom apartment nearby and spent most of the nights there; but he also spent many nights at home – in a separate bedroom from Priya. They attended all social and family events together and even went on vacation to Europe, Asia and South America together with the children. Priya focused on her profession and did spectacularly well. Together with one of her close friends from UCSD, Christina Chang, she founded

a biotech company with the goal of finding medicines for curing HIV. They developed some drugs which showed a high degree of effectiveness when mixed as a part of a “drug cocktail” and got FDA approval relatively quickly. The company went public a few years later and Priya made tens of millions of dollars in the process. She bought condominiums for both of her kids as soon as they reached college age. She bought an ocean-front vacation home in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. She became a well-known philanthropist and donated money to build schools and hospitals in India. She did not need Sanjay’s financial support anymore, but they remained “married” in public’s eye. She also turned very spiritual and started to spend countless hours at the Self-Realization Fellowship “Ashram”, established by Paramhansa Yogananda in Encinitas, a small suburban town of San Diego. She never remarried, never dated and never became too cozy with any male friend. She had learned enough about sexual chemistry, arranged marriages and man/woman relationships. Her priorities were very clear to her. The story has one final twist. Many years later, after their kids were established with their own lives, Sanjay was diagnosed with HIV. It was the medication, patented by Priya’s company that kept him alive. Sanjay had almost destroyed Priya’s life; Priya gave him new life.

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Rakhal-da in Cherrapunji Debu Majumdar, Idaho

“A

nother Rakhalda story, another Rakhal-da story,” DeeDee and Raja pleaded with their Grandpa. Shankar’s face beamed. They want to hear more of my Rakhal-da’s adventures? Their eagerness took him back to the long-gone time when Rakhal-da would suddenly show up at their house in Calcutta. What a wonderful time that was – hearing about his older

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cousin’s adventures! How could he disappoint the children? So he started: Once Rakhal-da came to our house all wet and no umbrella with him. My mother gave him two towels, asking him to dry up quickly, but he said, “This is nothing compared to the place I have just come from – Cherrapunji.” “What?” My mother’s eyes

became bigger. “Did you go to Cherrapunji? The place of the Khasis?” “Yes, I was there exploring a mining opportunity— looking into mining precious metals,” Rakhal- da told her. We pulled him away to our room; my sisters and I sat down around him, begging him to tell us about Cherrapunji. Rakhal-da looked at us quietly for a few moments,

as if we had reminded him of something. Then he said, “Never trust a man you don’t know, especially in the rain.” That certainly drew our attention! What did the man do to Rakhal-da? We inched closer to him. Finally, when he had dried his head and begun to drink the tea mother had brought him, he said, “Well, I guess I have to tell you what happened in Cherrapunji. I was there for over two months – and it was raining every day. One day it was drizzling lightly; a light drizzle is a good day in Cherrapunji, so I went out to explore.” Rakhal-da hesitated for a few seconds to decide where to start. Then he said, “First I must tell you about the land around Cherrapunji so you will understand where I was. A long time back there was an old market known as Chera in the mountains 30 miles south of Shillong. The Khasi tribal people have lived there for hundreds of years. A very beautiful place. When the British ruled India, they were interested in this area for military reasons and that helped it grow into a nice little town. “There is a beautiful waterfall, The Mawsmai Falls, six kilometers from Cherrapunji. It is one of the world’s highest falls. A nearby cave, the Mawsmai Cave, is another wonder. It has several limestone pillars at the entrance. People are fascinated by these pillars, but they don’t venture very far into the cave. The rain and darkness hold them back.

“I was having breakfast near Mawsmai Falls, when this Khasi man introduced himself and sat down at my table. ‘From Calcutta?’ He asked me. ‘Yes, just vacationing,’ I told him. I didn’t want to tell him why I was in Cherrapunji. ‘That’s nice.’ But he considered me for a while and then said, ‘You don’t look like someone who would come here just for vacation. Anyway, that’s your business. You seem to be a sturdy, capable man. Are you interested in an adventure?’ “I looked at him intently, trying to gauge what he was up to, but a Khasi face is hard to read. Like the stoic face of an old Chinese man. I couldn’t figure out whether he had something serious to tell me, or he was a crackpot. ‘What adventure?’ I asked him somewhat rudely. ‘It’s about the Mawsmai Cave,’ he whispered. ‘Very few locals will share this with you. It’s my family secret.’ ‘What do you want from me?’ I asked him in a slightly irritated tone, but I was also intrigued, eager to find out what he knew about the cave.’ Rakhal-da then leaned toward us children, and said in almost a whisper, “You know, I was really there to explore the area on my own, for gems.” “‘Gems are hidden in the cave,’ the Khasi man said as he winked and gave a little smile. ‘If you will agree to help me, I have a proposition for you.’ I was stunned. How did he know of my interest? His heavy round face was like a stone

sculpture. I couldn’t read his mind. But what could I lose? ‘Tell me more,’ I said. ‘Only a few old tribal people know about it,’ he said, looking at me without blinking. ‘My father stumbled upon an area inside the cave where light was glowing. Before he could figure out what it was, he slipped on a rock, twisted his ankle and had to retreat. Unfortunately, he died soon thereafter. But he told me where it is. I have tried to find it before, but got lost several times. I don’t want to work with any native man because they would tell others. And you know what would happen? All the Khasis would be inside the cave. So I want to work with a partner who isn’t from this area.’ “The man told me how far he had progressed in his exploration and that the British knew about the place. They were keeping it a secret and planning to get the gems for themselves. They had even sent their army’s Frontier Division to explore, but then WW II began, and the Indian National army, backed by the Japanese, shelled near this area. That stopped the British. After India gained her independence, the Indian army found out about the British plan to explore the cave and get the gems. They haven’t organized a search team yet; now would be the time for us to go there and get the gems.’ “The man stopped and continued to hold me in his unblinking gaze. I was astonished. I had heard something like this from my sources in the Indian army, so I was impressed with the man.

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He seemed to know what he was talking about. My friends in Calcutta Fort couldn’t tell me where the secret place was; they only knew that there was something in a cave in the Khasi Hills, and that it was very much hushed up. “I decided to go with him. We planned together; we went to the bazaar and I picked up some items we might need, such as good flashlights and some rope, and went on our expedition. “We were deep inside the cave in an hour. I followed him, but I was careful to note the passage, particularly rock formations, so I could come back alone if necessary. “The cave tunnels went in several directions. Some of the tunnels were so small we could not go into them, but four tunnels were big enough for us to walk in. He told me two of the paths met again and came out in the open. He had explored the third tunnel and found it to be a dead end, so we followed the fourth branch. It went deep into the mountain, and the path became narrower and colder. It was humid and musty. Rainwater had leaked in through cracks in the rocky ceiling, and moss grew on the walls and floor, making them slippery. We proceeded carefully. It was so quiet we could hear our footsteps. “We saw columns of stalagmites pointing up from the floor of the cavern. When we turned the flashlight on the walls, some portions glowed distinctly like gems. I wanted to break off a few of these stones and take them with me, but

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we moved on. The Khasi man wanted to get to the place his father had told him about before exploring anything else. “After walking for another hour or so, we saw a faint streak of light in the distance. I thought it came from the outside, but the Khasi man was excited. ‘Ah huh,’ he said in a hushed voice as if someone were going to listen to his secret, ‘My father told me about this light.’ “We stopped and explored the area. We could see the walls better because of the faint light. It was all rough rock; there was no trace of gems. I smelled a slight rotten odor in the air. Perhaps it was not the place we were looking for. Then the man, in his hurry, stumbled on something and almost fell down. I focused my light and saw he had tripped over a skeleton. The skeleton was in a kneeling position, head bent forward, as if praying. It was intact; no one had touched the body. Perhaps no one had come here before us – except for this poor dead soul. The smallness of the skeleton told me it could be a Khasi man because they were short people. Then I wondered if the Japanese had sent a spy this far during WW II. The Japanese had recruited Indian prisoners of war into the Indian National Army during WW II and had attacked from the Burmese border to liberate India from the British. So the skeleton could be a Japanese soldier; that thought intrigued me very much. We searched the area and found an old, dark dirty-green bag a military man might carry. It bore

the insignia of the rising sun! There were no gems or rocks in it. The Khasi man gave the bag to me and went on ahead. I found a small bag inside one of the side pockets and took it out. I found no other artifacts in the area. “We moved on and the light became stronger. Soon it took on a yellow-red tinge and we became excited because we thought we might be near something worthwhile. We saw a small side cavern, which was illuminated by the light. “I was examining the wall, when suddenly the man pulled out a knife and lunged for my chest! But I had been careful, constantly watching him out of the corner of my eye. I simply sprang to one side, like a matador teasing a bull, and he lost his balance. ‘What’re you doing?’ I shouted at him. ‘This is our land and the gems belong to us,’ he said. He planted his legs firmly on the floor and raised his arms to fight me. Light reflected off his sharp knife. ‘Stop this,’ I commanded. ‘No one but a native may have these gems.’ His face became stern. I saw he was serious and determined to kill me.” Rakhal-da paused and took a sip of tea. Then, he calmly said, “I took out my gun and pointed it at him.” “‘Drop your knife,’ I told him firmly. He was surprised that I had a revolver. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here,’ he lamented,

but he obeyed me. I picked up his knife, and told him to go forward.” We were listening to Rakhalda’s story spellbound and felt so proud of our cousin. My oldest sister asked, “You had a gun?” “You have to be prepared for these situations,” Rakhal-da told us, “I would not be here today, if I hadn’t been alert. I’d be lying there dead, like the Japanese fellow.” “Tell us, what happened then?” We clamored together. We wanted to know what happened next, and whether he had found any gems. “We both entered the small cavern,” Rakhal-da continued. It glowed yellow in the faint light. “‘Gold,’ the Khasi man muttered. ‘I looked at the walls. No gems, but the walls looked rough and were the color of dirty gold, like large nuggets of pyrite I had seen. Fools gold. ‘Don’t be fooled,’ I told him, ‘these are not worth anything.’ The Khasi man kept on touching the walls, muttering, ‘Gold, gold.’ ‘You can take some if you like,’ I told him, ‘but it would be waste of time. Real gold doesn’t look like that.’ “He took out a hammer and broke off several pieces. I took a piece as a souvenir. He took as much as he could carry. Then we moved deeper into the cave; I always let him walk in front of me. “As we kept going, the light became brighter, and I was still hoping to discover the gems his father had claimed to have

found. After some time, we came to a place where we could see the source of the light. It came from the outside through a crack in the rocks.” “I suddenly realized,” Rakhal-da told us, “why no Khasi man had told others about the gold – it was all pyrite. They didn’t want to appear to be fools.” “Tell us what did the Khasi man do?” My older sister asked Rakhal-da. “We examined the rocks on this wall carefully. There was no trace of any gems. We followed the path out of the cave and soon found ourselves on the other side of the Mawsmai Falls. I told the Khasi man to get lost. “I returned to Cherrapunji late at night,” Rakhal-da continued telling us about his trip. “It had been an adventure indeed, I thought, as I was undressing to go to bed. Then I felt the small bag I had taken from the dead Japanese soldier and opened it. A small piece of paper with Japanese writing fell out and fell apart in my hand. The few other little things in the bag had been ruined by moisture and age, except for a little ivory figure of a fat, smiling man, the size of my thumb, with inlayed coral work on it. Then it dawned on me it was a netsuke. The Japanese soldier must have carried it with him as a token of good luck. Perhaps his fiancée gave it to him. “But what had he been doing in the cave? I wondered if he had become lost when the British started their counter offensive. I knew the Indian National Army

and the Japanese had captured Kohima, a nearby town, in April 1944, but soon the British troops had overrun the place with their superior airpower. Then the monsoon had started. Hiking through the jungle would have been almost impossible for a foreign soldier. He must have hidden in the cave, and died there.” Rakhal-da finished his account, but my younger sister asked him what he had done with the gold nugget piece. Rakhal-da’s face shrank. He said, “You don’t want to know.” He stared at the drizzling rain for a moment and then sighed. “Well, you are my pals. I’ll tell you. I didn’t care for the nugget, but last year when I returned to Calcutta, I took it to a jewelry store in Bou-bazaar. The storeowner took it inside to examine it. Pretty soon he came out hurriedly. He took me inside the store and told me, ‘It’s pure gold. Where did you find it?’ “‘Real gold?’ I asked flabbergasted. ‘“Certainly. I know gold when I see it, and I tested it.’’ ‘“How much will you give me?’ I inquired. ‘“5000 rupees because I don’t know its history.’ The storeowner winked at me. ‘It could be stolen material. How do I know?’ ‘“10,000,’ I demanded. ‘“That’s too high.’ “We settled on a price, and I left.” Rakhal-da looked at us sadly and said, “The Khasi man must have chiseled out the walls of the whole cavern by now.”

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Shankar leaned back, his hands behind his head, and turned to DeeDee and Raja. “To me, the most exciting part of Rakhalda’s adventure was when he discovered the dead Japanese soldier in the cave.” “Why were the Japanese in India?” DeeDee asked. She was back to her usual self again – being inquisitive. “Ah!” Grandpa said. “It is old history. During World War II, the Japanese conquered Singapore and most of Southeast Asia. They even drove the British out of Burma. An Indian leader, known as Netaji, formed the Indian National Army in Southeast Asia using Indian prisoners of war that the Japanese had captured as

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soldiers. His objective was to free India from British rule. The Japanese and his army entered India from Burma to fight against the British. They had some initial success, but the British defeated them with airpower. “This attack created a lot of enthusiasm among the Indians. The British felt they could not trust the Indians in the army, and they felt insecure. This was partly responsible for India’s quick liberation from the British after World War II.” “What is a netsuke, Grandpa?” Raja inquired in an unsure voice. Such an obscure item! Shankar wondered how to explain this to them. Their history dates back to Samurai times. “A long time back Japanese men used them as

personal ornaments,” Shankar told Raja and squeezed him closer. “They are valuable antiques now.” “So what did your Rakhal-da do with his?” Raja asked. “We didn’t care so much about the netsuke when Rakhalda told us the story. But years later, when I realized it was a very valuable object, I asked him about it; he pretended he didn’t remember. “What netsuke?” Rakhal-da asked me. “I reminded him of his trip to the Mawsmai Falls. Then he said, “Oh that? I gave it to a Khasi friend of mine.” “Gave it away?” DeeDee raised her eyebrows. “’There is no point in lamenting past activities,’ Rakhal-da told me. “I’d have liked to have met your Rakhal-da,” DeeDee said.

Scarlet tanager Tathagata Ghosh, New Jersey

he large package awaited him on the doorstep as Swapan rounded the pathway from the garage. He knew it had to be Phantom 3 quadcopter that he had just ordered. He had just acquired

it after much deliberation and a good sum of money. Swapan had his daughter Mili as his constant companion as he assembled it and taught himself to fly it. She was all of six years old and was a veteran daddy’s helper.

As they worked on the deck with the quadcopter or the drone, as it known in common parlance, a red streak of flapping feathers had just picked up something edible from the yard and streaked towards the

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weeping willow at the edge of his property. The weeping willow was gently swaying with every hint of a breeze. The bird flew in concentric circles around the willow tree, assessing it with a trained avian insight, and then landed on a branch. It disappeared into the stringy leaves and he lost sight of the bird. “Daddy, what is the name of the bird?” Mili had run out into the yard and was her usual curious self. Swapan had seen the bird before on his yard. The bird had a distinctive plumage; red all over with black wings and tail, an insistent whistling had led Swapan to research the bird. He was now quite sure what the bird was. “I think that was a scarlet tanager Mili”, Swapan explained. “Oh, scarlet tanager” Mili responded solemnly. “Maybe that’s a red manager, Daddy” she said impishly and they both cracked up. Mili ran screaming into the house ‘Momeee, Dideeee, red manager bird!!’ Swapan heard a medley of voices ‘Shut up, Mili, stop screaming !’ ‘You shut up’ and then ‘Momee, Didi told me to shut up!’ Swapan meanwhile had the quadcopter up in a hover about 10 feet away. He tested the camera, sending real-time video feed onto his iPad, and tested out the controls. It held very steady and he moved it in any direction he wanted, without much difficulty. He was ready to soar now.

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Swapan wanted to try the quadcopter circumambulate around the tree like the tanager but decided against it. He could not see behind the tree and was not sure how far the tree went out radially. He still was not confident enough that he could fly just with real-time camera visual. ‘Dad, higher, higher’ Mili screamed as she again burst into the deck after her skirmish with her sister. ‘Go dad, go. Make it go higher’. ‘Make it touch the sky’. Mili danced and pranced, willing the drone to pay heed to her dance. The drone was now probing at a safe distance around the tree. Swapan wanted to practice some fine controls before he sent it up even higher over the trees. He zoomed the camera and the screen filled with red, slashing claws and a furious beak. Wings furiously beating and squawking, the tanager had shot out from the tree and screeched at the intruder. Swapan’s hand jerked at the controls and the drone jerked spasmodically and lost altitude precipitously. Mili yelled at the bird. ‘Go away bad birdy. Don’t hurt my drone.’ She kept screaming at the tanager ‘Keep your hands to yourself. Keep your beak to yourself. It’s our drone’ The bird screeched louder as it saw the intruder had fled and settled back on a branch and they soon lost sight of the bird as it disappeared into the thicket of leaves. Mili was apopletic ‘Daddy, that bird was so naughty! He

was trying to kill our drone! You do not kill somebody if you don’t like them. Right Daddy?’ Swapan agreed ‘ Yes, Mili. That was such a bad bird. We don’t like that tanager’. Dusk was setting in, the solar lights on the deck switched and shed a soft glow. It started getting chilly. This was the northeast USA, where the signs of fall were in the air. Birds trilled and swooned in large flocks and some flew alone with solitary purpose. The next weekend, Mili was already outside on the newly remodeled deck overlooking their vast expanse of a backyard. Swapan finished up his lunch on the deck and watched Mili bring the drone and the controller out of the box. Mili said ‘Daddy, let’s fly upto the tree again. If that meany bird attacks us, we will fight it’. There was fire in her eyes and her cheeks puffed out as she made a war face. It was going to be fight this time. Swapan was also prepared and off they sent their drone across their yard. The drone took off vertically as Swapan revved it up. The Phantom-3 quadcopter, hovered in place, and then surely and steadily took off across the yard. Mili and Swapan watched the drone stream back live video in 4k on the mounted iPad. They saw the weeping willow creeping up. “Daddy, where is the red manager bird that wanted to kill our drone?’ Mili asked anxiously. They watched with concern if the tanager would show up this

time. Nothing. Peaceful drifting upwards above the tree, the clear video of the line of trees beyond the weeping willow showed. A sweep of expanse and then a brook beyond. They drifted back to the top of the weeping willow. There was some distant chirping but no birds were in sight. Mili noticed something and her voice was edgy with excitement. ‘Daddy, daddy look’ Mili had started dancing again. “What Mili?” Swapan was trying to hold the quadcopter steady. “It’s a nest, I see a nest! I see a nest!”Mili’s decibel level shot up . Indeed coming into view on the screen was a nest. The red tanager had built a nest and something bluish white showed in the nest amongst the brown and the green. Swapan inched the Phantom up and panned down. The edges of a nest was showing but he could not get a good shot. Swapan said ‘Mili, I cannot see it clearly’. “You can do it daddy, you can do it ! Move a little to the right and then look down’. In her excitement, Mili was almost ready to take over the controls of the Phantom. Swapan followed Mili’s directives and sure enough the nest came into view. Four bluish white eggs nestled in a rough nest. ‘The red manager’s eggs. We found, we found it!’ The scarlet tanager’s eggs glistened in the afternoon sun. Swapan moved the Phantom up a little

closer to have an even better look, but being careful that the drooping strands from the weeping willow do not blow into the quadcopter’s rotors and snarl it. The quadcopter would be irretrievably left dangling from strands of the willow if that happened. ‘Daddeeeee’, Mili screamed a warning. Swapan was so intent on his controls that he did not notice a red streak flapping furiously towards them, till the whole frame of the picture suddenly transformed into a melee of furious shades of red and black. The scarlet tanager was protecting its eggs. Swapan quickly backed off and started climbing. The legal limit to which he could climb was 400 ft and he thought he may have to go as high as necessary to avoid this feathered threat. As the alien object floated away, the tanager claimed victory and turned back heading for its nest. Swapan and Mili looked at each other and high-fived and low-fived, their signature acknowledgement. They had ventured into a secret world that nobody else knew about. They still had to make sure that the Phantom returned safe and they had to check for any damage. The sun still beating down, Swapan guided the Phantom back to their deck. A small red feather had gotten lodged near the camera, the only remnant of the scarlet tanager’s encounter. Scarlet tanager vs the Bose family, a draw. The next few weeks Swapan and Mili ventured out as frequently as they could, in

the evenings. They kept at a respectful distance so as not to spook the scarlet tanager. They oftentimes did not succeed and the scarlet tanager, squawked and shooed them away whenever they got too close. The weekend was upon them again and Swapan was planning an extended session to get some quality shots, well beyond the weeping willow and over the line of trees and over the little brook on the farms beyond them. It was early in the morning and Swapan set up his controller with the iPad and the Phantom quadcopter and it took off vertically and hovered just beyond the edge of the deck. He felt a tug at his sweatpants, Mili had joined him, still sleepy-eyed but eager for today’s adventure. ‘Daddy, are we going to look at the nest again?’ Swapan tried to put her off ‘ No Mili, today I want to go over the trees and look at the stream over there’. ‘Daddy can we look at the eggs once, please’. ‘ Mili , we may not have time for that’, Swapan tried to reason, but he knew a compromise would be necessary. Mili’s need to view the eggs was as important to him as his own need to soar above the tree and cross into the expanse beyond. ‘Ok Mili, we will see the eggs then you and me are going on a drone adventure over the woods, ok!’ ‘Ok daddy!’ Mili did a little hop and a skip. She was going to see those magical eggs and then have the big adventure over the trees.

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‘Higher daddy’,’ Closer, closer’. Mili kept directly Swapan till the quadcopter hovered on the line of the branches, about ten feet from the nest. ‘You did it daddy!’ Mili’s jig of joy was unabated and then she went quiet. ‘Daddeee’ she whispered, a few short seconds later she was cranking up the volume‘ Birdee’s birdee’s !!’ . The eggs had hatched and Swapan could see four little newborn hatchlings, weak and feeble. They were almost featherless and hard to spot in the nest. Swapan was now in a quandary as to whether to venture forward or stay back. ‘Daddeee, mommy birdeee!!’ Mili’s warning galvanized him and this time he quickly brought the copter back to a safe distance before it could be attacked by the parent tanager. The new parent had some worms in its beak and headed towards the nest. Mili and Swapan watched in fascination as the little beaks eagerly responded to the parent and the wriggling worms. Mili went off to inform the world of the miracle while Swapan remained glued to this new spectacle. Mili’s ‘Little birdees, little birdees’ echoed through the house. ‘Mommy, Didi , the eggs have hatched. The eggs have hatched!’. ‘Shut up, you little tadpole’ came the response. ‘You shut up, you Leptosaurus’ came the counter. Swapan and Mili were transfixed. Every single day

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after Swapan got back from work, he and Mili went out and monitored the nest. This was terribly exciting. The little chicks were getting stronger and bigger and Swapan and Mili had now names for each of the chicks, all named after dinosaurs. ‘Daddy, do you know birdees have come from dinosaurs’ Mili was fascinated by dinosaurs. The smallest one was called Epi, like Epidexipterx and his slightly bigger sibling Omni, short for Omnithomimus. The fierce looking one they called Velo, like a velociraptor. The last one, the mean one, Mili insisted was called Didi, like didiraptor. When Didi heard about it she was so furious that they changed the name to Dodo. The weekends were always special because they were now going to do a special tanager vigil. The whole family was now involved. Mili was excited ‘Daddy, I hope Velo and Dodo are sharing their food with Epi and Omni. They look bigger and stronger than Epi and Omni.’ The quadcopter powered up and Swapan and Mili were on their way. It was now a familiar maneuver and Swapan quickly settled on his ten feet hover from the nest. The nest quickly came into view as Swapan trained his camera onto the nest. Mili’s voice was low and concerned ‘Daddy, what happened?’ Only Velo and Dodo were on their feet and Epi and Omni were out of sight. They seemed weak. Their cries were desperate

and insistent. Swapan slowly said ‘ Mili, I think the mommy bird has not fed them’. Tears were flowing now, ‘Daddy, we need to find the mommy tanager’. The whole family was now outside. Mili was in her sister’s lap, inconsolable. Swapan knew this was the time to go over the trees and into yonder. He took the copter up to about 200 feet. The trees beyond the willow were about twenty yards deep. The drone kept going, then came to the open expanse of the farm beyond and the brook. It was a clear day, the sun shone brightly and there were birds flying all over. It was going to be hard to spot a scarlet tanager in any case, and even if they did it really would not throw up any answers. For Mili’s sake, he just had to try. Swapan even sent the drone over the shores of the brook. The whole family peered anxiously over the iPad. The scarlet tanager was not to be seen. It may have fallen prey to some predator, gotten injured miles away and unable to get back to her nest. Scarlet tanagers were not know to abandon their young. ‘Daddy, let’s get food to the birds’. Mili tear-streaked face was beginning to settle into a look of determination. Swapan was now confused ‘Mili, I cannot climb up the tree. The nest is about 30-40 feet up. I do not think we can do anything. Sometimes that is what happens in nature. Mommy bird is lost and the babies sometimes have to suffer’.

‘Daddy, we are humans. Humans are posed to take care of other creatures’. ‘Mili, where did you hear that. That is very hard for people to do’. Mili was shocked ‘My kindergarten books said that, daddy’ ‘Daddy, look at me, Daddy’, Mili took Swapan’s face in her hands. ‘Daddy, you can take care of these birdees, like you take care of us’ Swapan now felt the burden of responsibility. It was hard to contradict Mili. Her sister had a bemused look on her face. Mili always got away with this sort of thing. ‘Daddy, Jeff can do it. You can do it! Please daddy!’ Swapan was confused ‘Who is this Jeff, Mili, one of your friends?’ Mili explained ‘ Jeff on TV dad. ‘member. He was sending a drone to people’s houses’. Now Didi understood and explained ‘Dad, she is talking about Jeff Bezos! Remember Amazon was demonstrating on 60 Minutes that they had prototyped a drone to drop of packages.’ Now Didi tried to explain. ‘Mili, you are being silly. Amazon is a very big company and they have special drones to do that. Daddy’s drone cannot do that’. Mili was unrelenting ‘No daddy, send food through the drone. You can do it daddy, you can! Mommy, tell daddy to do it’ Everybody started trying to reason with Mili, but she was

adamant. Swapan again tried to find for a compromise. Something had to be done quickly or the birds would die. Epi and Omni may have already succumbed. ‘Ok Mili, I will try to do something’ Swapan had a germ of an idea. The whole family went to their yard and dug up the soil. Sure enough, just below the mulch there were earthworms. Nobody would touch them excepting for Didi of course and she gathered them into a paper bag. They put a few

clips on the paper bag to secure the mouth and with a string attached it to the quadcopter. The mission was simple. The worms needed to be delivered to the birds. Swapan tied the bag to a string and then hooked the string to the copter. The device needed to be secure enough to withstand the travel to the nest but loose enough to be deposited as a payload onto the nest. Mili and the whole family watched nervously as Swapan brought the quadcopter into a hover. The strands of weeping willow stood still as if to also

assist in the purpose. The quadcopter sped toward the top of the tree. The brown paper bag fell off halfway and Mili and Didi ran to the bag and looked inside. Mili danced and yelled ‘ The worms are still there’ but she would not hold the bag. Didi brought the bag back with Mili now lodged on her hip. The bag was refastened and the knot made a little stronger and tighter. The earthworms were still there and crawling around. The brown bag again trailed in the wind but did not fall off. They were now above the tree top and Swapan tilted and zoomed the camera to see if he could view the nest. The brown paper bag was oscillating slightly and obstructed the view of the nest. Finally the nest came into view. He could count the four chicks. Mili had started to cry ‘Daddy, they do not look good’. They truly did not look good, they were motionless for the most part. Swapan slowly had the quadcopter drop. The package was still oscillating. Suddenly the package caught on the nest, the string wrapping around the nest. Swapan jerked the control so that the quadcopter shot upward and the string on the quadcopter broke off. The package was now dangling from the nest. Everybody was unsure. Was this a waste of time? The package was not in the nest but dangling alongside. Assuming that the chicks were still alive

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how would they get to the package? Swapan again brought the nest into focus and he noticed that the bag was now inside the nest. Velo was moving around and had grabbed the bag and had brought it inside. There was a flurry of activity in the nest now. Four beaks were tearing the bag apart and very soon they were feasting on the worms. The family watched from the iPad and cheered. Swapan and Didi headed for the Live Bait store in town. They bought a bucket of worms. Every day in the morning and evening, Swapan and Mili made a worm run serving up worms and insects to the nest. Fruits were also added to the mix as the baby tanagers ate everything including fruits. Didi had taken over the controls being the most skillful pilot in the house, and was now able to set the brown bags into the nest most of the time. The tanager chicks were energetic and growing big. Their down and feathers were sprouting. Midweek, the sky was cloudy and a brisk breeze was blowing. ‘Daddy, is there going to be a storm?’, Mili was concerned. The skies were grey and a weeping willow was swaying violently with the strong gusts. The quadcopter still could negotiate the stiff breeze but when taking their worm delivery closer, Didi was having trouble avoiding the strands of the willow. ‘No Mili, there is a hurricane on its way but it is way out in the ocean. Most likely it will not affect us’ Swapan did not

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want Mili to be worried. It was October and hurricane season was upon them. ‘Daddy, what is the name of the hurricane?’ Mili wanted to know. ‘Oh, it’s called Sandy; should not bother us too much’ Swapan brushed it away. ‘But Daddy, what if it comes to New Jersey? It may destroy the nest’ Mili’s voice was rising, her logic was becoming sharp, forcing Swapan to consider possibilities that he really did not want to. ‘No Mili, nests are strong and made to stand bad weather. The tanagers have built a strong nest’. At the very moment, Didi was having a hard time now dropping off the delivery. The leaves were swinging and swaying. ‘Daddy, I think the tree is going to fall down if there is a hurricane. The nest is going to fall too and the birds are going to die. Daddy, I know they will die if the tree falls’ Mililogic was inexorable and her tone as frantic. Swapan looked at the tree closely, it was listing unusually. It had veered to the left maybe to catch the sun and also sprouted branches mainly on the left hand side. It had become left-leaning. Something that was immediately apparent to Mili needed to be pointed out to him since he had seen this tree for so long he never questioned its form or structure. The next day, the breeze had picked up and Hurricane Sandy was a Category 1 storm running

parallel to the East Coast causing some damage. Now Mili was also watching the forecast and becoming increasingly concerned and shrill. ‘Daddy, the birdees are going to die, Daddy. We need to help the birdees, Daddy. You have to help them Daddy, you have to!’ Didi interjected ‘ Mili, what can daddy do, he cannot bring down the nest’. ‘Daddy can call the firemen to rescue the birdees’. Didi said ‘I don’t think so Mili’ Swapan thought a little bit ‘ OK, Mili, I am going to call the fire company and see what they say’ He looked up the local Fire Rescue. They were polite enough but they said that it did not seem there was any real emergency; they were sorry but they could not have helped in any case. This seemed like it was too high up for their ladders and they could not jeopardize the firemen’s safety. They suggested that Swapan call an arborist or a tree pruning company. Swapan looked outside and the weeping willow was swaying ominously now. They all went outside and did a health check run on the birds and the tree. The chicks seemed secure but the crook of the branch, on which they were, was now moving with every gust and little twigs were now falling out. Swapan decided to call the arborist without further ado. ‘Hi, can you rescue birds from trees?’ He inquired to the lady who picked up. The line went a little quiet on the other

end. Mili looked at him quizzically, anxiously. ‘Just checking sir, normally we get calls for cats stranded on trees but rarely for birds. How high up is this nest and how big are the birds? ‘ ‘The nest is about fifty foot up and there are four birds , very small’ The lady consulted with somebody there. ‘Sir, we are getting many calls because of the storm to cut and trim trees. We can probably get to this sometime next week’. ‘No, no, no, the birdees will die ‘Mili was crying in the background. She had heard the whole conversation. ‘Ma’am, this is an emergency, the tree looks like it may fall. We need someone to get to the birds before the tree falls. OK I will also add in a contract to cut the branches of the tree.’ Now they seemed interested and they quoted an inflated rate to come in before the weekend. Swapan took the Friday off and Mili did not go to school either. ‘Mili, where do we put the birdees after we get them down. Maybe below the deck where they will be safe’. That was an enclosed area, surrounded by latticework. ‘No Daddy, not on the ground. Animals and bugs will bother them’ .Mili was right, any animal could get to the birds if they were on the ground. Mili and her sister had already thought of a home. The tree services came over and carefully and slowly inched their way up the tree. The tree

climber had all sort of ropes and pulley like equipment with him to do the job safely. When he was near the nest, he pulled up a large black bag, which looked like a shopping bag. One by one, he removed the chicks from their nest and carefully place them into the bag. Beyond noisy protest, the chicks could not really do anything. He lowered the bag down carefully before he went about trimming and pruning the tree. Mili was ecstatic; she had an Amazon cardboard box inside of which she had lined with

newspapers and her old blanket. Swapan wore a thick leather glove as he removed Velo, Dodo, Epi and Omni and placed them into their new home. It was getting hard to tell who was who since they had grown up by now. Hurricane Sandy came closer and on Oct 29, 2012 hit with devastating fury. The box with the tanagers was placed in the garage and Mili and her sister spent the evening observing the chicks, trying to calm them, as the storm progressed. The tanagers were in a state of panic, in the unfamiliar nest, the noise

of the hurricane and the strange animals peering down at them. The two sisters fed them and as a bonus gave them water to sip in a little bowl, which the birds seem to enjoy. The wind was howling outside and Mili eventually came inside to the relative security of the house, while her older sister kept company with the tanagers, giving them company as the chaos raged outside. It was getting late and the entire family went to bed. The next morning, Swapan woke early since the sun was uncharacteristically shining into their bedroom. He peered outside, the sun had popped up on the horizon and there was no weeping willow to block the sun. The weeping willow was broken in many pieces. The trunk had snapped and the branches lay akimbo. He could see strands from the weeping willow broken and tossed around his entire yard. Fortunately the willow was far away from the house and there was no damage to the house. He quickly went over to Mili’s bedroom. She was already awake and was also looking outside at the weeping willow. She just said “Daddy, look!’. Amidst the calamity and the destruction of property still something very fragile, gentle and precious had been saved. If the chicks were still out there during Hurricane Sandy, death was inevitable as the nest would have been blown off the tree and the chicks would have been most certainly killed. They quickly made their way

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to the garage. Didi was already there and feeding the chicks. The chicks were oblivious of their good fortune and busy with the latest earthworms being supplied for breakfast. Mili watched in fascination as she finally saw the chicks feeding without the benefit of a lens. The chicks had very quickly gotten used to the humans around their new nest. Swapan stepped outside. The weather was calm and crisp; the physical damage and debris was everywhere. Trees, branches, basketball hoops strewn on yards and the roads. Metal road signs were askew. Electricity would not be available for almost a week and gas would be available only for the lucky few. Swapan came after assessing the situation outside. He saw that the kids were looking at the basketball hoop that was lying on the bushes on the side of the house, blown away and tipped over during the night. They went inside and Swapan had to do an aerial survey. He soared overhead with his quadcopter, recording the damage in the neighborhood. When he had finished recording he saw that the kids were still working with the basketball hoop, now ready for storage for winter. They had placed a plastic bucket inside the hoop and had lined it with paper and cloth. ‘Daddy, look we built a nest for the tanagers.’ They had set the basketball hoop upright. ‘Why in the basketball

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hoop?’ He questioned the kids. “Daddy, the birdees need a tree so that animals cannot get to them.” As usual, Mili’s logic was impeccable. Living in the garage in a box may not have been the right environment for the birds and hence they had decided on recreating the environs for a nest. They also put some kind of a netting around the stem of the hoop to deter any chipmunk from getting to the birds. The next few days, there was no heat, no electricity but there was a lot of worms still remaining. Mili had decided on a schedule; she would tell her sister to come feed the birds. “Mili, you are making the birds fat!’ Didi protested but she would get up on the ladder and fork over some worms to the chicks who were now growing big and seemed restless. Electricity had been restored in about a week and normalcy was returning again. Schools and offices were again starting to function. They chicks were now beginning their forays onto the rim of the bucket and then jumping back again into the bucket nest. About a week later,Swapan had brought Mili back from after-school day care. As soon as they got back, Swapan climbed onto the ladder to look for the chicks. The nest was silent. The chicks had vanished. ‘Daddy! Where are they?’ there was a pained look of concern on Mili’s face from the bottom of the ladder.

A moment later, Mili was yelling, ‘Daddy, I see them. I see the birdees!’. The chicks had hopped or flown onto the ground and was on their neighbor’s backyard pecking away on the grass. ‘They can fly, they can fly!’ Mili said excitedly as the chicks made small forays around the yard, flying and again settling down on the grass. They continued to watch the birds make their way towards the mangled weeping willow and eventually lost sight of them. Again the weekend had come and it was now time to switch to their favorite pastime. Early in the morning, Mil and Swapan, set up their quadcopter and set off beyond the fallen weeping willow. It was time to go beyond and yonder. The quadcopter soared high and went off gliding into the sun to the brook beyond. Mili kept squinting as the quadcopter flew high over the weeping willow. Suddenly she was clapping and dancing again ‘ Daddy, the birdees, the birdees!’ Swapan squinted trying to see against the bright sun. The quadcopter was flying high, and just behind it in tow were four red birds flying in formation. Mili looked at Swapan with glee ‘I think the birdees have found their mommy’. Swapan lifted the quadcopter up higher, the red tanagers followed suit. The last glimpse they got of the birds was of an odd cross like structure. A scarlet tanager cross being led by a quadcopter.

Brink of Basanto Indrani Mondal, Illinois From the open terrace I can stand face to face with the graceful coconut palms swinging easily in the morning wind, the fronds brush against one another murmuring their caring delight undulating green fingers like keys played effortlessly on the piano brushing my face almost, their voices soft and gentle at first as they welcome me home then rising in hoarse complaint at my staying away so long quickly waving me away leaning in again almost to cradle me in their eloquent embrace. Is this where I came from vernal earth hot and moist birthing life as tiny as the red ants that crawl on the palm fronds and land on my protesting toes the quirky ubiquitous mosquitoes that won’t let me be leaving stinging purple welts where they enter my skin at every unexpected exposure. I’m sad, scared and sorry, I should miss you more. The palm tree reads my thoughts and nods knowingly with a murmur and a swish. I brush a rebellious tear I know not of what pain of leaving or pain of return as I clench my teeth gritty with flying dust. And then I hear those love notes of my youth as they rise in perfect pitch and rhythm from octave to octave pure sweetness of melody poured nonetheless into a world so imperfect and confused, as the cuckoo wings unseen in the palm terrain leaving a distinct river of stirring joyous passion. I forget to flee and stand rooted on the brink of Basanto once again. The palm leaves also catch their breath an instant only to part with a seductive rustle and in the wafting fragrance of Kamini I look up to see a golden morning sun glistening on the long green lashes of the palm fronds.

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At Home In The World Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

Monsoon pours Fritters fry Santhals dance Blizzard bites Leaves on fire Blue Note pines Crows caw Bauls chant Incense soothe Wendy’s beef Subway swarm Blazing Towers Gandhi’s march Teresa’s dead Ravi’s sitar Madonna’s star Marios shootCasinos lore First love touch Skin so bronze Tang of sweat Many more love White Black Brown No regrets New skin rubs Quivering thighs Nipples rise Kolkata fades Houston bright Trumpet sighs Born in the world of Melting pot Born free No boundary At home In The World

Dreams

Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts Dreams, my sweet dreams Take me with you, please To the world of colors, happiness, tranquility To the meadows of blooming flowers Where dewdrops on their petals Glow in the rays of early dawn When the sun peeks above the horizon To break the seemingly endless darkness of night Its rays touch the flowers Waiting in the darkness of gloom To glow and spread the joy to lives Some that may vanish any moment The glowing rays and the colorful flowers Try to bring joy and bliss to the short lives Even if that lasts only for a few moments The memories may last forever

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Euphoria of Living Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts

On an early spring morning I stepped out the door For a mundane but necessary, weekly household chore Innumerable times I have done that But on that day it revealed to me a reason to rejoice A unique feeling embraced me, as I looked around The pale blue sky was peeping through the yellowish green, new leaves on trees Smiling little violets on my lawn were greeting me Joining them were birds singing around me, geese strolling nearby Is there anything new, did I not see all these before? I wondered The answer emerged, there was something different My mind was viewing beyond the range of vision It was the pleasure of life, the joy of being alive After I was on the verge of losing it a few weeks ago The euphoria of living is what I felt on that special morning

In the darkness of the nightChitra Mondal, New Jersey My mind is wandering in all directions Going and coming- through cosmos and galaxies Who knows how fast and how far? My thoughts are spinning and shaking Every cell and fiber of my body is throbbing Who would listen to me in the desolate forest? I am a stooped down old tree With lost limbs and scarred skin My journey has come to an end. It was a long way From a tiny seed to a stem From a living trunk to dead timber.

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To a Small Body Karna Ray, Massachusetts

For those who knew Amma only in her later Years, remember that a woman is more Powerful than her body. Hers a body bowed from strength to grace. But I ask you to read in this final form The record of what preceded it. Reach For her minute hands, curled inward To a soft arc, to discover their tips Calloused by the turning of pages. Hair-silver spun sparrow’s nest once flung full and black, a black silk wrought So fine to mock the envy of her silk sari Feet, since shuffling and small-stepped Once planted deep in the shared earth Of her comrades Deafness brought by the waft Of a century of music And eyes straining against the reflected Glow of her radiance And in her last breath the Condensation of that spirit to no More than a whisper, made quiet Enough to slip from that body to Rise beyond it No longer requiring it, she’s boxed her form from our keepsake.

Bracing Memory Rahul Banerjee, Illinois

Her memory fades. Did she take time to say goodbye under the big clock at the train station or simply wear the fossil memory on her face? Under the watch of the magic moon, did she fly to the jungle to imprison the vain parrot in a gilded case or gather precious potions to arrest the progress of time in a Klein bottle with a twisted topology? Oh Dali, eat your heart out. Memory never persists. It leaks and must be braced and hidden for future archeologists of her skin.

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Nirbhaya

Tinty Bose, New Jersey How is a woman defined? By her beauty, by what she says, by her glances, by her smile, by her tears? What about her unadorned self, the words she does not say, or the tears she does not shed, or the eyes she does not raise to meet yours? And what about the storm she faces alone, the journeys she travels alone, the nights she does not hide, the world she wants to take on? And then you stand in the crowd, watching her fall, blaming her for her missteps or her audacious bent of mind, or that piece of extra cloth she did not cover herself with, the laughter that was too loud, the rhythm she should not have danced to…. It’s her fault! From the time she was conceived or she conceived, to the time she was raised or she raised, from the time from her first rejection to her first submission. She did not quite submit enough, you say.

About the Late Madhuri Ray Madhuri Ray (1926 -2016), born in Kolkata, was a high school teacher by profession, and a political and social activist working for the betterment of school and college teachers and slumdwelling battered women. Madhuri was a culture enthusiast in the truest sense. She took art lessons from a disciple of Acharya Nandalal Bose and Western classical piano lessons from Professor Joseph Naskar. Madhuri visited Rahul and Swapna (her son and daughter-in-law) in Massachusetts several times until she started living permanently with them in Wayland for the past six years. During her stay she joined the Bengali writerss group Lekhani as a regularly contributing member. She was also a pillar of support behind Swapna’s effort to propagate Rabindrasangeet through Swapna’s music school’s Swaralipi. Madhuri wrote both poetry and prose. A book of verses containing her poems is due to be published sometime this year. Several of her prose and poems have appeared in Anandalipi, Sangbad Bichitra and other magazines and periodicals. More importantly, she extended her enthusiasm for culture to her children, her daughter-in-law Swapna, and her grand-children Arjun and Karna. The poems, included in this issue were penned by Arjun and Karna in the memory of their grandmother.

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Waves that whisper with sofr Moonlight Arjun Ray, Massachussets

Waves that whisper with soft moonlight To carry away in dying flight All things unwound and roots now shorn To lightless deep, we are unborn From husk to seed and earth to light From quivering weakness to strength, to Might the burdens that you will come to bear Not rob you of the will to fight In time, the birds will sing your song On summer days and evenings long Of fruits of labor, of love enshrined All children of your heart and mind Yet some that fell, you’ve watched them drift Downriver into fog and haze No maps to where the water flows No hands to count our numbered days From the wombs of evergreen The boughs that bore come gently down Blue now washed in teal and grey A river carries you from ground Now moon is high, the night is long The birds have failed to sing that song The seeds of future you have sown Will come to bear upon their own Waves that whisper with soft moonlight To carry away in dying flight All things unwound and roots now shorn To lightless deep we are unborn All surf crashing on eternity’s shore That flits and flickers and comes no more That flits and flickers and comes no more That flits and flickers and comes no more

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Youth Corner

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Perseverance Rishi Roy, New Jersey

oday I have picked up an offbeat topic on perseverance. Perseverance is an effort to continuously believe in something in spite of the obstacles or difficulty faced by a person to achieve his goal. As Nelson Mandela said, greatest glory in living lies is not in never falling, but rising every time you fall. He had faced adverse conditions and hardship in his search to achieve freedom for his South African countrymen. It was sheer

determination and perseverance that helped him to achieve his goal successfully. I too believe in this concept of practice making it perfect. It is never easy to repeat but then once you learn from your mistakes then it helps to get better results at the end. This applies to all aspect of life, as a student, in sports, or in Boys Scout. Some of my experiences have made me realize that willingness and focus along with determination win half

the battle even before it starts. And perseverance together with hard work makes it easier to reach the end. In camping or any competitive sport, it is always your perseverance which helps to carry you till the end. For example at a campfire it is not easy to start a fire and keep it steady in the outdoors but determination to set it up and build the fire is the key to a successful campfire. That is why I strongly believe in the proverb “try again and again till you succeed!”

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Things I Learned Throughout High School Parama Das, New Jersey

s my senior year comes to an end and graduation, is right around the corner I have had time to reflect on my overall high school experience. The years went by fast and it feels as if it was just yesterday that I was a freshman walking the halls of my high school. Through high school I have learned a lot and I feel that it is important to share my experiences with those who will go or are already going through the same experience. 1. Don’t be afraid to get involved During high school, starting from freshman year, I decided to join many clubs and I brought my friends along too. Not only are clubs good to put on your resume but they give you a sense of responsibility as you reach an officer position. Sports are also another excellent way to show school spirit and form lasting relationships. If you are involved in a sport, it isn’t just about going to practices and games, it’s about team bonding and making friends as well as playing.

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2. Try something new High school gives you abundant opportunities to get out of your comfort zone by trying something new and different. Depending on who you are it can be anything from doing theater to joining the yearbook committee. Before I joined high school, I never really sang in a group setting but I was excited to try something new. I have been in high school chorus all 4 years of high school and it has been one of the best experiences of my life. 3. Take classes that mean something to you High schools offer a wide variety of classes and it can be overwhelming when choosing a class. But talking to upperclassmen or speaking with your guidance counselor can help you choose a class that you are genuinely interested in. I also suggest planning your schedule early not only for the upcoming school year but for all 4 years just so you can plan ahead and fit all of the classes you want to take. Although 4 years is a long time it does really fly by and at

the end there is always stuff you know you missed out on. 4. Put school first In high school you will meet all different kinds of people and some are focused on school while others may not be. Even though in high school you are busy with other activities, it is important to make sure to realize that you are a student before anything else, so give your school work all of your energy. 5. Don’t stress out too much High school can be very stressful especially if you are juggling a lot of things at once. With homework, clubs, and standardized tests things can get pretty out of hand. Remember that even though it is a difficult time now, in the future it will get better, and when you look back you will be like thank god that is over. 6. Be friends with people that care for you You want to make friends in high school that you know will be your friends forever, but

that may not be the case. People change and grow apart and you may not be as close as you thought you were. You should have friends that make you feel good about yourself and want to spend time with. It doesn’t matter about the number of friends but rather the relationship you have with them. 7. Don’t grow up too fast When I was in high school yes I wanted to leave to get onto better things, but it is important to cherish what you have now. If you are always thinking about the future, then you aren’t living in the now and you are missing the present. High school may not be, the best years of your life or it may be but you have to make it worthwhile.

8. Know when to go out and when to stay in If you go out constantly with your friends it can exhausting and expensive, especially if you are getting food. But if you just stay at home all the time it can get boring real fast. Balance your time and it is okay to stay in sometimes even though your friends go out; there will always be another time. 9. Have friends that are upperclassmen I have friends that are older than me and I always seek out advice from them. They are experts because they have already been through a situation before and they can tell you from firsthand experience what they did. My friends really helped

me decide what classes to take, what clubs to join, and advice in general. So if you are in high school do try get in touch with some upperclassman. 10. BE YOURSELF This seems obvious but make sure that you are happy with yourself. Don’t try and change yourself unless that is what you want. In high school you have more freedom so it is important to stick to your beliefs. If someone doesn’t appreciate the way you are then you will find someone who does. Remember although high school is only 4 years you can make the most out of it because soon you will be graduating and moving on.

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Heritage: A Different Perspective Priya Mukherjee, New Jersey

hen a person talks about heritage, in many places, in the United States for example, you will hear about the various European descents they come from, being several different European nationalities all enveloped by the American one. But when you’re an Indian, it can be said that you are first and foremost Indian.. And as time passes, this doesn’t change. Our heritage, our culture, and our values are passed down from generation to generation and this heritage of ours faces several hardships that attempt to prevent its successful implementation into the minds of our youngsters. The first and most widely recalled attempt to tear away our roots is mostly remembered as a little thing known as the British Invasion of India. As the British annexed large portions of our motherland, they tried desperately to strip away our various cultures and rituals. As Bengalis, we especially know of this as the British Empire’s several trading harbors were in the province of Bengal and in Calcutta. The British employed several segregative measures against Bengalis and Indians in the areas they conquered. By the 1850s, Calcutta had two areas: White Town, which was primarily British and centred on Chowringhee and Dalhousie

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Square; and Black Town, mainly Indian and centered on North Calcutta. The city underwent rapid industrial growth starting in the early 1850s, especially in the textile and jute industries; this encouraged British companies to massively invest in infrastructure projects, which included telegraph connections and Howrah railway station. The coalescence of British and Indian culture resulted in the emergence of a new babu class of urbane Indians, whose members were often bureaucrats, professionals, newspaper readers, and Anglophiles; they usually belonged to upper-caste Hindu communities. In the 19th century, the Bengal Renaissance brought about an increased socio-cultural sophistication among city denizens. In 1883, Calcutta was host to the first national conference of the Indian National Congress, the first avowed nationalist organisation in India. The temporary 1905 partition of Bengal along communal lines resulted in widespread public agitation and a boycott of British goods by the Swadeshi movement. It can be argued that the beginning of the Independence movement was in Kolkata. Even after the entirety of British encampment was complete in India, and even after the several attempts to bring down

the Indian culture that was in place, it was (fortunately for us), never successful and our heritage survived. But another thing that threatens our heritage is a modern-day thing that impacts us on a day to day basis. As Indians living in another country, it is difficult sometimes to come out openly as proud Indians for fear of being labelled as lesser than the citizens of that nation. We face the obstacles that natives of this country can only imagine, which include racism, xenophobia, and ostracization. The heritage we’ve so proudly known to be able to withstand invasion and loss has met an obstacle that is much more subtle in its attacks. Personally, I remember as a child my mother wearing her red tikka in her hair to my elementary school graduation and several of my classmates looking on in bewilderment and confusion, and yet my mother wore it proudly, unabashed by looks or questions. Of course she doesn’t wear it often, as a modern woman cannot, but she wore it for a special Indian occasion and refused to be looked down on for it. It is that confidence in our heritage that I saw in my mother that reminds me constantly to always be proud of my past and never to shy away from it in the future.

Gravitational Waves

Aniketh Sarkar, New Jersey

n early February, the LIGO and Virgo Collaborations announced the first real evidence proving the existence of gravitational waves. With this discovery came a suite of new information, along with ideas for how this discovery could be used to produce tangible results for the rest of the world. First postulated by Einstein in 1916 as part of his Theory of General Relativity, gravitational waves were described to be “ripples in the curvature of spacetime that propagate as waves.” Spacetime is a four-dimensional (3 spatial and time) matrix in which the universe exists. Prior to the discovery of gravitational waves, the Newtonian theory of gravitation was followed. It stated that all objects with mass exert a gravitational force that propagated with infinite speed (instantly) from one object to another. Set in the matrix of spacetime, Newton’s gravity exerted a force on spacetime, drawing in other objects. Gravitational waves, however, take a different approach. They are propagated by any accelerating objects, given that their motion is neither spherically nor cylindrically perpendicular. As these waves pass through space, they exert the gravitational force on whatever they come into contact with. It was this property that led to their discovery. Initially, even Einstein believed that they would be too small to be de-

tected, and this was considered to be true for almost a century. Early this year, however, several deep-space telescopes spotted 2 massive black holes orbiting each other in a decaying orbit (meaning they were slowly moving closer together). An event of this magnitude would produce gravitational waves large enough to be detected. Consequently, the LIGO detector, in Louisiana, and the Virgo detector, in Italy, primed their lasers to begin firing. The LIGO and Virgo detectors were designed to be virtually identical. They are primarily composed of a massive laser beam operating at a set frequency over a predetermined distance. One interesting property of gravitational waves is that they contract space that they pass through. So if before a wave arrived, […] was one foot, as the wave was passing through, a foot would be this long [.]. Of course, this is a massive exaggeration, as even the largest waves would only contract space by a hundredth of an inch. The only way that such a small fluctuation could be measured would be by the incredible accuracy of lasers. Being so far apart, the LIGO and Virgo detectors were hit by the wave at slightly different times (gravitational waves travel at the speed of light). In those two moments, one when the wave was passing through LIGO and not Virgo, and the second when

the wave was passing through Virgo and not LIGO, one of the lasers shortened slightly. However, the detectors were able to pick up on the two fluctuations, proving the existence of gravitational waves. This discovery has more implications than simply proving Einstein right, as it helps move towards solving several outstanding problems in physics. Before this discovery, as stated earlier, gravity was thought to travel at infinite speed, breaking the speed limit set by light. Because the gravitational wave took a certain amount of time to get from one detector to the other, it clearly did not travel at infinite speed, and was instead calculated to travel exactly at the speed of light. Additionally, they form yet another stepping stone towards discovering the mystery of gravity. Out of the four fundamental force-strong, weak, electromagnetic, and gravity- gravity is the weakest, by far. The fact that any of us can pick up objects, walk, or jump, all opposing the gravitational force of the entire Earth with ease, is a testament to this force’s weakness. Finally, gravitational waves are an entirely new spectrum of vision. Since gravitational waves can pass through ordinary matter without slowing down, they can be used to observe the Universe far beyond our current scope of vision, expanding what we call the known universe.

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Case 201: The Man vs. Everyone Else Pramila Baisya, New Jersey How do you plead? Not Guilty. Not Innocent. What I did was right, In the wrong kind of way. I did it for the greater good. How do you plead? Not Innocent. Not Guilty. What we did was wrong, In the right kind of way. We did it for compulsion. (Our Greater Good) My sentence? 25 to life. I’m a victim of my past. But… Love is my favorite drug. Our sentence? 25 to life. We are prisoners of our future. But... Love is our favorite crime. We did it to her…………….… We did it because of her……… We did it……………………… For her.

Solve This Riddle Pramila Baisya, New Jersey Shyness… Is the disease of words. Yes. Sticks and stones, Will most definitely break my bones. But words… Cut deeper than a slit to the throat. That’s why you choke up. But words… Can blow your brains out. That’s why you overthink. But words… Can push you off a bridge. That’s why you gasp for air. Words…. Words…. They always hurt, Didn’t they?

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Small Hearts but Big Dreams Debaleena Bagchi, Pandicherry How busy we are running about; Keeping our hands, minds and hearts engaged throughout. Are we doing what we love? Who cares! To drive us forward Money is enough. No one gives a fleeting thought To the ones fallen behind. If ever one does they say, “It’s a big bad world. Look out for yourself first or you will rot. Why help the fallen? Are you out of your mind?!” Always trying to run ahead and outsmart our counterparts We have become a generation with Big dreams but small hearts. Who cares about the lame man in the street? Or the scrawny dog looking for a retreat? About a blind woman trying to cross the road? Or our own maid who was beaten last night in her abode? But when it comes to friends, Family or others about whom we care We buy them gifts, We help them out, With them our fortunes we share. Parents wait by the phone every day. “What’s the point of speaking so often anyway?” We send a fat check, proving out ability. Proud to have fulfilled our “responsibility”. Our lovers and spouses wait for us at night. “When are you coming?” They ask. “Right now I have to do this task. After that I might.” What about surprise visits? An unexpected compliment never did any harm. “No! Those aren’t necessary! Very well do we fulfil our parts.” Somewhere between these lines we forget to realise We are a generation of big dreams but small hearts.

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In our desire to fulfil our dreams We are always chasing the big things in life. But our little hearts still crave for what we have lost – The value of minute events that build the chains of our lives. A glance, a chat, a walk, a quiet hour; anything can it be. These are truly what enable our souls to be free. In the hub of everyday, In the din of life Our innermost thoughts are lost Or in different directions they scatter. We forget to live in the moment. We forget that It’s the little things that matter.

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