To Wendy

D-E-B-A-D-I-T-Y-A are you?

Many moons ago we were assaulted by a pint sized rice cake from mainland china. Where she came from exactly, no body knew but one fine Presidency morning saw a bible carrying Wendy enter our sanctum sanctorum (read the union room). There amidst the general rubble of elections won and lost ,towered our very own Debaditya. I wasnt there at that time but I have on good authority that when rice cake met our errmmm chicken legs it was love at first sight.

Thus began the hours of Bible lessons.No Englissss , she spoke none, understood even less.Within days she had been catapulted into instant stardom. College tours started mentioning ...'ei dekho, eta baker lab, ota promoder canteen, oi boshe acche Bhetki da, ar ei amader Wendy!" As rice cake invaded promoder canteen I remember a desperate Chicken Legs with ' you have got to help me!!!' and i did , with my best practiced Cantonese I went up to her evilness and said..' hello, thank you, pass me the salt, no snakes please..we are Buddhists" ( Translated ) She looked up at me with trusting eyes and said ' Soyee, oni speeeeeek Mandarin'.I gave up, dont be surprised.. have given up for much less.

She would often be seen in the room next to the canteen ..difficult since all grave political discussions would be carried out there, the future of Presidency College and we believed the whole of Bengal was at stake. My cynical senior came into the room and said ' ebar ki chairman Mao er shatheo IC korte hobe?' Chicken Legs would wish that the ground would open up and he could do a Sita on everybody.
Almost half a year, thats how long she lasted.No mean feat, considering she had even called up his father and asked ' D-E-B-A-D-I-T-Y-A are you?' the shocked man , i believe, said ' ki oshhobhhotami hochhe???' and slammed the phone down. I dont blame him.

She left almost as suddenly as she appeared. With no forwarding address. All that was left was a Wendy inspired Chowmein ala Promod da. There was a sense of relief for a while ' phew !! the spy has left us' Then we did miss her, in a place where everyone says that they understand you , it was a relief when someone didn't . Chicken legs missed her I am sure, and even in Delhi while at Paratha Gali he would dunk his parathas in Chings chilly sauce and think of her.

Amen..

One year later ...in loving memory

Our yearly sojourn took us to McLeod Ganj last year. This had become a ritual with us sisters, planning getaways for months, adjusting calendars, taking off from work all for a weekend of doing nothing. Leaving Delhi in June is bliss. After an uncomfortable bus ride Kangra dawns on us. A steep gut wrenching climb later we are there. At 5 in the morning it’s peaceful. I can see why they would set up shop here.

We learn our first lesson early enough. Reservations are a must. Still, Buddhists are kind souls. They never turn kindred spirits out. We get a room, a view and a guard dog. Monks as neighbors...this was bound to be safe. We settle in. My toothbrush, forgetfully abandoned in Delhi, Batteries I forgot to buy and band-aids that are a necessity with me, lead me out to explore.

“Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.” I wander and promptly lose my way. In some towns the roads that take you down are not necessarily the ones that bring you back. This town is no different. It’s a surprise to find the Mama-Papa shop open for business at such a godly hour. They are a hard working bunch. Armed with a toothbrush and a faux pass for the day, I walk back conquered. 

We have an agenda. I am told. Shop, eat, shop. I like traveling with her. She reads my mind and shares my devotion to food. There are advantages of sharing a gene or two. We step out into a different town. It’s difficult to believe that anybody could come here for peace. Mamas’ and Papas’ and their entire families have something to sell. A man assures my sister that her one of a kind earring was designed by his wife. Three shops down, we see the same earrings again. The wife sure does get around. It is a universally acknowledged truth that tourists are gullible creatures. I hunt frantically for half a dozen Free Tibet stickers. One still graces my door; the rest chained me down for a year.
And we walk. 

Exhaustion is a privilege. It is also an excuse to rest our soul/sole. We take a detour to one of the many ex-pat owned eateries. Conversation is kept to a minimum. It is blasphemous to talk in the presence of cheese. Gathering our wits and our shopping bags we start again. We walk to the Monastery now. I have never seen so many tourists in a monastery before. My cousin pretends to be a guide and misleads a hapless tourist. “Yes of course, that’s the very same cloak that the Dalai Lama wears when he preaches. “ The holy robe in question turned out to be a loose cover for a chair. Never a dull moment.

The hotel boasts of an eatery. As always I am a disaster with the menu. Our kindly hosts jump in to help. Boro Kyala as we like to call him is charmingly clueless and Choto Kyala will eventually grow up to become charmingly clueless as well. We come to a consensus. We shall move here and marry or adopt these two. Then we never have to leave. Someone tells me it’s going to rain tomorrow; the first rain of the season .Who wants to leave?

We retire to our room. A TV in a place like this is esthetically jarring. That does not stop us of course. The king is dead after all. We rewind to memories of MTV International, Moon walks and posters taped to our walls.

At night, I wait for a phone call as always. It’s disenchanting when I don’t. Minutes of mundane pass. I wonder where this is going again. Physical distances don’t work. Spiritual distances work even less. The phone rings unsettlingly. I look forward to going back again. If only for now. 

Oh ! Dam

It was almost after dinner and the Police was at my door. No, this was not on my list of things to do in a foreign country. I gobble down the last bit of my half cooked mustard salmon and I am out the door in a flash.  It's never wise to keep the law waiting. The excitement of getting to ride a police vehicle and sitting in the front seat is a tad diminished when I am told that I am going down to the precinct to sign a waiver. Err... what waiver? Standard procedure... in case I get into a shoot out or something, just to make sure I can’t blame the department. Gulp!

But this is Boulder City, Nevada nothing really ever happens here. 

With those words of wisdom we are off patrolling the safest city in America, probably in the world.  People lock their homes here but rely on batty old dogs instead of burglar alarms. Then again, no burglaries have been reported here in the last 20 years. 

For all practical purposes Boulder city is not a city. Why in India it would be considered a town-ling! Its claim to fame is being the first planned city/ town in the United States. It emerged as a result of the influx of workers who came to build the Hoover/ Boulder dam and stayed on for a piece of the American dream. Hardly an hour away from Vegas, it's the only place in Nevada which does not allow gambling. For a long while alcohol was illegal and I am glad I visited after that particular restriction was done away with. With its manicured lawns, parks and brick buildings it is quaint and beautiful. The folks here like their art and somebody had a brilliant idea to put life like bronze sculptures all around town. A ceramic white and pink polka dotted cow, spotted (pun intended) outside a local restaurant is my favourite. Which doesn't say much about my art appreciation skills. 

Patrolling a crime free city is doubly hard. Think about the standards to live up to. In a parking lot we come across two young magazine salesmen from out of town.  Salesmen are considered a particular breed of menace even in this part of the world. The officer rolls down his window and casually introduces himself, and asks the visitors if everything is all right. And even I know that’s the international code for - Every breath you take, every move you make...I'll be watching you. 

Our next stop is a RV park. Boulder City attracts its fair share of tourists. Some come to see the dam, and some for the damn weather. I am introduced to the concept of Snow Birding. I was thinking on the lines of ornithology when I am informed it is more a seasonal migration of the geriatric population. When in winter their hometowns get cold and dreary they pack their bags and load up their RV’s to soak in some desert sun. For most, this is a yearly ritual.  Though why someone would trade the comforts of indoor plumbing for a trailer in a RV park is beyond me. 

We move to the seedier part of town. Big homes with manicured gardens give way to   apartment blocks. My degree in sociology and my prejudice kicks in, and I ask the officer whether more domestic violence incidences are reported from here compared to the rest of the city. Well yes, he says. If you live in an apartment your neighbours hear you through the walls. In big lots with an acreage cushioning, you are isolated. If no one can hear you, you don't add up to the statistics. 

Having almost given up looking for potential criminals, out of the corner of my eye, I chance upon two people suspiciously lurking in the shadows of a brick building. Rendezvous of drug dealers?  I ask.  My excitement knows no bounds. Finally, Some nefarious action in this upright town.  Nope, He says, Just Sculptures! When you have been patrolling the same neighbourhood for twenty years, you learn to tell the drug lords and the bronze work apart.

After failing as a crime fighting sidekick and then jumping with Olympian precision, to one incorrect conclusion after the other I surrender my crime fighting cape. It isn't a Dam Fine City for nothing. 

                           

Move over Bolsheviks ..I want the window seat

Taking a month and a half off from work has not been easy . The last weeks have been harrowing. Goodbyes though temporary have been rough and shopping  reduced to a tedious chore. I look forward to the 16 hours in limbo. Blessed with the ability of falling asleep absolutely anywhere , I curl up on my seat and hope to god they wake me up with a food tray.  After what seems like 5 minutes , my unsmiling next seat neighbor wakes me up.

Why do you hog the window seat if you are going to sleep ? Move over, I want to take pictures of the glaciers. 

 Well excuse me! your royal rudeness. Wait ! what glacier? 

look outside your window !

Sure enough outside the window and  thousands of miles below everything is covered with miles and miles of royal icing.  The captain announces that we are flying over Russia . Russia! I yelp out loud. Just my luck to get stuck with the pilot with no sense of direction. Does he know he is  supposed to be flying us to LA today? I have read about these over worked pilots falling asleep at the wheels . My less traveled much Google'd friend tells me that the shortest distance between Dubai and LA is via the polar route. I inch closer to the LCD screen stuck to the seat in front. I try to measure in inches and centimeter the distance between the two places on the map. How could this be the shortest route i wonder? Isn't the shortest distance between two points always a strait line? This on the other hand would be like a virtual third bracket over the globe . 

Thanks to Bengals former obsession with all things RED, books from USSR  were available long after the country fragmented into mini countries i cannot point out in a map. Translated into Bengali and with beautiful pictures , it  brought to life  fictions from a far away land. Compadre for the longest time , and later a comatose comrade. How much land does a man need in Russia now? In Dubai, Man can never have enough.