Of Durga Puja, Kolkata and a Bengali

My ears perked up like a dog's when I heard it for the first time. They didn't actually, but I like to think they did. I turned my head in its direction, taking rapid, long strides towards it. I heard startled cries behind me calling me back, but I was oblivious to it. I'd heard what sounded like... home.

I peered down eagerly, beyond the banisters and the long, colourful hangings, and the winding escalators, my heart thumping hard in my chest, only to feel strangely disappointed. It was just a few men in tribal clothes playing the drum.

I'd thought I'd heard the beat of the 'dhak', and my eyes had been eagerly scanning the mall for the huge drums with a large, single white feather to their side, and the dhobi-clad men playing them with mesmerising synchronisation, until the beat of the dhak and your heart seem to be one. The music fills you up with the spirit of festivity, and you take a deep breath and smell the air. You know something's different, you know that 'Maa asche'. Durga Maa is on her way.

Despite being a Bengali, I'd never been that big a fan of Durga Puja. I hated the huge crowds, the madness to get into a pandal, and of course, the pressure to look good. I mean, who can get up at 5 in the morning and make sure that the colour of their bindi matches that of the saree's pallu? I know there are superwomen like that somewhere out there, but I'm not sorry to say that you'll find me drooling into my pillow at that ungodly hour and nothing more.

To me the Pujas meant packing our bags and setrting off to see some new place. Any place other than Kolkata. But this time it so happened that I stayed in Mysore, since we weren't allowed that many days off from college.

Sure, the Mysore palace looked hella grand all lit up, and true, the city looked beautiful, but I missed Kolkata. I missed the carnival that was Durga Puja. I missed the stupid ads for special hair oil and sarees temptingly promising you that it would make you look the best during the Puja, the special 'Puja offers', Maa worrying about 'Puja shopping', the sweets, the plans, the free time, the holidays. I missed it all. 

But what soothed it all was the little (hehe) 'bonus' my dad very generously put in my account (after I emotionally put forwards facts using phrases like 'only daughter', 'all alone', 'Puja time', 'growing up alone', 'hungry'. etc, etc), and after bunking classes to watch a film, my friend and I began to sniff around for a Durga Puja in the city.

We did, eventually, stumble across one near CFTRI, at the Bengali Association of Mysore, and I finally heard the sound of a real, authentic dhak. It wasn't like home, but for a while, it felt that way. You know what they say about missing something you no longer have, but not missing it when you do? Yeah, they're right.

So folks, that's how this Bengali's Puja went, at a place which is home away from home. 

And to all of you staying at home taking things like a clean bathroom and Mom's pampering and Puja fun for granted, soak it all up. One day, all these things will seem extremely precious (Wow. I managed to sound preachy to myself as I typed that). 

But believe me, there's fun to be had away from home during Durga Puja as well. When you suddenly spy one Durga pandal in a city in the opposite side of the country, it's the best feeling in the world. You feel closer to home in your heart than you ever felt living there. And that's when you know you can't ever take the Kolkata from a Bengali.

May the Goddess banish all your demons.

That's all folks.

Shubho Bijoya.

PS: Please Google all the words you didn't understand! Toodles!

 

Living That Hostel Life

The Biomedical class is going on as usual,

My eyes are getting heavy, I'm seeing things dual,

Sir's 'OKAY?'s are resonating inside my head,

My traitorous thoughts keep returning to my bed.

The DC power supply has now ceased to work,

My bulb has gone off, but the teacher continues to irk.

Alternative or direct, no current is now passing,

'When will he go? Oh when will he leave?' my mind keeps asking.

This pretty much sums up my college life, so far. 

It's been a little more than a month since I've started living in Mysore, Karnataka, to study at the All India Institute of Speech and Hearing, an institute, from where incidentally, my father had passed out exactly 30 years ago.

I wouldn't blame you in the slightest if you had no idea what an audiologist and speech language therapist does, and if you think I said that because I was about to give you a lengthy explanation of what I'm actually studying, then you're very much mistaken. 

Google is a verb now. Example:

GOOGLE IT.

No, in all seriousness, college is very interesting, and despite the hectic schedule, the hours of rehearsals for the Annual Day and the hours spent cutting bits of cloth and metal wires for Friendship Day decorations, hostel is fun too. 

Besides me, there's only one other Bengali girl in my batch, and others are from different states. 

And if there's one thing that I've learnt from my stay at a girls' hostel so far, as long as you're with people you like and who like you back, you can bear any amount of crap thrown at you with a grin.

And the freedom is...heady.

Sniff it with caution.

And on that note, I say Ciao for now.

Stay tuned. :)

I GOT BLUE HIGHLIGHTS... Wait, NO.

I can barely keep my eyes open, but I'm still going to keep typing, because well, I am awesome. And incredibly stupid.

Hello again! Thanks for clicking on that link, and thanks for reading this and uh, I'm going to start right now...

Ever since I turned 18 I've had this longing to do something wacky and different, and what better than to get blue highlights for my hair? So, today after days of salon-hopping and appointment-making and making frantic calls that always ended with me saying 'Yes, yes, blue. No, not blonde. Blue. Yes,' I walked into the salon from (ANOTHER) exam and slumped on the seat.

Long story short, my hair was vigorously shampooed, conditioned, strands of hair to be streaked singled out, bleached and dyed, during which time my mother, bless her, managed to have two fairly satisfying naps and I informed all my girlfriends about the wonderful new transformation I was to undergo, and sneakily observed all the different customers trickling in, all patting their hair and asking the hairdresser what will 'suit' them the most.

At one point, this incredibly adorable four-year-old boy walked in with his nanny and he looked absolutely terrified when he was made to sit down on The Chair. And what followed took me back to the days when my father would haul my brother and me to the local 'men's saloon' every other Sunday to give us the classiest haircut possible: The Bowl. And because of that and my seeming lack of secondary sexual characters, I'd more than once been called a guy, to the point a bus conductor yelled out 'Hey bro, look out!' as the bus skirted past me. Thanks a lot, dad. Thanks a lot.

Anyway, as my cheerful little Nepalese hairdresser pulled away the white towel with a flourish, there was a definite feeling of anticlimax. WHERE IN THE BLUE HECK WAS THE BLUE?

So it transpired, my hair was so effing black, the blue was barely visible. Unless of course, you viewed specific portions of my hair under some zillion-watt stadium lights. She was so disappointed, she took 50% off the colouring cost and promised to have the coolest red colour ready when the bleached hair began to show. At the end it was my mom who was consoling her that it was alright, and I didn't mind, and I'd definitely come back. I have to admit, I was feeling the blues too. Okay sorry, bad pun.

I really wish I had some cool pictures to put up, but noone wants to see stupid black hair, do they?

This is exactly what my hair... DOESN'T look like.

Thanks for reading, again! More next time, you lovely people.

What Goes On in Women's Restrooms

Hello, ladies and gentlemen, today I shall try and unravel one of the greatest mysteries of womankind, something which has puzzled jobless and horny men for years: what really goes on in women's washrooms?

So I'm at the mall with the family, and I've just enjoyed a good film and I'm feeling happy and light, when I suddenly realise that the Coke which I had glugged down is now really pressing hard against my bladder. It must be let out NOW. As is custom, my mother accompanies me and since they've got to kill five minutes, my brother and dad decide they might as well empty their bladders, too.

I walk into the washroom, and I spot a row of ladies examining some microscopic flaw in the right corner of their upper lips in the large mirrors and readying their ammunition to blast that blemish to bits. One lady was rolling out her lipstick almost with a vengeance, and another was reapplying coat after coat of mascara. I wondered why her thickly crusted eyelashes had not fallen out yet. Or maybe, they had fallen out, and she was wearing fake ones! Another, I watched from the corner of my eye, was holding up her hair on top of her head, and tilting her head this way and that to find out which was style flattered her face the most. Then, deciding her double chin looked too jiggly with her present style, let her hair loose and sucked in her belly to make it look flat (ha, as if YOU haven't ever done it before.), a wasted effort, in my opinion, since her outfit already lovingly brought out every unflattering bulge (I'm going to a special place in hell which the reserve for hypocrites and judgmental bastards).

My mom had dumped her bag on me and gone into one of the cubicles (she always believes in going one after the other in public places. It's 'safer that way' she says. Who am I to judge?). I glanced at the mirror right in front of me for sheer want of something to do, and I immediately cringed. I could fully appreciate the true wisdom of 'Ignorance is Bliss'. The harsh lighting made me look like a bloated pineapple with a bad hair day. Immediately I had the urge to suck in my belly (ha, as if YOU haven't ever done it before.), get a Botox surgery and starve myself. But then, I did something which made it all unnecessary. I turned my back on the effing mirror, telling myself that something was 'wrong with it' and it was the 'lighting' which was making me look like Lindsay Lohan on hard drugs (hmm, that is kind of flattering). Thankfully, my mom reappeared at that moment, and I went to pee in peace. 

Later that evening, I find myself in a different bathroom, one which is luxuriouly furnished, lit with a soft golden glow, and blissfully empty. As I stared into the gilded mirror, my mind was going through a painful internal struggle. 

Mind: It's just such a stupid, stereotypical thing to do!

FatMe (that's my name in my mind's chatroom): But everyone does it!

Mind: You're stupid.

FatMe: Why, thank you.

After furtively checking the door, I fish out my phone, aaaannd SELFIES! *Click-click-click-click*

HA, as if YOU haven't ever done it before.

Pip-pip!

Smosh-ing my way through, BEECHES.

Like I said, in my earlier post, I'm a crack addict. Which proves you haven't read it. What I did say, was that my exams have ended today and I've been having a Smosh marathon. Not the Smosh bit, but the exams bit. I'm telling you NOW that I've been watching Smosh non-stop. And Ian Hecox, you shaggy, unkempt extremely hot thing, mmmm. Alright, coming back from horny teenager mode, here are a few videos that you should totally check out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrIwoGjvkUI

Anthony shows you the real deal!

In this one, Ian tells you how to hug another guy if you're a heterosexual (or not) man!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7CMqeVYkDo

What you need is a to be a kid when you watch these HILARIOUS videos, and if you fall in love with the Smosh men, I bear bad tidings: they both have beautiful women in their lives alREADy. What a bummer. Anthony's even going to get married soon ( am just going to go cry in the corner now.).

Have fun watching them, and spread the love...of SMOSH!