A few springs in between….

                                                                                   I

“So, Mamoni! all set?”

Dr. Rajat Mukherjee was all smiles today. A glint of pain showed up now and then but he hid it well enough. He was proud, very proud of his only daughter Debolina. Getting one’s PhD application accepted in one of the world’s most revered universities is not an easy ask. Debolina had done it and how!
Debolina was happy. Relieved to the core. For years in to her graduate and post graduate studies in Jadavpur University, Debolina was always taunted by her relatives- for studying Literature. She was glared upon when her father’s friends from medical school asked- “So what are you studying now?” and she answered back in a wimpish tone- “Literature, Comparative Literature.” The presumption was always in favour of Medicine, Engineering or for that matter Sciences. But Literature came as rude shock to all.
And now she was going to Harvard. What an answer to all! A country where “Made in Vietnam” but “Marketed from USA” still sells like hot cakes, this was an achievement, nonethless. Dr. Mukherjee had arranged for a family get together before the day Debolina was scheduled to leave for foreign shores. Mrs. Mukherjee was busy attending to all. 
“Taposhi Di, take one more bhteki fry, please!”
“Laltu Da, one more, one more chom chom…this for Tukun”
Bits and pieces of conversation strewn across the roof followed Debolina, Tukun to her immediate family. She was ready to leave this place of her own, the only place she called home in her twenty two years of existence. She was excited about all that was awaiting her. But she felt remorse too. Boney mashi, the one who had trashed her future prospects as- “Useless!” a few years back came with a bouquet to congratulate her.
“Daroooon Khobor!! Congratulations! So very proud of you :)”
“Why are you so late Boney di?”
“Arey the traffic….so Tukun when is your flight tomorrow? Are you carrying woollens?”
“Take a few spices also….for immediate need”- Rani dida jutted in the conversation.
Tukun smiled. She smiled a lot, until she boarded her flight. May be that was the only way she could console Ma. Her mother who always took a backseat in every decision made in the household. Her mother who loved playing second fiddle to the awe inspiring personality of Dr. Mukherjee, her father. Her mother who did not cry a bit before she vanished beyond the point of security check and immigration cues in the airport.
Tukun looked up. The Air Hostess was here to ask for her meal preferences. She had a long flight ahead….and a longer journey.
                                                                                   II
“Are you looking for this?”
Debolina was startled! She was so engrossed in her search for her cell phone that she failed to notice that someone was standing right next. The Library still felt jolted to be waken up by the shrill sound of the cell phone ring. 
“Thank you so much! I just couldn’t place it.”
“Happens! Happens more in case you read Jhumpa Lahiri too much”
“Hey! you like her?”
“Well, being a Bengali, and that too a graduate student in an American University, if I claim that I don’t like her works of Bengal, Boston and Beyond…I will surely be lying.”
“You are a  Bengali?” Debolina exclaimed with joy!
“Yes Madam, 100% pure breed Bengali….I swear by my Robi Thakur.”
Kabir had already extended his hand for friendship and Debolina couldn’t refuse the easy going charm. Kabir, as she later learnt was a Bangladeshi. Debolina had first mistaken her for a Calcutta bong. To which Kabir had joked- “Snobbish Calcuttan, It seems you think all the bengalis you know hail from Calcutta and read in your convent schools. Huh!”
In stead Kabir Siddiqui hailed from Dhaka. A bright young Statistics scholar from Dhaka University, Kabir was also here on a full scholarship. Their area of research was way different, and the cities varied, but poetry and rhyme found them. And the language. Debolina had spotted almost thirty desis in and around her apartment and Department but none of them spoke her mother tongue. 
Language, what an amazing creation was it. Debolina sometimes wondered whether she would have taken that instant liking for Kabir, if not for Bengali language, a language they both communicated in. There were days when Kabir stayed back in her apartment for an extra cup of tea while they both hummed their favourite Rabindrasangeet. 
“Bujhley Debolina, This tea is a wonderful boon to us…the ‘still’ colonized souls from the British. This Starbucks fed nation doe snot know how much are they missing out because of coffee.”
Laughter and a Joy Goswami later, Kabir would stood up to go and finish his assignment due next week.
Debolina, would wave her goodbye.
Two months had passed on since the day Debolina had left Calcutta. Her mother now knew how to use Skype and communicate. She wrote her emails. There were emails from her dad too. He spoke to her at length on the weekends. Today was one such day. Her parents were pestering her to come back home during the winter break. Debolina was disapproving. She and Kabir had made plans to visit New York around that time. A plan her parents would never approve of. She tried to divert the topic of the conversation.
“Bapi, you always told that our ancestors were from Dhaka”
“Yes, from erstwhile East Bengal. Why?”
“No generally. Where in Dhaka Bapi?”
“Bikrampur. but that was long back….why are you suddenly interested Mamoni? I say you come back this winter. Don’t think about funds. You won the scholarship and am mighty proud of that. But I can fund your travel expenses.”
“It’s not that Bapi. I have lots of work pending here”
“Can’t you come for two weeks?” Mrs. Mukherjee jutted in between the video call on Skype.
“Aha! can’t you see she is telling that she has important work. you will never understand. But still Mamoni, try to come.”
“I will try Bapi”
“Ok! Maoni I have to go now. I have an appointment with you siddhesh Kaku today. He is coming for a routine check up.You remember him right? His son is now working with Microsoft in New York. You can meet him during the winter break. He was thinking of visiting Boston too.”
“I do Bapi and I have told you many times that I don’t want to meet his son. I don’t find him good.”
“Ha Ha Ha, take your time. Signing off! Mamoni”
The window on her laptop disappeared. Sometimes she felt that her loving father was indeed very cruel. Very, Very cruel. He did not even let ma talk properly. She could not even say a bye. 
“Madam, busy?”
“No Kabir Da, come…look what I got…a brand new collection of Suchitra Bhattacharya stories. It’s available on Amazon!”
“Aha! don’t call me Kabir Da…how many times should I tell you that it doesn’t sound good when a beautiful girl calls you as her brother. Btw, I am only 25 and quite eligible”
“You and your flirting.”
“Madam, what will you understand of flirting. In this land of foreign beauties, nobody apart from you understands Rabindranath and Kadambari Debi.”
“Aha!He was wrong. Kadambari was his sister in law.”
“Debolina, when did you start thinking in the box full of black and white? Isn’t there something called grey? Kadambari Debi was his inspiration.”
Days Passed. The frolic and tinkle grew. Kabir was a year senior to Debolina. He had introduced him to many other Bengalis in and around Boston. Some were here for work. Some studied in the University. ! few were part of the IT crowd. Whenever they assembled, Kabir was always in the centre stage. Debolina’s stolen glances caught Kabir busily distributing luchi aloordum to one and all during Saraswati pujo. The meet for Tagore’s Birthday celebration found him hogging all the limelight for singing multilingual renditions of “Ekla Cholo re”. He was the star. Debolina was his happy shadow.
“Your parents must be a big fan of Anjan Dutta right?”
“What?”
“Jah! You are from Calcutta and never heard of Anjan Dutta?” 
“Of course I have…but why?”
“Arey they named you Debolina after his favourite song, right?”
It was Ina di’s house one summer evening where they had all gathered to watch the fresh off the rack DVD screening of the very popular and award winning Bengali movie of the year. ‘Antaheen’ as it was called. Rajeev Khemka, Kabir’s batchmate had nervously followed him to this full of fishhead eating bong gathering. It so happened that Kabir had suddenly visited his apartment to find him doing nothing and being the strang head that he was, forced Rajeev into this. The Gujarati in him was very scared of being served non vegetarian food. It took a lot of coaxing from Ina di   to make him have the vegetarian pulao. A few minutes into the screening, Debolina was serving as Rajeev’s official translator.
“What does Antaheen mean?”
“Endless wait” Debolina answered, only to be momentarily clouded by her thoughts of the wait that she was put into. Kabir was a Muslim. He was a Bangladeshi. Her father being the high caste Bengali Hindu Brahmin would never approve of the match. 
Was there a match? 
Kabir was flirting with Ina Di’s sister who was visiting her from India in the other corner of the room. He was humming a famous bengali song to her. “I need you”. Yes! that’s what it was called.
So from Debolina to another songwriter’s dream, it didn’t take much of Kabir’s time. Debolina often wondered whether Kabir even had a hint how since the New York trip of theirs, the stupid whispering of “Aami tomake bhalobashi” (I love you in Bengali) in the Central Park, her entire world revolves around Kabir?
Kabir obviously broke into a peal of laughter when Debolina turned a tinge red while being whispered those three magical words in Bengali. 
“Pagli!! scared you! Don’t take it seriously. Actually the weather, the surroundings….can you not be in love right now?”
That was Kabir. Whimsical. He could make such fun of people. Debolina did not talk to him for the remaining two days of the trip. But she had to eventually give in.
“Madam, seems like you are day dreaming….what’s the matter?”
Debolina was startled by Kabir’s booming voice yet again. He was driving on the way back from Ina Di’s house. They had dropped Rajeev in his apartment. There was a joke going around in today’s gathering. 
“Odol bodol”. They were obviously referring to Kabir paying more attention to Ina Di’s cousin and Debolina sticking around with Rajeev for the entire evening.
“Seems like some one is turning green with envy.”
“Why should I be?” Debolina reeacted
“Who told it’s you? But, you may say whatever you like but Rajeev will take a million years to understand the pains behind Bhindeshi Taara (the distant star) in translation.” Kabir winked.
“So who will understand Kabir Da?”
“Arrey, I was just saying that it has been beautifully sung by Anindya. The reworked version by Shantanu Moitra in the movie is quite good too.”
“Don’t divert the topic Kabir Da. You always do. Tell me who can be my distant star? ? My bhindeshi taara?” tears welled up Debolina’s eyes while she spoke.
“Crazy woman” Kabir laughed. “Have you been possessed or something at this hour of the night? Ki bolchish? Go back home and sleep.”
“You know how much courage did it take for me to ask you the question. You know it right Kabir Da? Who will under stand my language? that distant star”
“I do”.
                                                                           III
That winter Kabir went back home. He returned with his wife Sakina. Kabir never spoke much about his family in Dhaka but whatever Debolina could make out from bits and pieces was that he belonged to a very wealthy political family. Sakina, who took an instant liking for Debolina, had later told her that she was the only daugfhter of one of the richest industrialists of Dhaka. Kabir and she were family friends. Theirs was a ‘love marriage’. They had met at a party thrown that December in honour of Kabir. Their parents approved of the match and it didn’t take much time for them to get hooked.
Debolina returned to India to teach languages at JNU. She later married a colleague of hers there. she lives in Delhi with her two kids.
(P.S.- All characters mentioned in the story are purely fictional. Any resemblance with anybody, dead or living, is purely coincidental)
  
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The Wedding Story!

It’s quite exciting you know when three months after the wedding, people are still gung ho about eagerly waiting to know your story 🙂 the story. Well! I never officially published it on the blog. Never expected that there is an audience for the story too….then I never expected people to actually read the blog and write me warm emails about how my blog constantly remind them about Kolkata. And they being eager whether I will reply back or not 🙂
Woah! I am surely not a snob…neither a celebrity who gets fan mails by the dozens…but truly speaking your mail or word of appreciation truly makes my day 🙂 Like every other Bengali woman worth her salt, I too wish to publish my book someday, soon enough :P…..just wasn’t sure if somebody will buy a copy or not….Kind of relieved now. A few will see the light of the day I think 😀 Thank you is surely not enough :))

And for those who wanted to read my story…our story rather (Mine and Deep’s) you can surely do that on our wedding website, the one we had prepared to share the moments of the big day with our friends and family before the wedding-

http://www.biswawedspaush.com/

Please do sign the guestbook. We treasure your good wishes dearly. It’s kind of late and awkward but may be that’s the way it was meant to be. I began content writing for it vehemently, but the wedding preparations took its own sweet toll. But then again…..have I ever plunged into anything which looks certain? No, and I don’t want to also. Being certain is boring. Welcome to the tanginess of life. A hint of Phuchka laced with tamarind water.

Did it make you lust? Yes! that’s life for me 🙂

Married!

Married!

Quite a crazily proud proclamation as it may be- but yes! am married….to the man I knew was the one quite tailor made for me. The realization had struck me the very first time we exchanged emails….and rituals, customs, lal benarasi sari, topor mathay bor, a rather warm December day and the big fat bong wedding over……almost a year later since the day we keyed in a few words through a very formal mail on our parents’ insistance- I, sorry, ‘we’ stick to that.

People often ask me whether it is an arranged marriage, how did we meet and stuff. I suppose people going through our wedding website must have an idea by now(the one I laboriously did content writing for and my utterly geeky tech friendly hubby dearest supervised :p). We met through a very traditional arranged matchmaking set up where our parents talked first….saw whether our educational, professional and family backgrounds were compatible. But somewhere I started believe in the lore- ‘every marriage is based on love’- without that it just cannot survive.

Yesterday or the day before that while setting up our new place in the city of my dreams- Calcutta- I asked him a question- “did we actually have an arranged marriage”. “We had a marriage….a lovely one…Let’s not call it names”.

I think that profoundly describes it. He is surely the best best thing to have happened to me in a really long, long time…..and I hope it stays like that for years to come. I am not saying that because of the unlimited shopping bonanza he treated me to while in Bangkok. But for the way he held my hand and reassured me while that scarily dangerous snake show in Phuket. To the time we held and hands and took small baby steps in the pristine green waters in Phi Phi….Cheers….here’s to many more to come.

Love you Deep. Stay the way you are. I love those fights we have over who is a better cook. And you know I love cooking for you. Thanks for gulping down the gibberish. Thanks for the wonderful family that I added to my own kitty. A mom in law who cooked me a proper six course Bengali meal on my birthday right after the wedding.

The day I turned twenty three, I was holidaying in Agra…visiting probably the most romantic monument on earth- the Taj Mahal with my family…..I had one day thought of finding someone whose love was a as pure as the “subhro sommujol” Taj Mahal…..never knew by the time the days took a turn and I grew a year younger, my life will be so different…for the better. Never knew I will meet you.

Thank you is not enough. **Touchwood** (Am very scared of the evil eye) 🙂

Being in love :)

Nothing in this world can match up to the ecstasy of falling in love, but I think nothing, and I repeat, NOTHING can be like the feeling of ‘being in love’.

It’s all but natural that most of us have pondered many times over about what exactly to tag as love and what just another passing thought (ah! you can term that as ‘chhok’- enlightened people who understand ‘this’ will appreciate- others just forget about it :)), but when you meet someone…you know he is the ‘one’. Yes! the kind of proverbial, cheesy- ‘someone special’…you know it from the very beginning….and coming from someone who has believed all her life that “being in love is a state of mind”, you got to take that seriously.

does that feeling change you? transform you?…Well! it just makes your friend and family complain that they you dont have time for them anymore 🙂 It makes some one google ‘purboraag’. It makes a self confessed Bihari babu take a liking for everything Bengali (which coincidentally is his mother tounge too :P)Change..yes! thats happens a bit….you remember ‘him’ everytime some one mentions something even remotely funny you shared with him. and you talk…talk absolute nonsense.take his trip.make him promise that he will buy you what not….and then think again……and talk…and moments are created one after the other….forever.

To say ‘thank you’ for letting me be myself…and to accept me the way I am, will be..err! quite dishy and PDA stuff, which I am told is not quite fashionable. But then agian, who doesn’t like mush? and who minds all those couple things?

Looking forward to a lifetime worth of ‘friendly dinners’. 🙂