Coming back home...

For everyone of us who have left home to go far away, whether it was another state or another country, coming back home is always a bittersweet experience. Some only see the dust and dirt and some can smell the sweet air of home.

I remember the winter breaks when I was in school. We used to travel to Kolkata where the majority of the relatives stayed. Even though we enjoyed the warmer weather and meeting friends, as the vacation drew to its end, my feet will get restless and my heart will start fussing. It was time to go home.

We use to fly to either Silchar or Guwahati in Assam and then drive our little town of Haflong. It wasn't until we reached half way to Harangazao that the whole "I am almost home" feeling would hit.

We used to stop in Harangazao in the little tea shops for a break and as we stretched and took in the fresh and cold mountain air, it will smell like home. Some thing will flutter in my heart and it will not stop until I was back well inside my house.

Now that I am globe trotting, the feeling hits me the moment I step outside the airport. You can hear the buses, cars, honks and occasional crows crowing and all you can think is "Damn, it feels good to be home!" And if you don't feel it that's fine.

But there is that one little ingredient necessary to make any place feel like home. Good memories and friends. As they say, home is where the heart is. If you don't have either about a place, there is little there to make it a home. So whatever is home to you, whether its a place or even just a house - you should have someplace to come home to.

We the outsiders!

What happens when you fear being an outsider in your own country? I am referring to the ever growing trend of regionalism and separatism that seem to have caught on globally. And for a country like India, which is a kaleidoscope of cultures and ethnic origins, the possibilities are rather terrifying.

Take for instance the Jaipur bombing. Two days after the bombing, when news trickled out that a Bangladesh based terrorist organization was allegedly involved, the reaction over the table was very disturbing. All Bangladeshis will be rounded up and interrogated, I was told by one person. Which than translated to anyone speaking Bengali will be rounded up. Since the instances of mob justice have grown in the past few months in India, can anyone be blamed for fearing such a situation? Will a mob know the difference between a Indian Bengali and a Bangladeshi? To that matter, what will be the fate of those legal migrants from Bangladesh who probably have been in India since Independence. Will the angry, scared mob think twice?

The answer I am tempted to say is no. But since it has not happened yet, I will reserve my judgment and keep my fingers crossed in hope. But, aren't we, collectively the mob, being encouraged to pick on the outsider in the name of regional pride these days? Mumbai and Thackeray comes to mind, Assam and ULFA comes to mind, and numerous other outsiders will soon be feeling the brunt of being not in their own backyard very soon if the trend continues.

So what is the alternate? Last time I looked I was an Indian and India was my country. But should I now stay where I was born or where my mother tongue is spoken. Will I be an outsider in my own country, if I am in the wrong city or province. Are all our labor over writing those 'Unity in Diversity" essays in school going to waste? For a country which stood united and fought for its freedom barely half a century ago, isn't it deplorable that we took no time to fall apart and tear at each other at the name of regionalism?

MS Paint on a leisure time

The art of communication is not lost....

..its just hiding behind the television set. I read this phrase long back in Reader's Digest I think. Then television was the baddest influence on our culture and people still met over coffee, not orkut. Not that I have anything against that medium. But a recent blog by a fellow scribbler brought the whole new age communication thing into my mind and I set down to blog it.

Since my work is all about communication, I have found myself unconsciously eaves dropping on other peoples communication style - picking up the good bits and trying to avoid what doesn't work. This has also led me to realise there is a huge difference between the good communicators and the bad communicators, and it has nothing to do with their intelligence or other skills.

A lot of very intelligent and smart people fail to make the right impression or get their point across because they either cannot communicate properly or do not care to communicate properly. And I have also met many excellent communicators who can sell you the Moon. And somewhere in the middle are the truly exceptional jewels who measure their words, edit their sentences while speaking, pause at the right time, emphasize the right words....to create a crisp, clear communique that leave a great impression.

I remember back in my journalism class, we had a lecture by P. Sainath, the Magsaysay award winner journalist. He was slated to speak on Ethics in Journalism. In he walks into a class of 65 odd brats who have nothing better to do then tear the speaker apart at the first chance. And he starts by asking what we know of the Hiroshima Bombing. Did we know about the Australian reporter who was in Japan at that time and was the first to reach Hiroshima and report? No?

And then he told the story of this reporter who knew nothing about what had happened, and continued to report of the horrors until the Australian media was forced to block his report due to international pressure. He spun the ethics angle on it by and by and we were hooked. The story was told with such finesse that you could have heard a pin drop in that lecture hall. And I will always remember having met such a brilliant communicator in my life.

Of course, I have aslo come across Actors, celebrities, politicians, authors - who are able to deliver their sentiments in words or writing, precisely and concisely. And somehow I have always wished I can reach that level of communication in whatever media I choose to communicate in.

Getting back to the original argument, I feel in today's world of media exposure and trial by television, communication is not hiding behind the television set anymore, it is being flaunted in front of the camera and put up in Youtube. And we should take note and start dotting our i's and crossing our t's and try our darnest best to get our point across - or be lost somewhere in the editor's table.

El Laberinto del fauno

Or The Pan's Labyrinth is a movie that reminds me of the many intricately woven shawl I have seen in the north eastern India. The story weaves the threads of a Grimm's like fairy tale on to the cruel and dark story of the real world. Its Visually astonishing and heart rending in its story telling. A feast in any sense.

The story is told often in the lilting Spanish which itself lends a unique cadence to the story's own mythical quality. A long long time ago lived a Princess, the Daughter of the king of the woods...............who had dared to come into the world and had been lost in all humanity. But the story goes that the father always waited for his daughters soul to come back into the underworld kingdom.

Flash forward to 1944, Spain. Fascist troupes are crushing the rebels hiding in the mountains. In this scene enters the Fascist Captains heavily pregnant wife and her older daughter from a previous marriage Ofelia. Not yet a teenager, Ofelia still believes in fairies and soon finds her way into the old Labyrinth in the forest where she meets a faun or pan, a pagan god of the woods.

And she is drawn into the story of the young princess and escapes into the forest to the perform tasks given to her by the mysterious faun to prove her worthiness as the princess, as she also escapes the fascist captains dark realm where cruelty and fear abounds.

But both the world come crashing down on her when fantasy becomes terrible as well. Ofelia is left on her own to face both worlds, and both her and the rebels take a last stand against the Captain...to a stunning end. A must watch!

Rest in Peace - Still Life/Ipswich, UK

Record players and golden afternoons....

As I listen to the bassy voices of Debabrata Biswas and Sagar Sen sing out of my tinny laptop speakers and eyes stray to the park across the road, it takes me back to when I was in school. we had a HMV record player and two wooden speakers and a whole bunch of records.

And on sunny afternoons, Dad would put on any of the Bengali old greats on that record player and as the rich sound floated along from room to room and in and around the hills, it will weave a magic of sound. It didn't matter what we were doing, the music will reach us. Some one would be curled up with a book, my brother will likely be doing crosswords or trying to catch an siesta, mom must have been trying to catch up on her school papers while sipping on some tea...and the music will simply invade the atmosphere and settle around us.

And then there were moonlit nights on clear nights, which will soon lead to every one dragging a cane chair into the front lawn and getting comfortable in their colorful shawl, while some one popped in another record into the trusty record player.

There will be scratches and hisses at the beginning and then suddenly sound used to pour out the wooden boxes, soft and soothing. Many people find Rabindra sangeet tedious because of its repetitive slow melody. But in those afternoon's and nights, they just fit the moods and the songs stayed in the memory along with the moments.

Mind you though, we did have modern music systems later on, but the tradition didn't stop, it just changed the medium. We would pop in a CD instead of a cassette, but there would still be those moments in like framed by that music.

And it spilled out of bengali into Hindi and western. Afterall the north east india resonates with music anytime. I am spoiled, I confess. Still now, i can't resist humming a good song when I see a golden afternoon or a moonlit night. It is kind of gloomy out side today, but in my mind its a golden summer afternoon.

I am sharing one of the old Bengali modern songs that used to play a lot in the record player. Click to listen

Sweet memories of Poila Boishakh!

Poila Boishakh means first day of Boishakh month, which is the first month is the Bengali new year. In a nutshell, it means Bengali New year. I will take this opportunity to wish everyone a happy new year.

Moving on, this day always brings back memories of me and my mom making sweets back in my childhood home- The sweet smell of frying peetha's and coconut, the delicious aroma of thickening milk and sticky fingers from eating all the those goodies coated in sugar syrup.

Over the years, I have really lost my sweet tooth and hardly fancy much sweets. But every new year I feel compelled to prepare something, may be in honor of those memories or just sticking to tradition.

Whatever be the reason, the act of making these sweets always brings back those afternoons spent in my mom's kitchen, squatting on a wooden pidi (low seat) and trying to make coconut laddu's and yelping as the heat stings my palm. My mom was always encouraging, even when my laddu's looked suspiciously like bullets, and held all the five finger impressions. Even today as I make the sweets, I can remember the instructions. I think tradition is as much about making good memories and passing then off to the next generation as much as it is about maintaining age old customs.

Round the Bend

For someone who loves books, I have grossly wronged my lovelies by not blogging on them yet. Well, better late then never. Well I just finished having a long conversation with my brother who lives across the ocean and as usual we started discussing books and movies and Nevil Shute.

There are a few books that leave an impression in your mind that fade but not go away. Round the Bend by Shute is one such book to me. On the surface, book tells the story of two people - Thomas Cutter, an ex-world war II pilot trying to make money by running cargo planes in the gulf and Connie Shaklin, his half-Chinese half-Russian engineer with a strange spiritual belief - that doing honest and good work is the best way to worship.

As the story progresses, Shaklin weaves his concepts of Buddhism and good work with the motions of aircraft maintenance and becomes a spiritual leader of sorts to the other mechanics. I can compare the energy of this story to another good book- "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" by Richard Bach.

He(Shaklin)has been saying that in studying the stresses and the forces in the structure of an aircraft, the thermodynamics of an engine or the flow of current in the oscillating circuits of a radio transmitter, we are but following the injunctions of Guatama (Buddha)...the world is full of suffering and pain caused by our wrong desires and hatreds and illusions, and only knowledge can remove these causes of our suffering ..."

Strange, yet compelling the story is not for everybody. Its also a very different book from Shute's other books. If one wants to start with Shute though I will suggest reading A Town Called Alice- a classic that will last a long long time

Mystery gifts in the soya bean box!

Does anyone remember the mystery gifts that came with Nutrela soya chunks and Maltova drinks? It was a big thing with us when we were kids. I remember the anticipation and excitement whenever mom bought a new packet which had the magic words in the box "gift inside"!

Unlike today where these gifts are mainly action figures or tattoos etc, in those days, the gifts were not targeted towards children. So they were often glass bowls and steel spoons which were of no interest to us. But sometimes, we got cool gifts like small mirrors or combs or something equally unique that was not useful to the adults but caught our imagination.

I still carry one of these gifts with me. I got it when I was in class seven or eight. It was small pocket mirror inside a plastic casing shaped like a red heart with an arrow through it. Inside the mirror was round. One used the end of the arrow shaft to pry the lid open. I still have it with me somewhere - not cracks or scratches...just like new!

Ratatouille - A must watch!

Remy the rat was fascinated by a french chef who inspire him to cook! So what does he do? He tried roasting a mushroom by pegging it into a roof top antenna over the chimney. How did it taste? "Lighteningy"!! Oh did i forget to mention there was a thunderstorm?

My weekend movie pick Ratatouille was a total entertainer, I was left howling and rolling on the floor for most of the movie and the rest of the time I was in total awe of the totally realistic impression of the busy kitchen.

The moral of the story? - Anyone can cook! (I wish it was that easy...wait I wish I was Remy the rat!) Remy's totally unrodently talent takes in a gastronomical journey to Paris and a yester-years great restaurant. The movie than goes on to tell the story of the unlikely friendship between an young men and the furry creature, and the journey of a life time to great food and deep realisation. Sounds very serious? Not at all...you just have to see it to experience it.

A Love Song

I miss you love
Even when you are here
Sitting beside the fire
Playing your favorite tune

You and your guitar
A sweet love affair
I see from afar
Sitting in the dark

It's suppose to be me
In your arms there
Singing along with you
As you strum your guitar

But it has been years
Since our love affair
Now its just a memory
Snapshots tucked in a diary

The fire burns low
Your face is in the shadow
Your eyes look through me
To another face in time

See me love, see me
I am still here
Siting by the fire
Waiting for our love song!

A gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard

For all those bookworms, I am sure this line will be familiar. While I loved the Gift of the Magi when I read it, I somehow didn't grasp the true extent of these few lines until I came to UK. The weather here gives a new meaning to the word gray.

I dread the gray skies. I live in a beautiful town and now that winter is packing up, the English tulips and daffodils are making riots of color. I would love to take a picture but the gray skies don't afford enough light to capture the bright colors. Want to explore the beautiful countryside? Gray skies mean it might rain.

I am yet to see London in a sunny disposition. About a week ago I was passing through London and was persuaded to experience London eye - which is basically a giant Ferris Wheel which gives you a nice bird eye view of the London.

Since we were passing through on Saturday, we stopped in to see the sights and found it to be very very gloomy. We decided we try the Eye on our way back on Sunday. The long queue for tickets was also daunting and we enterprisingly booked online for the Sunday trip.

Sunday started sunny and remained sunny till we stepped out of the Westminster tube station- IT WAS RAINING! Imagine our dismay - all the planning, all the money - right down the drain. We only got hazy, blurry shots of Big Ben (Its the only thing big enough to be recognized in the hazy photos!) I have come to dread the BBC weather reports more then the current stock market news!

I hope I will get to see and a bright orange tabby walking on a white picket fence on a sunny afternoon. People, wish me luck!

Look- Sheep!!

That's what my husband kept repeating throughout our trip to Scotland. It went to the point where the rest of us pretended not to know him. It didn't help that Scotland had more sheep then people - there were sheep on the hill side, by the river, by the loch, in the farm, on the road......You get the picture I hope. Of course, my Hubby's attempt at taking pictures of sheep in far away hills from a moving car got him only fuzzy results. It seemed that our Scotland trip will get over without affording him the luxury of immortalizing sheep's at a close quarter. And then it happened - we had to stop to let a bunch of sheep cross the road (remind me of the buffaloes on the road to Hi-tech city in Hyderabad).
Enlarge picture to see the fabled sheeps.

My husband was out of the car with his handy cam - with the professionalism shown by journalist in war zones - proceeded to video record the behinds of at least 20-odd sheep. Needless to say he was very proud of his accomplishment and we breathed a sign of relief knowing we need not screech to a halt every time he spotted a sheep anymore.

Disclaimer:- No Scottish sheep was harmed in the writing of this blog!

Video killed the radio star....

Remember that retro song!! Well a recent blog by a friend made me realise Notepad has killed my muse! Confused? Well notepad is the computer program i use to doodle. I switched to notepad recently as in the past I always preferred good old fashioned pen and paper. Now, somehow I find that I have more ideas to jot down when I have a piece of paper in front me than a open notepad page on my laptop.

On that note, I remember one train journey from Kolkata to Chennai during my student days. I was nearing Chennai, as the steadily increasing heat in the sleeper compartment indicated. It was almost dust and the view from the window was a water body in the distance that ran along the track and merged with the skyline - which was curious mix of grey and brilliant orange. And all I wanted to do was write down this words that seem to run around bouncing inside my cranium. Of course, even if i had dug up my trusty diary, i seriously doubt I could have written anything with the trains swaying motion. But the scene will always stay in mind -like a mental snap shot!

The Little town by the sea

This will probably describe a countless number of small towns in England. Rows of red brick houses with slanted roofs and flower pots on the window sill, lining small streets that never go straight for too long. Walking is a charm in England, I have discovered. May be the similarity in the tree lines walks with my hometown gives a feeling of kinship with the place. Beauty not-with-standing, life in this little towns is slow and sleepy.

So to break the monotony during the weekend, me and my better half has taken to exploring the country side around us. Last weekend our travels took us to Felixtowe. With still a limited amount of daylight available to us, we decided to hop onto a bus and see a little bit of countryside on the way. After a scenic tour of about half an hour we were let off in the Felixtowe town centre. As all town centers go, this one too has cobblestone walkway lined with shops with small park areas with wooden benches.

After a little exploration around the town centre, we headed off towards the sea. If you have been Pondicherry you will know how Felixtowe opens up to the sea - suddenly. You take a turn and suddenly see the sea over the house tops. Then we are walking down a steep road that suddenly stops smack on the side of the wharf, where the sea is busy smacking the pebbles.

There is something about the sound of waves that soothes me, i can't explain. But the constant swishing of the water breaking and receding and breaking again has an amazing attraction for me. Felixtowe doesn't really have a beach as one would think of it- its more like a wharf with a gradual incline, with a walkway running along the water for miles and miles.

We walked along this with a bunch of other people who were taking advantage of this slightly warmer and sunny winter day. As the sun started to go down and the wind got cooler, we decided to cut short our walk and return home. All in a all a beautiful day in a small town by the sea.

A little bit of Silhet in Bilet.....

From the few short visits I paid to London, it makes me believe Silheti (A dialect spoken in the province of Silhet in Bangladesh) is the second most spoken language in that city. My first contact was in Heathrow Airport where I landed the first day. As my husband was keeping true to his reputation for arriving late, I was treated to what I believe they call cultural dichotomy.

Here was this spit-polish pink-white British guy talking on his phone -proper British accent. He hangs up and shocker! He immediately starts talking in raw Silheti to his family who were more traditionally dressed.

And I hadn't even stopped eye-balling him when the man sitting beside me - dressed in the traditional Muslim garb, complete with long beard and a Burkha clad wife - switched from speaking in Silheti to English (complete with the British accent).

I immediately realised while in UK, it would be prudent not to let slip any compromising comment about anyone in either language. God knows who understood which one. Though knowing Silheti does come in handy when you are buying fish from a Bangladeshi vendor....in UK.

Of travels and new places..

Hi there everybody. It has been a long time since I set down to jot anything. The truth is I have been lazy and busy. With the recent shift to UK, it meant a whole new routine of life. And we even managed to squeeze a short trip to Scotland in that time.
For all you folks who feel curious about visiting Scotland, please please do. Its a beautiful place, quite untouched by the hustle bustle of tourist (at least it wasn't when we went in the dead of winter) and the natural beauty the place has to offer is amazingly refreshing. I would be waxing poetic eloquence if I wasn't so lazy. I promise to give the details of my travel soon. In the meantime, for all those who care to peek in from time to time - I am back!

When Life hands you lemons…….

short story

Sometimes life hands you lemons so that you can become really good at making lemonade. Of course, there are some who simply cry hoarse about the lemons that life keeps giving them.

Mrs. Karthik fell into the second category. Her misery knew no bound. The whole mohalla was aware of her misfortunes, her useless husband and her delinquent children – literally!

Every morning at the crack of dawn, Usha Karthik would make it a point to startle the Rooster awake with her lament, which inevitably started with the dramatic exclamations of “Hay hay hay…”

Umapathi, the useless husband, worked in the field and made a quick getaway early morning in the guise of work. His land lord appreciated the extra effort Umapathi put into coming so early to work.

Life was routine until Usha decided she needed some money and rented out a part of her Chawl. After much screening, she settled on Laxmi Bai, the wide-eyed, tongue tied and rather stupid looking maid who worked in a nearby apartment complex.

Next morning the unprecedented happened. Both Usha and the rooster were startled awake at the sound of crashing utensils. Soon, this was followed by the sounds of several other crashes and curses. Usha, forgetting her routine, went to investigate and found a bushy tailed butterfingered Laxmi with the house in array.

In the days that followed. Usha discovered Laxmi Bai was the most uncoordinated butterfingered maid she had ever come across. Between the dropped dishes and the litany of curses coming from her tenant, Usha soon lost her daily listeners. All she could do was wait for Umapathi to return and then start her complaints.

As the months progresses, even this became problematic as Laxmi bai was as good at dropping things after dusk as she was at dawn. Usha changed her strategy and started to meet Umapathi at the outskirts of the mohalla and complain on the walk back.

Of course, walking back and forth through the mohalla meant Usha had to put on her finery and dress up, which went against her lifestyle. But what is so small a sacrifice for being able to complaint to an avid listener again. So, the mohalla found itself shocked by the specter of a dressed up Usha Karthik walking by on a nice evening.

But Umapathi never came before dusk. That meant Usha had to put up with the noise through out the day. So she made a little more change in her lifestyle and started visiting the neighbours and actually talking to them instead of her usual complaints. That wouldn’t have done much good to her plans of getting invited in.

Six months to the date Lamxi Bai took over the rooster call, Usha found herself in a dhaba with her family having a decent meal, on the rent money of course. Life had changed. Suddenly, Usha could find no lemons in her life to cry about.

Then news came that Laxmi bai had finally broken the most coveted family heirloom in her employer’s house and had to be dismissed. Usha’s sigh of relief was well heard even a few blocks over and she tried hard not to smile at the prospect of silence.

However, she did wonder why Laxmi Bai was so happy to be fired. Laxmi, too preoccupied in her own thoughts, never noticed the contemplative expression on Usha’s face. She was already thinking about how she was going to start a tea-shop. After all Umapathi had been generous with his payments. It was indeed lucky for her that Umapathi’s employer liked stage shows.

Heart burn or destiny!

A Short Story

Life leads people to weird destinies. When I was ten I dreamt of becoming a driver. The white uniform, the cap and the ability to drive the four wheeled monster was in my eyes superhero stuff. When I was 30, I was already on my way up in life and had a driver who drove my luxury sedan. Driving in rush hour traffic, the news papers wrote, is the top cause for young men’s death.

Life had been good to me. I put in my hard work at school and college and found myself among the ever growing bunch of successful businessmen. I had champagne at night and wrote down numbers in my blackberry. Life was good.

But sometimes, right between the morning cup of coffee and closing the car door, there would be a few seconds when something like an ache will build in my chest. Some ones lost voice will whisper, wasn’t there something else you were suppose to do? My first suspicion was indigestion, followed by an EEG for the fear of heart trouble. And last but not the least a counselor to test my stress level.

Things were normal for months after my panicked rush. Being a bachelor, my panics was however not noticed by any and I felt safe to continue with my life. Looking back I think I would have been alright if I hadn’t fallen in love. In fact I fell in love twice within the space of seven days. First with Laura, the vivacious teacher from Goa. And then Kusum, the half blind rag picker and one of Laura’s students.

Let me tell the story properly. I was attending a seminar on social responsibilities of the young and rich. It’s among this mixed bunch of fresh young tycoons and tired social workers that I met Laura. She was not actually beautiful, come to think of it. She was however supremely confident of what she spoke. It wasn’t passion, it was conviction that set her apart. As I stood there talking to her and listening her plans for teaching rag pickers, I suddenly realized I had no clue what I want from my life.

Next Sunday, when I walked out onto my terrace and the ache in my heart returned, I didn’t call a doctor. I called Laura. Surprised and to some extent skeptical about my interest, Laura took me to her “school” nevertheless. The drive to the slum was uncomfortable, even though I was not able to slam the seal of “social worker types” on her.

It was dirty, smelly and chaotic. I hesitated at the door of the car. I don’t know what Laura saw in my face but I found myself facing the delicate outstretched hands of that woman. Swallowing my ego and long dead chivalrous thoughts, I actually took the hand and stepped into my destiny.

In the school, which was small ground in the middle of the small slum, there sat 12 odd girls and boys, faces dirty and dresses torn, laughing like mad. I think I must have stopped to stare at their face, because I felt a tug on my trouser legs and looked down to see Kusum. Small for her age, with a serene expression that looked years older, she led me to an upturned drum, cleaned it with her already dirty dupatta and set me down.

It was an experienced that made my skin crawl. I had no time to give to this people. They had always existed and always will. It was not for me to interfere. But Laura was doing it, happily. An architecture graduate, she was from my side of life. And somehow, I felt as if she had crossed over somewhere better. And I was stuck in limbo.

My return to professional life wasn’t smooth. The ache grew to the extent where I actually had to consult a doctor and was diagnosed as having mild ulcer. I was told to reduce stress in my life. I was lost. I had met Laura a couple of times after that visit and had found myself falling for her. And I shut up the little voice inside by arguing that it was love that clouded my perception.

But I kept thinking about Kusum and her serene face. The un-seeing eye seeing more then mine. The kind gesture, which I didn’t reciprocate. And then came the clincher. Laura informed me she was moving back to Goa, where she believed her work was needed. For a 30 year old in love, break ups are very confusing. I was very mature and told the love of my life I understood. I didn’t. I felt like smashing vases.

With Laura gone, my life was again thrown into chaos. The little voice was pestering me to see Kusum, now that I could not argue about love. I lost the debate and after years of making a professional life and career, I suddenly felt happy about handing in my resignation. There was twinge of pain in seeing the shocked look on my mothers face when I told her. But I was giddy with love. I was going to see Kusum.

In what has been the most dysfunctional relationship in my life, Kusum led me through hoops as I led her through childhood and puberty and then teenage. She was destined to be kind caregiver though and chose her path in following me as a teacher. I was, by then, an old teacher with a small school. Laura was by my side. Not as my wife though. Our mutual destinies never intertwined, though I always had her with me in every step of my life. And when I sit in my wicker chair with a glass of chai in the hand, I know the pain in my chest is definitely a heart problem.