A MONTH DEDICATED TO BHINDESHI 'BHAI-S'

Can I call November ‘boisterous’? Never mind whether I can or not. November has been a pretty boisterous month for Darby and Joan. Largely responsible for this is Brit tragic hero who had a disastrous accident about two and a half weeks ago while racing Polish Goddess’ car. Ever since the mishap, we have become close friends. A thorough Brit and, therefore, self-admittedly, born with an accountant’s soul, he has shown us a film for every meal we have shared with him. Last Thursday we watched Jim Jarmusch’s ‘Ghostdog: The Way of the Samurai’, a samurai ‘gansta’ flick starring Forest Whitaker who plays an African American mafia hit man. He models himself after the samurai of old and follows the ancient code of the samurai as outlined in the book of Yamamoto Tsunetomo’s recorded sayings, ‘Hagakure’ (courtesy WIKI). A slightly pretentious film, according to Darby. Seconded by me. However, on the plus side, the film has an amazing soundtrack by Wu-Tang Clan's RZA. Whitaker, despite his girth, is menacing. His eyes do the trick, reminding us once again of ‘The Last King of Scotland’ that released seven years later. ‘Ghostdog’ was preceded by ‘Sexy Beast’ which has a stupendous performance by Ben Kingsley, a performance that left Darby speechless for days. He couldn’t quite believe Kingsley was the same guy who played Gandhi. The film has some knockout lines and Don Logan is quite a beast. Our first cinematic adventure since Brit tragic hero’s accident has been a beautiful French film set against the Paris underworld, ‘De battre mon coeur s'est arête (The Beat That My Heart Skipped). This 2005 French film is a remake of James Toback's 1978 film 'Fingers. Duris puts in a powerful performance as a young, real estate broker who is torn between his love for music and aspiration to become a concert pianist, and his commitment to the dodgy, underbelly of the real estate mafia that he works for. Joan particularly loved the film's last scene, almost poetic in its import and effect. On our own we discovered a Tapan Sinha gem, ‘Nirjan Saikate’ (on the lines of ‘Amrita kumbher Shandhaane’) based on a novel by Samaresh Basu. It does seem unfair of history that it made Tapan Sinha a contemporary of Ray. Such a sensitive filmmaker! Such grasp of the minutest nuances of Bengali life!

As the accident saga continues, we have come to a stage when we tell Brit tragic hero repeatedly that it is impossible to keep a tab on the number of Earl Grey-s, ciggies and dinners that have been borrowed, lent and shared. The man is an absolute sweetheart and Darby and Joan now understand why mothering him would come effortlessly to so many of his female acquaintances. Lucky him??!!

We were finally introduced to an Indian in this city, a businessman from Delhi who has been living here for the past year and a half. Joan has to admit that as a couple they are not ‘dying’ to get acquainted with Indians here. Overfamiliarity with one’s own culture and people can be stifling. A break from anything Indian, barring Bengali films and music, has been both refreshing and exciting. What does all of the above prove? We have been rather hyperactive socially, attending dinners and inviting friends over. This also means that there have been marathon cooking sessions. That reminds me…Darby and Joan are Bongs at heart, so no denying the love for fish. We love the trout available here, called ‘pstrang’.

P.S. Multiple consonants tumbling one after the other in a word makes me feel murderous!!! What a difficult language!!!)

GREENHORNS

Exactly eight months after we arrived in a madhouse called Sarnia 2, the place has welcomed two new foreigners. R from the United States and J from Germany. The Sarnia foreigners met both of them last evening over drinks and snacks. We have already intimidated one of them it seems and predictably the senior of the two, R. The German waif is a chirpy little one and has meshed well, it seems. Lavatorial jokes (and not intellectual mumbojumbo) seemed to dominate the conversation for whatever reason and they were openly aimed at some of the group but all in good spirits. The evening reminded Joan of the first informal gathering she was invited to and it is impossible not mentioning Mrs. Perth and Gregory Peck. Shit! I miss them.
I don't think I have mentioned this before but we arrived at Sarnia on the 14th of February at the exact same time that one of the Sarnia dwellers was preparing to give up his life. He did that successfully on the railway tracks that run through the forest nearby. Lost Soul was also unloved, it seems which is why the choice of such a day for bidding farewell. I was advised a week later to apply for the position that belonged to him and honestly, I felt a bit squeamish about it. Thankfully, since it was the middle of the term, the University seemed to be in a great hurry to find a substitute and they found someone before I could apply. No regrets really because work soon followed and I am settled. BTW, Lost Soul was half-English. I suppose, that explains the chronic melancholia. Hopefully, next time I will have something happy to report.

SUNBATHING ON A CLOUDY DAY - POM-PA-POM-PA-POM!

Woody Łodź is what I call a large part of the city that I walk about in. And yesterday, a pleasantly cloudy and windy day, with no sun beating down on us, I discovered this marvellous scenic route to the British Council Library through which Brit tragic hero guided me. I wanted to become an annual member of the library, something that would keep the supply of books and DVDs flowing. I guess, since Brit tragic hero is basically such a sweetheart, he willingly accompanied me to the place, adorably giving me a guided tour of the leafy parks we went through, one being his particular favourite en route. Chivalrous as he is, he also chose to become a member along with me so as not to make me feel that he had come just for me. And we had fun on our way from and to our flats, joking, sharing anecdotes, grievances, joys and regrets. The man is so generous and thoughtful and always eager to make one feel comfortable that I really hate myself at times to think I had such an adverse opinion about him earlier on. I cannot help but adore this man now. And so Austen was right about first impressions.

The Library is part of the University and don’t ask me how the two are related. I am clueless. It is a small, quaint little library but it has enough to keep me preoccupied and mentally stimulated. BCL has a very nostalgic association for people like me who visited the Kolkata one in Shakespeare Sarani during college and university days. The moment I entered this little treasure trove, I felt that nostalgia drench me again. I had almost forgotten how even idle browsing through books that one does not own and which are not neatly stacked in one of those fancy stores in a commercial bookstore chain can give a book lover a huge high. I got myself three books and two DVDs. ‘On Chesil Beach’ by Ian McEwan was recommended highly by a friend whose taste in books I trust blindly, ‘Writing on Skin’ by Sara Banerji was picked up for the obvious India and Bong connection and for old times’ sake, I got myself a college-time favourite, ‘The Go-Between’ by L.P. Hartley. The films that I chose are a bit different from the ones I have watched here so far. One is ‘Being Julia’ starring Annette Bening and Jeremy Irons (an actor I love), and ‘A Clockwork Orange’ which might be scary for me because I will watch it alone. It is a pity that I have not read ‘A Clockwork Orange’ but, damn it, it is such an expensive book and no one I know, owns it.

It was fun coming back as well, what with a timely cup of coffee in a quite neighbourhood café as we discussed a common love for short stories, second-hand bookshops, a shared sense of how there is no place either of us can really call ‘home’ and Brit tragic hero’s disastrous love life discoursed upon in the inimitably humorous way Darby and I have come to love.

All in all, a fun morning. Pom-pa-pom-pa-pom...Yeah…

A FUNNY KIND OF EVENING

Went out for dinner and drinks last night with friends. I was surprised to find ‘Pizzeria’ serve stuff other than pizzas and pasta. Had some amazing grilled fillet of kurczaka and a coke. Moved on to ‘The Irish Pub’ for, what else, Guinness! Smooth! Conversation moved from ‘Proof’ (the film and the script), to ‘The Big Lebowski’ to Chicago being just a stepping stone to New York, how even Seattle has more character than Chicago…blah, blah, blah. The obvious implication: I had an American friend with me. Brit tragic hero was there too and we were soon joined by E, the Austrian and two nubile Polish nymphets, one into photography and the other into sculpture. Cool. Things started getting more animated. E had brought with him the hot photographer apparently because she was interested in men and their arms. She is currently on a project shooting them and wanted to check out Brit tragic hero’s ‘heroine veins’ (as he shyly calls them) which came highly recommended. An appointment has been fixed. Brit tragic hero is to strip (only to show his arms, filthy minds) at her gallery and ensure his '17-and-a-half minutes of fame'. We were rather pleasantly surprised to hear the Dublin accent at a table nearby. No Polish. Just weird, funny, English. How refreshing! Highlights of the evening: an analysis of Polish and Jewish humour. Conclusion arrived at: Polish humour is dark to the point of, well, not being humorous and Jewish humour is, well, just Jewish. Two typical examples:

1) Polish man waits outside the operation theatre, anxious about his wife who is in labour. Sweaty palms, et al. The doctor comes out after an hour and says, ‘There is a problem. You have a son.’ ‘That can’t be a problem, Doctor. Is he fine? Is my son doing well? Doctor replies, ‘Yes, but the problem is he does not have legs’.
‘Oh!’ the Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor, I’ll love my son all the same’.
‘But that is not the end. There is another problem’, says the Doctor. He says, ‘The baby does not have his arms’. ‘That’s alright,’ says the Pole, ‘I’ll love my son all the same.’ Doctor continues, ‘But that is not all. Your son does not have a body. I mean he is just a pair of eyeballs’. Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor. Can I see my son now? I’ll love him all the same. He’s my son, you know’. Thus, the doctor goes in and delicately carries out the pair of eyeballs. The Pole is visibly overwhelmed at the sight of his son and can’t seem to have enough of him. Pole says, ‘He’s my son, you see. I’ll love him all the same.’ Doctor replies, ‘That’s not all. You see, I hate to break this to you, but your son’s blind.’

2) An old Jewish man lies on his deathbed and asks for his wife. Wife assures him that she is by his side, alright. Her husband coughs some and asks for his eldest son who promptly assures his father that he is with him, by his side. ‘Don’t worry, Papa, I’m here’. His father coughs some more and asks for his youngest who promptly answers him, ‘Here, Papa, here, we are all with you’ and his Papa retorts,’ If you are all with me, who the fuck is taking care of my shop.

Until the next time, ciao!

BACK TO THE BEST WAY I KNOW TO SPEND TIME

Darby will soon be gone for six weeks to the US of A and I hope and pray that this will leave me with a lot more uninterrupted time to read. I have watched more movies here than I have read books (almost 5 per week) and that has got to do with the fact that I have taken my own sweet time to settle in completely. Life has found its rhythm here. I feel truly relaxed which means that I am not too distracted which in turn means that I will be able to concentrate better on books. I have not got myself a British Council Library membership over here yet but Brit tragic hero has promised to accompany me there and says that he will be a willing accomplice when I ransack the library bookshelves. Yippee!!! Nevertheless, I've stocked up on about a dozen that I will dig into even as Darby's flight takes off. The list includes 'Fame is the Spur' by Howard Spring, 'Bridge of Sighs' by Richard Russo, both given to me by Gregory Peck, 'A Wild Sheep Chase' by Murakami, 'Winter in Madrid' by C.J. Sansom (I loved his Dissolution'), 'The Poe Shadow' by Matthew Pearl, which I bought yesterday and am dying to begin, 'The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency' by McCall Smith which Darby got me from Warsaw because he didn't let me accompany him there the last time, 'Salem Falls' by Jodi Picoult, 'Blood Sisters' by Barbara and Stephanie Keating, 'Man and Boy' by Tony Parsons, three titles that I have no clue about, 'My Friends, the Miss Boyds' by Jane Duncan, that I picked up from a quaint old book shop in Aberdeen, 'Tom Brown's School Days' by Thomas Brown, which is a childhood favourite, and 'North and South' by Gaskell which reminds me of my struggle with industrial novels during my college days and which after watching the gorgeous Richard Armitage play John Thornton in the BBC miniseries, has found a place in my must-read-again list. Finally, the thirteenth which I may be able to read is Sunil Ganguly's 'Prothom Alo' which is the only other Bangla book we carried to Poland from Kolkata apart from the 'Gitabitan'.
This is the most I can manage at 33 and it is no longer, as in my late teens or early twenties, about proving how fast I can read. In a sense, thank God for that because I know now that I read way more analytically than I did in my early youth. I am no longer a sucker for good stories alone. Although the collection that now rests on my bookshelf may be a mix...good, bad and ugly, I intend to read them all. What is, of course, very exciting is that all these books, including the Sansom and Pearl, and the Spring and Gaskell are very different from each other. Good for me. Here's raising a toast to happy reading.
Having mentioned the 'Gitabitan', I must add that I am doing a lot of singing aloud in my apartment and in the neighbourhood park and that will most definitely continue. Goodbye for now.

AD-LIB

It seems pretty amazing. On Saturday evening, at Mrs. Perth's farewell party, I discovered that we had people from ten nations in a two-room flat. Felt oh-so international. And here's who we were: Indian, Australian, Canadian, American, British, Polish, Austrian, German, Bosnian and Uzbek. How I wish I lived in a world without maps or passports, just like we were that day, even if only for a few hours, in that small flat, eating, drinking and making merry!

FEELING GREY...OR SHOULD IT BE THE USUAL 'BLUE'

Have been feeling grey since the last two days. Mucky kind of grey. ‘The Gift of the Magi’-sixth paragraph-kind of grey. Not good at all. And all this for a couple of people I will very likely never meet in my life again. No matter how much I keep my fingers crossed, hope still slips away through the paper-thin gaps between my crooked fingers. I will never meet them again. One is Mrs. Perth. She is leaving Sarnia for good. Home beckons, and so there has been a flurry of dinners and farewells and coffee-sessions. She was the one to welcome me with a tub of gardenias, moving on with time to give me books and magazines and contacts but what I will remember most about her is that she tried. She tried so tirelessly, so unfailingly for me, trying for me even when I had stopped.

The other Sarnia institution I will so dearly miss is Gregory Peck. Handsome, grumpy, never one to learn the spelling of my name, never reluctant to incite the feminist in me, too set in his ways, too gentlemanly Gregory Peck. My ultimate Hollywood hero. Seeing him leave has left a void which can hardly be filled because whoever’s, destiny it shall be to fill it, he/she has a tall task ahead. Gregory came up to my flat on Monday evening to say goodbye. He has given me two books to read and throw away. I know I will keep them forever, in memory of a time that will never come back, in defiance of a time that will never permit that we meet Gregory again. I don’t know whether I will ever go to Ireland, to Galway or Dublin but I know in the deepest recesses of my mind and in the core of my heart, that every time I will ever read Yeats’ love poems celebrating Maud Gonne, every time I will ever walk in my mind, in the by-lanes of Joyce’s Dublin and every time I will ever go fishing in Synge’s Aran Islands, it will be with a very special friend, Gregory. I wish we could let him know adequately, how much we have grown fond of him, how much we will miss him, how his old-world Irish-ness has rubbed off on us, how much he will always remind us of vintage wine and rainy-afternoon classics, how special and rare he is because he is old wine in an old bottle. We love you, Gregory. And no matter, how hopeless hopelessness can be, we hope that someday, we shall meet again, good, old neighbours and even better, good, old friends.

Until then, Sarnia will not be the same.

NEIGHBOURHOOD TRUTHS

I have been in the silent zone for no other reason except that I am neck deep in hedonism, living my version of the perfect sybaritic life. Reading, travelling, watching films, socialising, wining, dining, appreciating good looking women and even better looking men, clubbing, pubbing, jamming…the works. You name it and Joan has been doing it.

My White Mughal showed us ‘There Will Be Blood’ and I realized the movie was from the same year that had another movie with blood in its name—‘Blood Diamond’. Wedged between Gregory and Mrs. Perth, I felt like I was watching Doordarshan with Mom and Dad on either side. The evening had rambled on and I was crestfallen. However, thankfully for me, now that I am in a different frame of mind altogether ever since I left Kolkata, Brit tragic hero and I seem to have struck up an unspoken arrangement, taking frivolous flirtation to a new level altogether. Let’s consider what happened yesterday. While returning from an absolutely gorgeous walking tour which deserves some space…but later on, Darby and I came face to face with him. I don’t exactly look dainty anymore but it takes a sensitive Englishman to appreciate beauty even in spare tyres. I had some wild flowers in my hand including a pretty yellow one that I do not know the name of. And immediately, Brit tragic hero comes up with, ‘Are they for me? Really?’ and I serenade, ‘uhmm, uhmm’, and we both gesticulate and shoo away a helpless Darby. I quite like the role reversal bit of it but there is nothing remotely intellectual about this little bit of drama played out under a huge chestnut tree. The discussions in Sarnia get more cerebral only after midnight perhaps when novelists and the advantage of their form of expression, or screenplay writing and its essential lack of latitude take over harmless and inane flirtations.

Let me give you two more examples of the inanities. English Babu tells us tales of how Polish students reel under the baggage of the English language in his class. Knowing their tendency to take down the words of the Anglo-Saxon lecturer as if they were part of the Delphic oracle, once he had chosen to flummox them with the line, ‘…and so when the Normans came they burned down the women and raped the churches’ and he succeeded! They had taken down his words and only after a couple of minutes managed to point out what turned out to be their own momentary lapse of reason. The inanities gain momentum when Irish Gregory joins us. I ask tragic hero, ‘…so tell me A, why haven’t you married?’ He shyly admits, ‘Not from a lack of trying’ and Gregory quips, ‘Why don’t you ask him why he does not have children and he’ll say the same…not from a lack of trying’. And so life goes on in Sarnia…

AD-LIB

This is just to let a very cool cat know that the cups of tea are not really all that helpful. Brit tragic hero came up just now to invite me to a movie tonight at his apartment. I found the invitation obviously exciting. However, the earth came crashing down in seconds. I will be sharing the sofa with Mrs. Perth and Gregory. Darby might squeeze in as well. It won't be uncomfortable but I don't see how the arrangement is conducive to any kind of flirting. Then again if that were not enough, we will be shown a Daniel Day Lewis film which I have not seen. I have nothing against Daniel, particularly since he will always be known to me as also the son-in-law of Arthur Miller. That ups his celebrity quotient because Miller was once married to Monroe. Considering that I am becoming flippant by the hour, this piece of trivia amounts to a lot. Anyway, the sad part is that though it is supposedly a good film, it's off-putting name is 'There Will Be Blood'...that kind of scares me. Ek phool, do maali, blood and two witnesses...

TO GIRL-BONDING AND AN IRISH CRUSH

It will be totally unfair if Joan does not dedicate a post to two of her very dear neighbours in Sarnia. For matters of privacy and convenience Joan chooses to refer to them as KB and Mrs. Perth. Joan met them for the first time in Brit tragic hero’s wine party and had felt welcome instantly because of Mrs. Perth’s warmth. The fact that she turned out to be roly-poly added to her charm. There is something about people with such a physical frame. They smile a lot and it puts you at ease, making you willing to confide in them and confess. KB was a different story altogether. A man curious to know about India and its law regarding smoking in public, he had this old world charm of a cranky old academic. Turned out that he is no academic, though he is engaged at the university’s English Institute as one. This meeting led to another at the Café Verte in Piotrkowska Street which itself deserves an entire post. And ever since then, every Thursday, Joan has met up with KB and Mrs. Perth, sometimes accompanied by Darby, at the neighbourhood café, Van Helder, raising storms over piping hot cups of English breakfast tea and apple cakes.

Mrs. Perth, an Australian, has been employed in the American Studies Department since September last year and will be here till the end of this semester before she flies home to her husband. She is the mother-hen out here, brave, spirited, resourceful, energetic, generous and let Joan not forget the fact that she bakes the best Welsh tea cakes ever. Her spreads can usually feed an army and she is to blame for the recent appearance of a triple chin on Joan’s face. She is an amazing map reader, having travelled the world intrepidly on her own in her younger days. When asked why she chose to come to this country, leaving her husband behind, among the many reasons she came up with was the fact that after 30 years of moving from place to place with her husband because of his job, it was time to strike out on her own…payback time. Don’t make a mistake; she is far from a vindictive, man-hating feminist. But she is a feminist no doubt, constantly urging Joan to not let a gap overtake her career. The two of them teaming up against the men in the building is some fun that Joan will dearly miss once Mrs. Perth leaves. Some serious girl-bonding goes on between them, with one advising the other on where to buy shoes from, staring at the same craft-work and jewellery and ruing a lack of money, the two of them discussing the unpredictable nature of the ovens in their respective apartments, dissecting Naomi Wolf’s ‘The Beauty Myth’, telling each other migration stories, stories about mining wives in Australia, mothers and mothers-in-law in India, quilting and raw silk. I’ll miss you Mrs. Perth. You are a darling!

Joan’s true darling, however, is the cranky old Irishman with whom she bonds (as she would like him to believe) like an Audrey Hepburn to a Gregory Peck. In fact, Joan refers to him as Gregory and Mr. Irish Peck’s cheeks are to be seen…all flushed as he goes… ‘O, no, no, no…’ No amount of denying can save you, KB. You just love being referred to as Gregory. But there is more to the man that Joan is smitten by than his salt-and-pepper looks or his old world eccentricities. Originally, a cultured publisher of fiction from Galway, he is a small-time novelist, a published author, who loves it (but adorably won’t admit it) when Joan asks him to lend her his books. Readers, you missed the catch, did you? He is from Galway. For an English Literature fanatic, a man from Synge’s Galway is like Gregory Peck, dearies, even if he looks like Gulshan Kumar. And here, Joan happens to know someone from Galway, with Gregory’s good looks, who recites ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’ like a dream, rolling his ‘r’-s like only an Irishman can. Joan has something in common with him…their love of Yeats’ early love poetry…and she could give up hours of internet surfing and all the good looking Poles in the world to hear KB recite Yeats. And so, the conversations continue, peppered with references to ‘The Dead’ in ‘Dubliners’, to Lady Gregory, to the love of books and the romance of turning over pages of a favourite book, to childhood in the 1940s’ Ireland, to man-woman relationships, to Indian men in loin-cloths and Mother Meera in Germany. His verbal fiascos with Brit tragic hero leave us in splits and we don’t want, just don’t want the homesick Gregory to leave for his dear Ireland in a hurry.

LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR

So says the Bible and so says Joan—the living embodiment of ‘Gandhigiri’ (as one of my friends suggested) in Poland. And so far, touchwood, things have worked out fine.

You see, we live in a building which belongs to the University and those who live here are mostly Visiting Professors from around the globe. There are, of course, a few Polish Ph.D students who happen to make all the noise as students all over the world are wont to do, away from the building—during weekends, at pubs in Piotrkowska Street.

Speaking of noise, here’s how we got introduced to the first neighbour we came to know. Apart from a couple of perfunctory ‘hello’s to people we came across in the elevator, we had no clue until two weeks ago about who our neighbours are. Our first taste of this came on a Sunday morning two weeks back. It was eight o’ clock then and we had just been awakened by a phone call from India. Darby, not quite graceful at any time of the day or night, literally ‘thop-thops’ his way to get the mobile and innocently awakens our neighbour in the floor below. A fifteen-minute interlude follows (not a musical one, I assure you) during which Darby continues being loud, Joan gets all housewife-ish, washing utensils with all the determination of a first-timer and a typical Sunday morning starts taking shape. The interlude over, up comes the neighbour, rings the bell and the moment the door opens begins in a sharp Brit accent, ‘What kind of a fucking noise is that? You are making such a fucking lot of noise…the noise you make is so fucking…fucking…fucking…fucking…’ You are right sweeties—after his three-and-a-half minute impassioned extempore, the f-word was the only one that reverberated. Very typically, Joan gets scared of abusive Englishman who has, by the way, not yet looked up. Very dramatic man, Joan thinks, his posture a flawless copy of some intense, brooding, hungover hero in a tragedy. Darby, very bravely manages to embarrass our tragic hero by reminding him we are neighbours, so could we please at least introduce ourselves. The three manage to relax a little, with Darby asking tragic hero to please come in and Joan offering him a cup of tea. Now, you offer tea to an Englishman and he is sold. It is like flattering a woman. No Englishman can resist a woman’s offer of a good cup of tea. So, good ol’ Gandhigiri with a cup of tea thrown in manages to salvage what might otherwise have led to violence. Joan, shameless as she is, manages to embarrass our hero even more by being all coy and letting him know, his words had almost brought tears to her eyes, and ta-da, before the Indian couple can sigh in relief at the tragic hero’s profuse apologies, they are invited to a wine-party at the Englishman’s the following Wednesday! Joan is relieved, no doubt, but doesn’t quite take to the hero until the party has been attended and keeps referring to him as ‘Dicklickson’, a perverse distortion of his surname—a la ‘Titspervert’ in ‘Bridget Jones Diary’.

Since then, Joan has come to dig our tragic hero quite a lot. He really is rather cute with the bluest eyes she has seen in any man. Turns out that tragic hero had really been a bit hungover, which is why the outburst and which is why he could not even recall whose party he had been to on Saturday evening. Tragic hero is really a very sharp man, extremely witty and a creative writer too. Is currently authoring a screenplay for some English movie to be made in Poland. That puts Joan in quite a spot. She has a thing for all creative writers and solemnly promises to be as quite as possible when she is at home. You can imagine, can’t you, what the jealous Darby’s take on all this will be…ahem…I better get going!

SETTLING IN

The Lodz we arrived in has till recently looked like one continuous layer of icing on a cake and I remember getting down from the train at the terminal and instantly turning blue. It was five-thirtyish in the evening and it was snowing hard. I don’t remember having even smiled at Guardian Angel who had come to receive us. It was only after sitting in the taxi that I had kind of recovered myself. We were taken to our modest two-room apartment in Sarnia and after a ten-minute break, taken to the nearest supermarket for our first adventure in Poland. This one looked like any other supermarket in the world (not that we were expecting anything different) but the fun part was that everything—including what was written on tins and packets—was in Polish. My congratulations to all those who are hard-core nationalists at heart!

We have survived here for nearly a month, speaking broken and accented Polish. Of course Darby insisted that I use ‘we’ in the previous sentence. The fact is that on my arrival in Warszawa, Asia complimented me on my perfect Polish accent, adding that Darby’s sounded like a foreigner’s. However, there has been a truce. Darby and I have agreed that we both speak Bengali in standard and impeccable accent.

Darby’s professional life began almost immediately after his arrival and I have for the first time since our marriage, kept his home for him entirely on my own. I do not quite hate the arrangement as it leaves me time to look around, breathe in, observe, listen, laze around quite a bit, read, write, get distracted and then laze some more. Ah, what luxury! I have started working out, eating less, drinking more, studying and teaching and let’s see where life takes me eventually. I am in no hurry. Any guesses what song is playing in my mind, right now? It is Van Morrison’s ‘I don’t want much…’