Christmas in Chicago

Every year in the month of December, I start to get nostalgic about the years I spent celebrating Christmas in Chicago. The memory of my first Christmas party in the city always brings a smile to my face for so many reasons. Hosted by the company I worked for, it was a fairly intimate evening since at the time we probably had approximately 50 employees. Most people brought their spouse or a date so while it wasn’t small, it was the smallest office party that I ended up attending. 

Fresh off the boat and living in the city, I was nervous about driving to a Western suburb that I was completely foreign to. With the days being short in December, no GPS, nobody I could ask for a ride and with snow flurries that I was experiencing for the first time in my life, I plucked up every ounce of courage in my body and made my way to a beautiful party hall in a poorly lit suburb.

The dress code was black tie and having only the one suit that I had brought from India, which had been worn for every interview and to every meeting that required me to wear a suit, there was no way in the world that I was about to also wear it to our Christmas party. Our office was located across the very upscale Oakbrook Mall and having only been in the US for about 4 months, I didn’t know much about where to shop etc. A colleague who had become a friend, walked across to the mall with me but all the stores there were way out of my league as a fresh migrant who had only recently started working. 

Eventually I went to the party in a black and red sweater that I picked up from The Gap with black dress pants and shoes that I wore to work everyday. It was probably the last time I was underdressed for any occasion. I remember walking in awkwardly and while everyone looked incredibly sharp in their suits and cocktail dresses, they never once made me feel like a freak in a sweater! The word of the evening at our table, after a couple of drinks, was ‘marvellous’ and every once in a while one of the ladies would come up to me and say ‘you look marvellous darling’, until we all started saying it to each other. The phrase ending up being stuck with us for a fairly long while. One of those things that I’ll never forget and still makes me grin. 

As the years went by, December was all about attending Christmas parties, exchanging gifts, eating way, way, wayyy too much sugar, fighting traffic and crowds to buy gifts, parking much too far from the mall entrance on snowy days, the family dinner on Christmas day and of course the annual office Christmas party. 

I don’t have much recollection of most of the holiday parties that the company threw, but I do remember the last one, eleven years later. This one was a daytime affair at a large, beautiful home, that looked like it was straight out of a fairy tale. By this time I had a closet full of sharp suits but ironically, the dress code was ‘smart casual’. Maybe I should have worn a suit to make up for my first year there!

The dress code may have been casual but the food and liquor were of the highest class, with the serving staff passing around oysters, jumbo shrimp and caviar amongst other decadent h’ordeuvres, the buffet table laid out with a huge main course and of course more desserts than we could ever eat. My ‘farewell’ Christmas party was truly one that I would never forget.

The food however, was not what made that party especially memorable. With all the liquor flowing, many of us were ridiculously drunk in a couple of hours (there’s just no polite way to say it). And since I was leaving the country shortly after, I was as obnoxiously drunk as I could possibly be. To the point where, when Terry, our COO came out to give a speech, I would keep interrupting him, until he invited me to the podium and probably asked me to shut up in the nicest way he could. I don’t remember what he said to me but as a much loved employee, I’m sure there were no swear words. It’s one of the most embarrassing afternoons of my life but if you had been there, you would know that its a story that deserves to be shared!

Every year, as Christmas gets close, I bring out my fake Christmas tree, add some red to the apartment, put up string lights and make it as festive as I can. This year my man Friday and I made some fudge, reminding me of my colleague and friend, Evelyn, who I used to call ‘the fudge lady’. When I moved back to India, she wanted to send me a box for Christmas but I refused to give her my address as it would cost way too much. A few years later when I was having my New York adventure, she made me happy with a big batch of her famous fudge. 

I could go on and on with all the memories I have of Christmas in Chicago and the friends who made the holiday season so special for me during those eleven years that I lived there. It warms my heart each time I think of the laughs, the love and even the turkey.  I was also always extremely pampered with gifts and one year when boxes of presents were literally spilling out of my office, my friend Elsa stopped by, rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t understand why so many people love you.” Which of course was a complete lie since she was the one who referred to me as her ‘beloved’.

To all my friends and family, who have given me more than my share of love, I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Every Story has a Moral

Last evening I was chatting with someone in Toronto, who I've been following on Instagram for a while. It was the first time we had connected directly other than commenting on each others posts and keeping it mostly impersonal. 

Chatting with her brought back some interesting memories of the many times that I've visited Toronto, sometimes as a tourist and most other times as a consultant for work. One of those personal memories is what I'm going to share in todays post. 

Growing up in Calcutta, my dad had a fairly close friend who I always found to be intimidating. He had this booming voice, an aristocratic air and for some reason always seemed like he was inebriated. Later I found out that he had a serious alcohol problem. 

My parents and I had been living in Chicago for a few years when my sister came to visit and we decided to spend a few days in Niagara Falls and places around there. My dad had got to know that a brother of this friend I spoke about earlier, had moved to Toronto, so he called the gentleman with the intention of meeting for a meal or something. 

Now this friends brother was several years younger and I vaguely remembered him and his wife from parties that our parents would drag us to. Parties where there was a considerable amount of liquor flowing and not someplace people take their kids to, but it was a whole different time. All the kids were bustled into one room and we had to pretend to get along with each other. 

So basically my memory of this uncle and his wife were hazy at best. Except that they seemed very posh.

When my dad called and informed this gentleman about our trip, he (I thought) was unexpectedly excited and insisted that we stay with them for a couple of days at least. And since we were in no great rush to head back and he sounded so nice on the phone, my dad took him up on the offer.

My sister and I weren't exactly thrilled with the developments, since we expected them to be snobbish. But like good Indian (grownup) kids we went along with the plan.

After spending a couple of nights in Niagara Falls and doing everything that Asian tourists are supposed to do, we headed to Toronto City.

The best thing for me about staying with these friends of the family was that they lived in the heart of the city and not some boring suburb. In the city one can just walk to places, there are people around you, restaurants that aren't chains to eat at and generally a much more fun time. Although they lived in a little two-bedroom apartment, we as Indians are used to cramming ourselves into smaller spaces, sleeping on mattresses laid out on the floor and being in line to use the bathroom. Maybe not so much anymore but a lot of great memories have been created in these small spaces. Even when I lived in a one-bedroom, one bath apartment in Manhattan, there was a night when I had 10 guests staying over. Thankfully just for that one laughter-filled night!

Back in Toronto, the 'uncle' was now a limo driver and the 'aunt' worked at a Greek bakery. The same people that lived in a large home with adequate help were now 'the help'. The change in lifestyle had also changed their demeanour considerably. They were such warm and wonderful hosts and we were having such a great time together, that we ended up spending an extra night with them. I remember one time when we packed ourselves into the limo and drove out for a picnic. Picnics were a big thing when I was growing up and this certainly felt nostalgic of our time in Calcutta. Except that the picnic basket had all Greek treats but nobody was complaining!

It's funny (not the haha kind of funny) how our circumstances, our environment and our affluence or lack of, has an effect on our behaviour. They probably were always really nice people and it was my vision of them that was distorted. Or they had to put up this front of being a part of the upper echelon of society. Or they were actually the way they were and their lives getting upturned made them who they had become. It's something I'll never know for sure. 

I'm guessing that my dad and the uncle stayed in touch for a while but we never met again. Sometimes a short connection and leaving on a happy note is all that's needed for a lifetime of good memories. 

Is this piece just another snippet of my life or does the story come with a moral? To me there is more than one moral, which I don't need to get into. Each of you is clever enough to figure these out for yourselves. I would however, love to hear from you in the comments section as to what you got out of it. Don't be shy to share. 

I'll Have Another Adventure (To Go) Please

Who would have thought that a time would come when almost everybody across the globe would pretty much be living the same life, masked in some kind of viral terror, wanting for human contact and appreciative but tired of having to depend upon technology to get through the day. Welcome to life in the times of covid-19.

In India, as we enter into the fourth month of this new way of life, I am wondering how I will get through the next who-knows-how-many-more-months before life returns to the way I have seemingly recklessly lived it. Yes recklessly hugging my family and friends, sharing food out of the same plate, crammed into a car, shaking hands with people I’ve never met before, travelling without a care - is life as we knew it only in the past now?

When the lockdown began, I really didn’t give it much thought. I was grateful that unlike 4 years ago when I was recovering from an accident that had me laid up in bed, I was able to move around and take care of myself. I began cooking new and fun dishes, the camera came out of its bag after a couple of years and within the limitations of my confine I took so many photographs, I wrote short pieces and sent them out to my contacts on the phone, I began my vocal lessons using YouTube - the days were flying by. Until the enthusiasm died and I didn’t care about what I ate, ran out of subjects to photograph, couldn’t think of anything to write and stopped singing. I desperately needed to go on a trip but while I had begun stepping out of my home and meeting a person or two here and there, spending an hour or so at the mostly empty cafe, I was aware that I wasn’t going anywhere further. 

Each time I start to feel low, I begin thinking about how my life has been so full of adventure. Sometimes I feel like I have lived so many different lives in just this one, with the best memories of growing up in Calcutta, building my career amongst the most wonderful people I came across in Chicago, my return to the motherland in a whole new city, Bangalore, the love affair with New York City, living up on a high rise in Hong Kong followed by a higher rise in the mountainous state of Himachal. 

With the close shaves I’ve had with death, I’ve never believed in having a ‘bucket list’ - if there was a place I wanted to visit, there was no waiting to do it. I’ve never planned too far ahead - a few months at the most and in the past 3 years - it probably has been no more than 2 months. Having chosen to retire at a younger age and being single, I had the freedom to do things without having to wait, uncaring about how many vacation days I had left and because I rarely travelled lavishly, without having to worry about whether I could afford it.

Every travel adventure I have had has the people I met associated with it. Like there was this time in Granada, Spain when I was walking around with a map, no data on my phone, completely lost. A young girl travelling from the US, equally lost, also not speaking a word of Spanish, ended up spending the afternoon with me, having lunch at a charming Turkish restaurant and finding our way back to our respective Airbnb’s. Or the artist that was selling his paintings at San Marco Square in Venice, who, after exchanging many laughs together, took me to his favourite pizzeria for dinner. Or the quirky camel rider in Jaisalmer, who invited me to his home in the middle of the desert to meet his family and who I am still in touch with on a regular basis. 

How can I not be thankful for the adventure of starting a cafe from scratch, the freedom to run it the way I want, without the financial worry? For being a part of the short film that I had a hand in. Sometimes I feel like I’m the luckiest person with life having given all kinds of opportunities to do the things that I used to always fantasise about.

These stories and so many, many more have given me the most heartwarming memories that can actually help me get through the rest of my days. There is absolutely nothing I would change about my past, including the accidents, a life threatening illness, being almost pushed out of a running train and being a hostage in a bank robbery, as every one of those experiences has changed my life in positive ways. 

Thanks to my semi-vagabond lifestyle that has had me believe that my home is where I am at the present time, I feel all the more restless and imprisoned. Making it even more important to keep the memories of all these adventures alive and hoping that things will get back to the way they were. Where I can once again eat a meal with a stranger sitting just two feet away, where I can breathe without a mask on, where I can leave the house without worrying about getting sick. 

I hope that each and every one of you, who is most likely leading a life very similar to mine, is able to stay happy, to drive away any anxiety that you may be experiencing from time to time, to appreciate all that you have now, the life you’ve lived so far and to believe that you and the rest of us will come out of this stronger and a better version of ourselves. 

Who knows what life has in store but I am certainly ready for a new adventure. An adventure that is a lot less restricting than this current one.

Conversations - Remembering and Forgetting

Hey, what's going on?

Don't ask dude ....

Too late. Already asked

I'm cleaning out my closet

(laughs)

That doesn't sound like you at all

I found these jeans I had completely forgotten about

(pauses)

And guess what?

They still fit you perfectly

Hehe they do

That’s hardly a surprise. I don’t think you’ve gained even an ounce since college

(pauses)

Sooooo ….

Do you want to catch a movie this afternoon?

I can’t

Why not?

I promised myself I wasn’t going to step out of the house until I was done cleaning

Come on …

No seriously. I’ve just been putting this off for too long. I have no space left in my closet

How long does it take to clean out a closet?

Oh man. You have no idea. You should come see the mess

Should I?

No!!!!! Absolutely not!!!!!!

(laughs)

Why? What are you hiding in those closets?

Too many skeletons 

(pauses)

And it’s time for them to go!

Do I know any of these skeletons?

I’m not saying ….

Seriously … when will you be done?

Maybe we can catch up in the evening

No dude. Today is pretty much out of the question.

Cleaning sucks. Especially when you have no idea what needs to stay and what needs to go

I could help you decide

Nope

That was rude! You could at least pretend that I could be of help

Haven’t you known me long enough to know that I don’t pretend?

You've known me long enough to give me a peek into your closet

Okay I know this pink top is definitely going. No brainer

I didn’t think pink was your colour

It was a gift. And now it’s spent enough time taking space

(pauses)

You know what the problem with me is?

That’s a long list. Where would you like me to start?

Asshole!

Okay so what is the problem with you?

The problem is that most of what I have has a memory attached to them. Half the stuff I don’t even wear anymore

And so you can’t get rid of most of the stuff?

I guess I can. It just makes me nervous to lose those memory associations

So what are you saying?

I’m not sure

(pauses)

I’m a little afraid to forget possibly ...

But maybe it’s time to move on

Maybe it is. But how do I know for sure?

You don’t know for sure. Nobody knows for sure. But we make a decision to discard and move on.

Also, you didn’t tell me what the problem with you is?

Maybe I’m not ready to discard and move on. Maybe I want to keep holding on to those memories

For the rest of your life?

That's a little extreme, don't you think? 

(pauses)

How about until the next time I decide to clean out my closet

I have a feeling we'll be having the same conversation then too

You don't know that

How about you categorise the memories and get rid of some associations today?

How about you let me figure out what I need to do?

You’re being weird now

I am, right? I guess I’m getting rid of the jeans

The ones you can still fit into?

Yup. Those jeans

But why? If you can still wear them ….

That’s not the important part. The important thing is to move on

I want to check out your closets once you’re done

You’ll be surprised. They’ll be a lot emptier than you would expect

A Little Bit of Childhood

I wrote this piece almost 6 years ago but for some reason never posted it. Cleaned it up and sharing it today with a lump in my throat.

I could have gone back to bed but I was certain that sleep would not come. Besides it wasn’t important. Sitting on the couch in the living room, being one with my thoughts was what I wanted at this time. I looked at my wallet on the table, carelessly strewn across from my laptop, the credit card used to reserve the flight to Patna still outside. A little piece of plastic with so much power. 

It was early, by several hours. The only time I could remember waking up before sunrise was to catch either a flight or a train. This time however, I wasn’t the one that was traveling. A father had passed away and a son was getting ready to board a flight to light his funeral pyre. 

Memories are such a magical way of reliving the past. We were getting a new driver for a second car that my father was buying. This one too, just like the previous, an Ambassador. He was a young man with a slight frame, sitting behind that enormous wheel, easily maneuvering the monstrosity of a car through crowded Calcutta streets. 

I remember his signature handlebar mustache covering most of his gaunt face. Looking at him, all one saw were the flamboyant whiskers above his lips and his smiling, twinkling eyes. And now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that twinkled as much as his did. He used to call me maalik loosely translated to ‘boss’ even though I was just a young boy. I never thought anything of it back then and I guess he did it was because I was the only male among us five siblings. I shamelessly called him by his first name without a tag of bhaiya for  ‘older brother’ or ji to show respect. 

He used to live in a little room that was below our apartment, most of the time by himself. His mornings consisted of exercising, washing the car and getting ready to take my dad to his factory at 7 am. Sometimes I would watch him doing what-seemed-like an endless number of push ups. Even though he had a slight frame, he was an incredibly strong man. My best friend and I would sit on his shoulders and he would take us for a walk. I feel horribly guilty about it now. Looking at him one could never imagine that he could be as strong as he was. You may find hard to believe what I’m about to write - if I hadn’t actually been there to see it for myself, I would laugh it off as myth. 

There was a rock that used to sit in Tilak (his name) ji’s room about the size of two bricks joined together. My closest friend at the time and I would try our hardest to move that rock from it’s spot using every bit of strength we had, with absolutely no luck. But then we were just a couple of kids and this wasn’t just any ordinary rock - it was much talked about and people would come from across the city to try and lift it, including some weight lifters. Nobody however, could get it to even budge the slightest bit. Each time the person would give up, Tilak, in his 5’3” lean frame would walk across to it, bend down and with one powerful grunt, lift it from the ground and slowly bring it up as far as his arms could go. His son, Rajesh, who now works for me, tells me that when his dad was moving back to the village, he carried that rock from the taxi to the train all by himself because no porter could handle it. I now believe that all this strength came from his mind, which was way stronger than his body. 

When, a few years ago, my mother was confined to her bed and he came to visit her, the mustache was primarily grey but the twinkle and the smile were just the same. Every morning he would wake up early, shower, shave, get into his perfectly starched kurta and dhoti and spend time with my mother, doing everything he could to make her more comfortable. We always glorify the dead but everything I say about this man is completely true. He was the nicest, gentlest, most sensitive person I have ever come across. His heart was filled with love for everyone but when it came to my mother, he literally worshipped the ground she walked on. 

That was the last time I saw Tilak ji. In retrospect, I wish I had spent more time with him - people like him are rare and just being in his presence would have been so much more enriching than my corporate career. We go through lives with such warped priorities and by the time we realize what’s really important, the opportunities in most cases, are long gone. 

I had a slight smile on my face, even though tears were streaming down my eyes. It was no small thing growing up, being blessed with the presence of such a human being. And as I sat on my living room couch, my mind taking me to places that I hadn’t been to in a long time, I realized that today an important bit of my childhood had left me. Had left me craving for more. 

Memories of Another Rain

Staring at the rain falling in a consistent pattern, I was glad to be indoors. Not being one of those people who love to get wet, I find being outside in the rain quite annoying. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t had more than my share of getting soaked. Whether it was Calcutta or New York, I’ve been caught unawares in a downpour innumerable times, seeking shelter for a while and then finally giving up and walking to my destination, feet wet through my canvas shoes or sandals, my wavy hair turning flat and my glasses wishing they had tiny wiper blades.

I do like the part where I come across other walkers in a similar situation, exchanging a knowing smile which says ‘I guess we may as well enjoy it’. A momentary connection with a stranger that will be forgotten in a flash.

I love the rain so much when I’m simply a spectator, protected by a roof over my head. Looking at people running for shelter or picking up pace under their umbrellas. The folks on motorcycles and bikes coming to a sudden stop for cover. We’ve seen so much rain but it’s always miracle-like for me - the Heaven’s turning on their sprinklers, making the dry moister, the air cleaner and the green greener. Washing the dust off, it feels like laundry day. 

A short while ago I was watching two little girls who got off their school bus. It was drizzling but they refused to get under their mothers waiting umbrellas. Kept running around, giggling, completely deaf to their mom’s screaming at them. I was sitting by the window, not being able to contain my own laughter and wished later that I had taken a picture.   

A favorite childhood memory is associated with rain. Growing up, we knew everyone in our neighbourhood. Not just the people living on our street, but the one past the main road, the parallel streets as well as the perpendicular ones. 

I was probably all of 1o years old. It was another one of those Calcutta rainy, monsoon days when you feel like you’ll never see the sun again. Stores were shut and the streets were empty. The rain had been falling incessantly for the past few days and life had pretty much come to a standstill. People were starting to get stir-crazy when someone must have had the brilliant idea of having a very wet picnic. My older sisters and I were standing on our balcony, probably bored out of our minds as we had even lost power, when we saw a group of people coming towards us. It was mostly their friends and a few of mine. They were going around the neighborhood, having everyone come out of their homes and enjoy the rain. 

There must have been at least fifty ‘kids’ and the group kept getting larger as the word spread. We went to the local park which was full of puddles and played there for hours. I distinctly remember the laughter, the unending laughter. The peals of laughter each time the drizzle would turn into a heavy downpour. The constant smiles and giggles as we’d splash water on each other, knowing that we couldn’t possibly get any more wet. The jumping in the puddles, every single one of us soaked to the skin, our mother’s probably worrying about us getting sick and knowing that they could do absolutely nothing about it. 

There was no food but it was definitely a picnic. I don’t know if I can transport you there with my descriptions, but as I write this I can’t stop smiling. These memories were of a much simpler time. When it was people and not possessions that made us happy. When laughter came without a price. And when the monsoons were also a time to have a picnic.